by Crane, Ben;
To look at, sparrowhawks are comically small, a cartoon character imagined and built by a child. A female’s legs are no thicker than a pencil, the male’s toes and talons the size of toothpicks. Seemingly too small to be dangerous, it is tempting to hold a male sparrowhawk without a glove. When it is clamped down in anger, a musket’s back talon will glide smoothly under a thumbnail, causing electrifying pain and felling a ten-stone man.
In falconry terms, sparrowhawks hold a strange position. Historically only flown by women and the clergy, they were of no consequence in the masculine world, where goshawks, falcons and eagles were the measure of a man’s power and status. Yet one of the earliest falconry books ever written in the English language concerns the training of sparrowhawks. Nearly 500 years old, The Perfect Booke for Kepinge of Sparhawks was found sealed inside the walls of a sixteenth-century house. Perhaps written by a woman or a lowly yet literate falconer and secretly kept, it remains without an author or any identified provenance. Marginalized and inconsequential in the patriarchal world of medieval royalty yet worthy of words in a time when few could write, sparrowhawks are a feathered conundrum.
Even in modern times, very few people have the nerve to fly them consistently. For hundreds of years they have remained an outsider’s hawk, existing as a subculture within falconry. Owning them explains why. Training a sparrowhawk takes extreme levels of commitment, focus, time and risk. There is absolutely no margin for error. They die quickly, are lost quickly, are fragile, unforgiving and highly erratic. However, once you know them and have seen them working, sparrowhawks are beguiling, existing in an experience uniquely their own. They touch the highest reaches of technicality and style and fly with a hedonistic commitment well beyond their size. Weight for weight, sparrowhawks are one of the most significant indigenous birds of prey used for falconry anywhere in the world.
From the point I picked up then cooked and ate the pigeon in that lane, many sparrowhawks would enter my life, and I discovered a deep affinity for the species. The knowledge accrued from flying them filtered through to the eventual rehabilitation of their wild, injured cousins and, while I was training, learning about and flying sparrowhawks, I continued to travel, and to widen my experience of other species, other falconers and other landscapes.
Austria
On the way to Croatia and during the two-day stopover in Austria with Christian he discussed a project he believed to be one of the most significant historical developments in modern falconry. Those who work closest to nature are the first to see the destruction of habitats and notice environmental changes. Falconers, like the landscape and birds of prey, feel the pinch of increasing human populations directly. In many repressive and oppressive countries, and even in those considered liberal and democratic, new laws and political gain are used (often inadvertently) to restrict access to land, to quarry and to birds of prey themselves. We often have no option but to acquiesce.
A tall, precise and serious man, Christian worked with the other IAF delegates to draw up paperwork which would have falconry ratified by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO). Falconry would then be legally protected and classified as an intangible cultural heritage, and therefore exist outside laws which might ban it as a ‘blood sport’, or see it eroded by legal loopholes regarding quarry and landscape. The UNESCO bid was an impressive piece of forward-thinking legislation. Other parts of this project were to stage the largest festival of falconry ever held in the world, with representation from all the members of the International Association of Falconry, and to publish a complete photographic history of falconry, with contributions from each of the sixty-eight nations in the IAF.
While outlining the UNESCO project and plans for the festival, and the book, Christian drove me to the Austrian–German border and introduced me to two of his friends, who also happen to be two of the most influential eagle falconers in Europe, the husband-and-wife team Josef and Monika Hiebeler. Within twelve months of my return from Croatia, I flew back to spend time with the Hiebelers and their eagles.
Eagles
Eagle falconry is old.
In Kazakhstan, there exists an ancient bronze sculpture. Estimated to have been created in 2500 BC, this image is one of the earliest pieces of evidence of the existence of falconry in any form. It portrays an eagle falconer or berkutchi. The Kazakhstani berkutchi were some of the first humans to use wild-taken youngsters and trapped juveniles. They employed waking and other methods that not only informed the tribal falconers’ methods but every single falconry tradition across the globe. In this sense, eagle falconry is considered by many to be the source of all falconry.
In contrast to its well-established and lengthy history in Kazakhstan, eagle falconry in Europe is a relatively modern phenomenon. In his book Hunting Eagle: The Development of German and Austrian Eagle Falconry, the falconry historian Martin Hollinshead gives dubious honour for the rise of eagle falconry in Europe to Adolf Hitler and the Nazi regime. On the cusp of the Second World War, the political spin doctors of the Third Reich (like other despots, political leaders, kings and queens throughout history) co-opted the eagle and other birds of prey as symbolic metaphors in their lust for totalitarian power:
Under the Nazi regime, German falconry flourished; there were Gyr-falcon collecting missions to Greenland and Iceland, huge field meetings, and at the monumental Berlin hunting Exhibition of 1937, Germany’s falconry was floodlit for the whole world… under the Nazis, Germany was also able to boast the building of the great Reichsfalkenhof – a mews (a large aviary) – containing what were surely the most impressive hunting hawks anywhere on the planet… the eagle was a national symbol, its historical might and power flying from banners and looming from buildings across the land. Now at the Reichsfalkenhof, this fabled and fearless warrior eagle, the bird of myth and legend, would be bought to life.
When the war ended, the eagle, emptied of symbolic racist hate, remained as a hunting bird. The traditional gatherings continued too. It was at these gatherings, from the 1970s onwards, that Josef Hiebeler’s methods for flying eagles became influential. These huge field meets stretch back well before the Nazi regime, and have always been formal events, with many falconers wearing the traditional dress, hats and jackets of their respective countries. Before meeting the Hiebelers, I attended one on the Slovakian–German border to see golden eagles hunt deer, to gauge the Hiebelers’ influence and to pay respect to the berkutchi of Europe.
Slovakia
The temperature of the little wooden hut is a long way below freezing. For a few days the sky has remained aluminium grey as ice crystals float about in thick mist. Snow begins to fall in fat discs, forming fresh layers over drifts higher than a human. As I mooch about outside in the mornings, collecting wood or drawing water from the well, the clear scent of pine sap seeps from claustrophobic woods. Snow creaks underfoot and shafts of weak sunlight fall across branches then bend up off the snow in reflected pinks, mustard, blues and greens.Weaving drunkenly through the trees, the tracks and the footprints of hare, fox, deer, mink and pine marten indent and remain in the snow. It is the perfect place for eagles and there is a raw feeling of splendid isolation.
The cabin I am in rests on the edge of a small village. It is a close-knit community that calls to mind the darkest eastern European folk tales. Poor people not smiling give hard stares to strangers. There is no mains electricity, only a small log burner emitting bare heat and very little light. On the table a half-empty bottle of pure fruit alcohol is helping dull the brutal, relentless cold. The air in the cabin is foetid and stale. So far, there has been no movement or hunting and we wait for the weather front to change.
Mid-morning the next day, in a small community centre, an old, single-storey communist building, the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke. Cheap Formica tables are spread with a selection of heavily spiced, dry-cured sausage, bread, pickles, schnapps, slivovitz and beer. Thirty or forty falconers gather along the tables, eat
ing and talking. There are a variety of goshawks and falcons on their gloved hands. In the far corner, on portable perches or nonchalantly placed on the backs of chairs, are four or five male and female golden eagles. This is the first time I have seen eagles up close and, in the context of the room, their size is overwhelming. I ask questions. Translation withheld, or non-existent, the berkutchi simply nod and point. Permission given, I wander over for a closer look.
*
Some creatures are undeniably big. When open, an eagle’s wings stretch six feet or more. When the wings are folded tight and resting against their sides, these eagles stand four feet tall, their shoulders as wide as the trunk of a human torso. Their legs are almost the width of a human wrist, their feet and talons span the diameter of a small dinner plate. The largest eagle must weigh between twelve and fourteen pounds. I stand three feet away. Any closer seems rude, an invasion of her personal space. I can feel a tangible atmosphere around each eagle; it is tense, has the sulphur taste and humming noise of a million volts running through damp cables. Their magnitude seems to go beyond the observable measurements of size and weight – their true force lies outside the obvious. It exists in my mind as the silent potential of the unimaginable, unwavering damage they can do.
Over the years I have been attacked and injured by all manner of hawks and falcons. Not once did I feel true fear. I knew I could control the boundaries. This feeling, a benign, subconscious confidence, evaporates in the company of eagles. They are hooded and calm, and I know they are well trained and do not present a threat, but they still expose my vulnerability and lack of confidence. They force me to confront the softness, fragility and smallness of my own body. Without exception, each eagle is a withering presence dancing on the outer edges of extreme violence. A lion or tiger with wings, dressed by nature in a delicate bronze-crested necklace and a golden crown of filigree feathers.
As the winter festivities continue, the eagles become restless and slowly transition into yarak. One or two begin to call. A strange chupping sound bounces off the walls, high in tone, oddly delicate for such a large animal and feminine in pitch. The huge female moves position, slips, then re-grips the chair; a spiralling corkscrew of blue plastic peels to the side of her talon, leaving a deep groove.
From the community centre the various groups split up: falcons in one, eagles in a second, goshawks in a third. I remain with the eagles as we make our way to a bridleway adjacent to a pine wood. We are surrounded by wide agricultural land, a long way from the main village and other humans. By necessity, eagle falconry requires space. Their size dictates that all elements are amplified: the distances flown, the size of the animals hunted, the noise, the atmosphere and build-up all escalated to the largest possible scale. In preparation our group spreads out in a line a hundred yards long or more, and we begin walking forward as one. Downwind, several deer, startled at our scent, begin to move, jinking, criss-crossing fallen trees, leaping on spring heels out through the woods and across the snowy stubble.
An eagle is released. Her speed is deceptive, a slow, unfolding burn. She looks like a swan or heron taking flight. She moves as if pushing feathers through molasses. This is a trick of my mind. Predator and prey are moving at speeds close to fifty miles an hour, maybe more. They suck up the space without seeming to go anywhere, covering six, seven, eight hundred yards in less than twenty seconds. With intelligent precision, the deer turn and select the narrowest gap in the far tree line. The eagle closes in, moves to strike, but her wings tangle up in the trees and she lands, frustrated, and dangerously bereft.
Throughout the day numerous deer escape. The closest chance arrives in the late afternoon. Walking into a clearing, I come across a lone roe and stop still. She is close enough for me to study, has a precise, refined head, clear brown eyes and a black nose. She looks up over a crumpled mass of cover and faces me. Too close to be fair, trying not to draw attention, I remain silent. There is a dry click and snap of branches from behind as an eagle falconer moves forward. The deer bucks high up, flailing out of the low cover. Caught in a length of bramble, her grace is cut short, she panics and tumbles. Frustrated and fearful, she tries once again to rise vertically at full strength. Still caught, she twists, spins, landing on her back, slender legs and hooves pointing skywards. The eagle drifts over the top of her, folds and makes contact with a dull, concussive thud. The deer’s scream is penetrating and loud, unpleasant, jarring and shocking. They begin to fight. In the mounting struggle the deer flips the eagle over, which then snatches from underneath, striking the deer’s face, puncturing a hole. The deer rolls over in front of me, stands and runs right to left through the woods, passing in front of the other berkutchi and their eagles. One after the other the eagles are released. The deer flows and flashes between strips of thin pine, a majestic zoetrope momentarily frozen in movement, swerving and escaping each and every one.
Towards the end of the day the falconers slowly return from their respective hunts. We gather at the back of the community centre for a short ceremony to honour the lives taken. Pheasant, partridge and hare lie in the snow in front of the successful falconers. Two men step forward and begin blowing on brass trumpets and hunting horns. The sound is eerie. The music sharp then melodic, the notes smooth, erratic, piercing, playful and sad, like the movement of a deer or a hawk in flight. Local herbs and plants are brushed over the dead bodies. Some are butchered, shared or given as gifts; celebratory speeches and toasts are made. As I start to leave, two of the more experienced berkutchi invite me to join them for a more intimate and less formal gathering on their own land.
Germany
Early the next morning, after crossing into Germany I am standing in a hotel courtyard waiting and watching the steam swirl from a hot cup of coffee. I look down and distractedly crunch the top of the crusty snow with the heel of my boot, then flick the powder underneath with my toe. It reminds me of a crème brûlée. A pigeon suddenly smashes into the ground at my feet. I look at it; dizzied and stunned, it stands up, leaving a cartoon indent in eight inches of snow. Waddling away, flicking flakes from her feathers, it cocks its head daring me to laugh. Instinctively, I look up. The telegraph wire is rattling and vibrating. Ten feet behind the lines a large peregrine falcon, resplendent in full winter finery, silently chases a second pigeon across the hotel roof. She turns, sets herself in a low stoop and descends rapidly, raises her feet and snatches out. The pigeon rolls, then dips, sending the falcon wide, and drops down next to her friend on the ground. Noting my presence, and with what looks like silent malevolence, the peregrine crosses the winter sun, a scythe-shaped pitch-black profile, and glides smoothly away. Two trucks pull into the courtyard and the pigeons clatter from the floor back to the roof.
An hour or so later we pull up at an isolated enclosed forest area. The eagles are removed from their boxes and I watch in rapt silence as they are released from the falconers’ gloves and allowed to fly free in unison. As we push through the coppice the eagles move above us from tree to tree, following the falconers. They land heavy and rough, curving thick branches down like the arm of a trebuchet. Large clumps of displaced snow slide and thump at my feet.
An eagle can easily scope prey over a mile away, decide to chase and leave the falconer a long way behind. They are also free to become jealous and potentially, to kill one another, or attack a human spectator. Free flying like this is highly unusual and risky, and teeters between control and chaos. A thin line between allowing the eagles to function as close as their natural counterparts while at the same time remaining biddable and safe. With a predator this big, I find the situation both scary and exhilarating. The relationship between these berkutchi and their eagles has been carefully orchestrated over decades of conditioning, knowledge and dedication.
I almost step on a hare. It lifts out from its camouflaged form, growing larger on long, lanky legs; it has big, bulging eyes and a russet coat. It opens up, sprinting out of the coppice and across the field. At the same moment, on the scent
of the hare, a fox skulks over a low ridge. The dual movement prompts both eagles to heave out of the branches. Ignoring both the fox and hare, building speed, they instead fly from the wood to the outer edge of an old lake bed in the distance. A group of deer look up over a strip of maize. They start to run and dance balletic into the field. One eagle sweeps away from the herd and goes right, flying parallel between the deer and the trees, cleverly cutting off their escape route. The second female, following hard, gains ground and is almost on top of the slowest doe. The deer feigns left then jerks right. The eagle misses. The herd twist left and accelerate over flat, open fields. The attacking eagle lands abruptly; the other pulls off into the sky and makes a huge, sweeping return to a perch above my head.
Several seconds pass. I am unsure what she will do next.
From her lofty position she lifts off, cascading swirling drifts and droplets of snow on to my shoulders. I watch as she powers over the lip of a hill, flying low over the earth to a large drainage ditch several hundred yards away. Like a breeze block thrown through a pane of glass, she crashes into a wall of reeds, rears up, begins to flail, fight, and roll across the snow, holding the unseen fox. I clatter through the first set of trees and run. As I fall through ice and semi-frozen mud, my legs feel heavy, my muscles burn, the lactic acid builds painfully. The distance and conditions beat me. I am too late. I slow to a trotting pace, bend double, breathe heavily and collapse at a safe distance from the eagle. She is standing with wings spread, head crested in rage. The sweet, sickly stench of fox piss wafts around in the air. The snow under her talons is tossed up, and the tufts of fur, paw prints, droplets of blood and yellow spray tell me the fox has twisted out from under the eagle and skipped free into the drainage ditch.
