A Hunt From The Skies

“So, here’s how this is going to work," Jacob said. "I’m going to take the hood off the hawk’s head so she can see, then I’ll let her fly to one of those trees.” He gestured toward the woods’ edge, the hawk balanced on his forearm. “You and I will head into the woods, leading the hawk. We’ll push through the brush, stomp on dead leaves, kick hollow logs, whack trees with sticks—anything to make noise and flush out a rabbit or squirrel. That’s when the hawk will swoop in and kill it.”

Jacob wore a thick leather glove that extended to his elbow, where the hawk gripped with its yellow, waxy talons. As Jacob spoke, the hawk shifted its weight from one foot to the other, small sleigh bells tied to her leg jingling softly.

“Yeah, sounds good,” I said. “But why the bells?”

“That’s so we don’t lose her in the trees,” Jacob explained. “She's a predator—blends in well and glides silently while hunting. Without the bells, it’d be easy to lose track of her.”

Jacob removed the hood from the hawk, and it turned to look at me for a split second before Jacob commanded, “Go!” The hawk beat its wings, the sound of feathers slicing through the air, and ascended to a treetop at the edge of the woods.

We moved through the woods in short bursts, walking about thirty paces at a time, making as much noise as we could. Each time, the hawk would glide between the trees and perch above, waiting for us to move ahead again. I often lost track of her when she perched, but the jingle of the bells always revealed her location once she flew.

Now and then, we startled a squirrel, sending it scrambling up a tree. The hawk would spot the movement and swoop in, talons outstretched, aiming to snatch the squirrel from the trunk. The squirrels, sensing danger, would dart to the opposite side of the tree or leap from one branch to another, sometimes hurling themselves off the tree entirely, disappearing into the dead leaves below. Watching the hawk maneuver through the maze of branches was impressive, but despite its efforts, the hunt proved fruitless, and we eventually emerged from the woods into a wide, open field.

“Well,” Jacob said, “I guess today’s not our day. I’ll just feed her, and then we’ll head back.” He reached into a leather pouch at his side and pulled out a small, gray mouse, its lifeless body dangling by the tail. “I give her a treat after a bad hunt,” he explained, “so she doesn’t get discouraged.”

Jacob held the mouse up, expecting the hawk to swoop down from the treetop to claim its reward. But instead, the hawk spread its wings and launched itself straight into the open field, soaring high into the sky.

“What the hell?” Jacob muttered, squinting after the bird. “Where is she going?”

Suddenly, from the trees on the far side of the field, two large hawks appeared, cutting through the air in a direct line toward our hawk.

“Oh, shit,” Jacob said, his voice tight with worry. “This is bad.”

Without wasting a moment, Jacob pulled a storm whistle from his pocket and blew it as hard as he could, the shrill sound piercing the air. At the same time, he retrieved a cord about three feet long, with a piece of rabbit fur attached to the end—a training lure, he later explained. He began spinning the cord above his head, the fur whizzing in circles, all while continuing to blow the whistle, trying desperately to catch the hawk’s attention before it reached the other birds.

But our hawk ignored the whistle and the spinning lure. It kept flying straight toward the incoming hawks, its path unwavering.

“No, no, no,” Jacob muttered, his voice growing more urgent. “This is really bad.”

Our hawk reached the two strangers, and the three birds began circling in the air, climbing higher and higher in a slow, counterclockwise spiral. There didn’t seem to be any aggression between them, but Jacob didn’t stop. He continued out into the field, blowing his whistle and spinning the lure, though the hawks paid him no attention.

After circling together for about a minute, all three hawks suddenly made a beeline for a tall tree on the far side of the field. Each one perched on a different branch of the same tree. Jacob and I picked up our pace, walking briskly toward the tree where they had settled. But just as we got close, for no apparent reason, our hawk took off again, leaving the tree and flying straight toward us.

It climbed higher and higher as it flew over our heads, not stopping as we had expected, but continuing to ascend. We stood there, watching as it soared across the field. We thought it might land on a tree on the side of the clearing from which we had originally emerged, but it just kept going. Soon, the hawk was nothing more than a speck in the distance, and then, still flying, it vanished from sight.

“What just happened?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Jacob replied. “Some sort of territory thing. Our bird had to leave.”

“How do we get it back?” I asked, turning to Jacob.

“We track it,” he said, a determined look on his face. “We need to get some equipment from my house, and fast. It’s already getting dark.” Jacob and I bolted back to his truck, the last light bleeding from the sky. My pulse raced, not just from the run but from the raw shock of our hawk disappearing into the wild. At his house, Jacob grabbed a worn leather satchel, stuffing it with a spare lure, gloves, and a flashlight. “We’ll have to rely on the bells and our eyes.”

We returned to the field, now cloaked in dusk. The faint jingle of the hawk’s bells carried on the breeze, guiding us toward a wooded ridge. We pushed through brambles, pausing to listen, the bells teasing us—close, then gone. Hours dragged on, and my hope waned. “She’s a hunter,” Jacob muttered, his voice tight. “Might’ve joined those hawks or claimed her own turf. They don’t bend to our rules.”

Just as the sun completely vanished, a sharp jingle cut through the silence. We froze, scanning the treetops. There, in a gnarled oak, her silhouette gleamed under the moonlight. Jacob swung the rabbit-fur lure, whistling low and steady, his arm a slow metronome. After agonizing minutes, she dove, talons sinking into his glove as she snatched the mouse he held. We exhaled, tension draining like water.

As we trekked back, Jacob hooded her, his hands calm but his jaw set. “She came back tonight,” he said, “but hawks are wild things. They’re only with us until they choose otherwise.” Driving away, I couldn’t shake the sight of her vanishing into the sky, a fierce spark of freedom that left me awestruck, forever tethered to the untamed pulse of falconry.