Yesterday afternoon, I had my first-ever experience with one of my favorite birds—the Saw-whet Owl. Sort of.
I remember hearing one as a child tooting at an old dump near my grandparents house. It was a place my grandfather would look for milk bottles and things – buried deep in leaves and woodland debris. I recall evergreens in the area, and later hearing the owl call from that location when i was just a kid. (I knew my bird calls well! And still do!)
In any case, my buddy Connor had located a bird on a stretch of State Game Lands not far from my home, and I went out to see if I could re-locate it. Neither of us laid eyes on the owl—but we both heard it. And considering that I was venturing out in the middle of the day, I didn’t expect much. Still, I was rewarded handsomely.
As I pulled into the Game Lands, memories surfaced of years spent there with my father, scouting for wild turkeys. We’d arrive before daylight and try to locate gobblers by hooting on a Barred Owl call. The one we used—a Palmer’s Hoot Tube made by H.S. Strut—was, and still is, the best “hooter” on the market.
No longer a hunter but a birder, I decided to carry on the tradition and give the hoot tube a try in a spot that looked particularly owly.
At first, the only birds to respond were blue jays, crows, a raven, and a thoroughly disgruntled Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. Not wanting to overdo it, I slipped the call back into my camera bag and simply listened. Nothing.
A few minutes passed. I found myself distracted—pleasantly so—by the sapsucker, which I began photographing with my new-to-me Canon 7D. It was good practice, and I lost track of time.
Then, from the flank of a massive oak ridge, I heard it.
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all!?”
I froze.
The Barred Owl called again, its inquisitive hoots rolling down the ridge, past me, and into the ravine across the road. Though it was near lunchtime, I wasn’t entirely surprised. Barred Owls do call during daylight hours, especially under conditions like these—overcast skies, a light drizzle, and a gloom that made the day feel perpetually on the verge of dusk.
As the sapsucker finally lost interest in me, other birds continued to scold the owl’s presence. That reaction is precisely why the Palmer’s Hoot Tube works so well as a turkey locator. Turkeys often can’t resist sounding off when they hear a known predator. But what happened next caught me completely off guard.
“Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!”
High-pitched and metronomic, the call of a Saw-whet Owl echoed up from the ravine.
To me, a Saw-whet sounds exactly like the old recorders—or flutiphones—we learned to play in fourth grade: a single note, repeated with unwavering cadence. It was a sound I hadn’t heard since childhood.
I worked my way beneath a stand of pine and, admittedly, pulled up a Saw-whet recording on my phone to see if I could coax another response. Standing atop a boulder, phone held overhead, I played it.
Nothing.
To get even one series of calls from a Saw-whet in the middle of the day felt like a gift. Why would it call again?
After ten minutes of slowly meandering a gravel road and scanning likely roost trees, I heard it once more—just a single, clipped toot, as if to say, I’m still here, but that’s all you get.
Today, Connor and Joe joined me back at the site. We heard another vocalization—different from the classic call I recognized. Joe, who has extensive experience with Saw-whets through banding work, confirmed that it was indeed the owl.
Despite hopeful hearts and cameras in hand, we never did manage to put eyes on it. We combed the logging road, circling the area where the owl had called both days, scrutinizing every evergreen that looked remotely suitable. Most were either too large, too open, or too small. The forest itself was largely deciduous. Wherever that owl was tucked away, it had chosen its hiding place well—and it eluded us completely.
By mid-morning, our efforts spent, we talked birds. We talked owls. And eventually, we agreed it was best to give the area a rest.
Still, all of us left with the same quiet hope—that this wouldn’t be the end of our Saw-whet prowl.