by Crane, Ben;
CC is very different.
I will raise him using a method that contrasts significantly with parent-rearing. My aim is to imprint him. The process of imprinting a hawk is time-consuming and difficult to get right. As a method it is ancient, arguably first attempted by the berkutchi of Kazakhstan. As a process, it did not travel well through history, or along the trade routes where fully grown hawks and falcon were the norm and far easier to transport. Consequently, imprinting is little understood by people outside avian and scientific circles. Even within the small world of British falconry, only a handful of falconers regularly attempt or use imprinting consistently as a method of training.
If my journeys abroad were about merely observing hawks, and the release of Boy and Girl took me closer to a wild hawk’s natural context, then CC and the process of imprinting peel back the layers further, immersing me completely in CC’s world from the moment of his conception.
In its simplest terms, imprinting means hand-rearing a hawk from a chick through its juvenile stages right up to adulthood. From such a simple concept a whole new world of raptors opens up. In the first few days of CC’s life the plasticity of his brain means that whatever he experiences directly will be regarded as normal. His natural fear for these things is short-circuited and eradicated. As he grows, he will imprint on me, the dogs and his localized environment without learnt fear locking away his more subtle emotional range. CC will behave naturally around me from the outset and will view me as a surrogate parent, a surrogate father. He will become a surrogate child. The relationship I create with CC will unleash his purest behavioural mechanisms and their myriad forms of expression. Over the weeks and months of CC’s first year our relationship will be one of undiluted reciprocity, one that pierces the veil and blurs the boundaries between hawk and human so that my life and CC’s will concertina, creating an almost transcendental bond, one that rises above and beyond servitude.
Such is the power of imprinting, such is intimacy of the relationship between hawk and human, that the ultimate private behaviour of any raptor is accessed directly. As an adult hawk, an imprinted bird will display, begin calling and initiate mating rituals, start nest-building and either donate semen or stand for insemination in the presence of the falconer. CC’s parents, Arthur and Vivien, are imprint hawks, and he was conceived using this method.
*
Between the months of April and July weird science happens in the private homes, bedrooms, garages and backyards of Britain. In these urban spaces secretive natural behaviours and bloodlines have been studied and manipulated by individuals whose daily jobs bear no relation to what they achieve with birds of prey. Bricklayers, electricians, chefs, IT consultants, the unemployed, the self-employed, historians, artists – men and women of all cultures, all backgrounds – have developed, refined and successfully bred the best and purest of Britain’s indigenous hawks.
The captive breeding of a goshawk is, theoretically, straightforward. Place a male and female together in a large chamber and wait. In April, they will begin displaying and nest-building and copulate, then the female will lay eggs, incubate and hatch them. The chicks are left with the parents and they are raised naturally – are parent-reared.
The reality is far more difficult. When humans act as an intermediary in natural processes, propagating new life becomes difficult. The captive breeding of hawks can go wrong at any stage. The male may be killed by the larger female, eggs may be smashed or tossed from nests. The chicks can be left to starve, eaten, suffocated or knocked to the floor. Bacterial infection, illness and infertility are common. If any of these factors occur, the breeder has to wait another year to rectify any mistakes, by which time a different issue may arise and another year is often wasted. It was in an attempt to circumvent these issues that the process of imprinting was developed by falconers in the West.
CC’s breeder, Steve, remains my oldest falconry friend. We relate to each other from opposite ends of the emotional scale; we have very different personalities. If a Venn diagram were drawn, then we exist as friends in the overlap marked ‘hawks’. Restless and inquisitive, I went travelling to learn more. Steve, a university lecturer with a scientific mind, moved into breeding. He is the most methodical, calm and consistent falconer I know.
Two or three years before CC was laid his parents were separately imprinted, trained, flown and hunted by Steve. When mature, and as the breeding season rolled around, both were placed in large separate aviaries next to one another. When spring reached full flow, powered by day length and temperature, hormones squirted through their bloodstreams, building in intensity, pushing them both into breeding condition. Deeply imprinted, as they transitioned, Steve began his courtship by taking gifts of food, behaving, touching, calling and interacting with Arthur in exactly the same way as if he were a female goshawk. Stimulated by his presence and behaviour, Arthur returned the favour, calling and displaying to Steve, as if he were a particularly odd-shaped but very sexy female goshawk. Over several days, their courting dance complete, Steve presented Arthur with his clean, plastic-gloved hand. Arthur, excited and accepting, hopped on to it, wriggled about until he found the right spot and pressed down, leaving a single shot of goshawk sperm on the plastic surface. Steve used a rubber-tipped pipette to delicately suck up Arthur’s semen and deposit it in small amounts into several hollow glass tubes, then kept them clean and protected at a stable temperature in a fridge.
Running concurrently with Arthur’s courtship, Steve began impressing Vivien by building the beginnings of a large, suitable nest. In his presence, as she would in the wild, Vivien redesigned and changed it to suit her own particular specifications. As she was doing so, Steve presented her with gifts of food, wooing her in a similar manner as he had Arthur. This time, the opposite happened: Vivien perceived Steve’s actions as those of an odd-shaped but particularly handsome male goshawk. Pleased to see him, she fluttered her wings, bowed and began making a loud, mewing, kitten-like come-hither call. When her hormones hit full peak, she reversed up to the edge of the nest, raised her tail, parted her under feathers and exposed her cloaca (vagina) to Steve. Stroking her back, applying a similar pressure as if Arthur were mounting her, Steve pressed the tube of Arthur’s semen delicately against the pink flesh of her cloaca. With sexual satisfaction, she sucked up Arthur’s semen.
To maximize the chances of fertility, the interaction with Arthur and the insemination of Vivien happened twice a day, once in the pre-dawn, and then again in late evening.
Inside Vivien, the first half of CC started off as a small, permeable polyp moving down his mother’s birth canal. The second half of CC, in the form of Arthur’s semen, wiggled its way naturally inside the polyp. A soft shell formed around the fertilized inner egg and a complete CC continued to move down, hardening and sealing in preparation to be laid.
In total, Vivien laid four eggs, each bright white and the size of a small hen’s egg. Because Vivien had total trust in Steve, she allowed him to swap her eggs for counterfeit dummies, thus removing the possibility of her smashing or damaging them in the nest. CC and the other eggs were safely transferred into an incubator and kept at exactly 37.4°C degrees, a temperature corresponding to the one found under Vivien when she was incubating naturally.
As the days passed, Steve shone a strong light through the shell of each egg in order to track its development. CC appeared as a dark shadow, a blob coagulating and enlarging as he formed. CC’s egg was also weighed daily. As he grew, his egg needed to consistently lose fifteen per cent of its moisture every day. Any more or less, and the humidity in the incubator would have to be micro-adjusted to keep him developing properly.
At thirty-four days, and too big for the inside of his egg, CC wriggled and poked a hole through a thin membrane to an air sack inside the egg. This first breath was perhaps the most significant he would take in his life, as the little bubble of air stimulated a small muscle in the back of his neck – a muscle used only once and specifically evolved to help
him break free through the solid shell of his egg. If there weren’t enough air, CC would be too weak, suffocate and die. This first breath – his first fight for survival – and the act of breaking free took him two days. When he arrived in the world CC was a bedraggled creature about the size of a credit card. When dried off under a heat lamp, he was, understandably, hungry, so Steve fed him his first meal: thin slithers of chicken thigh. This lightweight meal was highly nutritious and contained enough protein to stimulate all the bacteria and enzymes CC would need to digest all the meat he would consume throughout his life. Once fed, CC was placed in a small plastic crib with a red heat lamp suspended above him to keep him warm and dry. This was the point at which I received Steve’s text.
Even using artificial insemination and carefully controlling each stage, only two of the four eggs Vivien laid were fertile. Of the two hawks hatched, only CC survived. CC’s sister, Red, didn’t make it and passed away after a week. CC was the culmination of six years of effort, learning, love and money, and the first full goshawk Steve had bred.
At twenty-one days old, CC entered his first key developmental phase. He wobbled and stood straight for the first time. He did this independently, with style and with strength, proving he was healthy and would survive. At this point, Steve told me to come and collect him. When I arrive, and knowing my plans, in an act of unstinting generosity, Steve gives him to me for free.
*
My son is curled up in a ball in his garden, laughing hysterically. The dogs are barking and running about. Overexcited and playful, Etta straddles his back and Flash mounts his head. In an act of playful dominance rather than out-and-out sex, they are trying to hump him. They see him as a minor character in the pack, are trying to push him down the pecking order. He is having none of it. He starts shouting at Etta through his laughter. She ignores him and continues to arch her back and thrust her hips like Elvis Presley. She looks around at me with an almost confused expression, as if she has no idea why she is doing it but knows deep down she must. Flash, younger and easily distracted, runs up the garden after the cat. Extricating himself from under the dog, my son points at her, scolding and says:
‘Etta, stop it. You haven’t even got a willy.’
My son shows a remarkable knowledge of biology. He is deeply inquisitive about where and how he came to exist. He knows about the human body. Nothing is off limits. He has many questions about sex. He shows off his knowledge, proudly explaining about eggs and sperm. He knows how life is made and how it will fade. He knows how CC came to exist, and we draw parallels. His mother and I are fairly honest about it all.
When it arrived, the urge to have my son was strong. Up until my mid-thirties, I never really wanted a child, and then, click, something changed. It was odd, like a male version of a biological clock ticking. This surprised me. He was absolutely not an accident, but there was not too much planning either. Even if his conception had been planned with precision, my deep-seated, dormant reaction to his birth could not have been factored in. If I had known how difficult it was going to be, would I still have had him? The question is a moot point. His mother was adamant. There was absolutely no other option. Her body. Her choice.
Wrestling with him in the grass, the dogs once again trying to join in, watching his beautiful face and expressions, seeing what he has become, I am excited about what he will be. His mother was right not to be afraid.
Later, I ask my son if he wants a girlfriend.
‘No way.’
‘What about a boyfriend?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘So what will you do when you grow up? Will you get married?’
‘No, I’ll buy a house and build an apartment for Mummy.’
‘What about me? Who is going to help me when I am old?’
He screws up his face. He thinks for a few seconds, wavers between telling me what he actually feels and what he thinks I want to hear. Finally, he tells me the truth:
‘You can look after yourself.’
I laugh. Well done. He does not owe me anything. His life is, so far, his own.
*
Knowing no creatures other than humans, when CC meets me he shows no fear, just a deep enquiry at my movement and presence. He is roughly the size of a grapefruit and is covered in white fluff. I touch it and, far from it being cloud soft, as it appears, it has the texture of soft foam. Dotted across his back, the tips of his juvenile wings and tail spike through with wisps of gossamer-thin tendrils curling on the end of each shaft. Similar to all accipiters (goshawks and sparrowhawks), at this stage his eyes are a liquid cornflower blue, his legs already as thick as a human finger. When he stands and stretches his stumpy wings, his toes and long, dark talons stretch flat and far wider than his shoulders. Even at twenty-two days old, he is easily twice, perhaps three times, the size of Boy and Girl in maturity. As I stroke him, he calls, twitters and chirrups with a delicate, soft voice. His head rotates in a smooth motion, following the movement of my fingers. Depending on how close, far and how quickly I move, his irises flex from a pin dot to large black discs.
Before I leave, Steve, his wife Hollie and I sit on the front lawn and have a cup of tea and take pictures. Along with CC, Steve has also bred a tiny merlin called Sir Percival. We place CC and Sir P together on a blanket in the sun. Many times smaller than CC, Sir P shows no appreciation of the difference. He launches himself at CC, tugging and tearing at the tips of his emerging feathers. Unable to get sufficient grip, he becomes petulant and angry. Sir P flaps at CC and tries to drop-kick him into the grass. Becoming annoyed, CC stands up and takes two precarious steps over to Hollie and curls up in the comfort of her soft tracksuit bottoms. I continue to wiggle my fingers in front of his beak, and he plays and pecks at my fingertips; the sharp tip and thin razor edging of his beak, already propelled by tough muscle, cut hard and feel sharp against my soft skin. Becoming bored with my interference, CC eventually tucks his head under his wing, preening free, dry shafts of feather casing that float downwind like fish scales falling through water.
On the drive home Flash and Etta peek into CC’s box. He reaches up and pecks and pulls at their muzzles. The dogs jump back across the seats, excited, and bark. CC tracks their movement back to the boot. Content they are at a safe distance, he shuffles over to the edge of his box and sleeps. From this moment onwards, every action I take will be for this hawk; every aspect of his life will be carefully considered and monitored. From the moment we arrive home, I am intertwined with this soft machine of bones, beak, feet and killer instinct in a way that I was not with Girl and Boy.
*
We arrive at the cottage in the late afternoon and I set to work on my first task. Near the cottage there are numerous wild goshawk and sparrowhawk nests, each one an architectural marvel. The materials, positioning, height, direction and location are never less than perfect. The nest I build for CC is serviceable and safe but in no way as evolved or comparable to the home he would have had in the wild. In the bottom of a tub I overlay a spiral of fresh-cut leylandii. Each green, fan-sized branch has qualities that make a perfect, portable man-made nest. A goshawk nest has to have an uneven surface and not be overly comfortable. CC needs to grip and hold the leylandii in order to move; he should not sit in the same place for longer than is healthy. If his nest is too comfortable he will remain in one position and his bones and muscles will squash up like the bound feet of a Japanese concubine.
The foliage must remain fresh, with small gaps between the fronds, be non-toxic and in plentiful supply. As he proved on the journey home, CC is messy. As his adult feathers continue to emerge, I know his flaky, dried casings will split and fall from his body like rough, circular mounds of dandruff. The gaps between the branches of leylandii allow these husks to fall and collect in the bottom of the tub rather than remain in his nest or become unpleasantly mixed in with his food. When CC eats he will be fervent and toss chunks of meat across his nest, over his head and chest and on to the floor. In midsummer, flies an
d wasps will buzz about, searching for left-over meat, and with wet mutes (faeces) dribbling over the branches, his bedding material needs to be changed regularly, with a ready supply of new branches.
It takes about an hour to construct his nest and, once he is settled into his new home, he shuffles about, turns in a circle and lowers himself down like a broody chicken. He does not sleep and instead remains alert, following the movement of the dogs around the cottage.
A wild goshawk chick will be brought all manner of creatures by its parents. The feathers and fur of up to twenty-two different species of bird and animal have been found in their nests. They have a varied diet, one that supplies a good grounding in vitamins and minerals – precisely what Girl lacked in the time before she met me. To avoid the issues that afflicted Girl’s talons, I provide CC with the food he would have, were I a wild parent goshawk. Unlike for Boy and Girl, who were fully grown, chicken alone will not suffice. So I supplement CC’s meat with pigeon, quail and duck. The chicks and quail are easy to access, purchased previously from a reputable falconry food supplier. The pigeon and duck prove to be slightly more complicated, bought from people who shoot wild fowl, but with the proviso that they use steel shot. Any trace of lead shot is spectacularly deadly to all birds of prey. A small shard buried in the flesh of a duck or pigeon and no bigger than a pinhead would quickly kill CC. Taking a fresh dead pigeon from the fridge, I peel the skin back and check for bruising. I pop the thin membrane of the dark maroon chest with the tip of a knife and poke about in each hole, pinging out the steel shot. Even if these birds have been killed using the correct shot, they may have previously been winged by a hunter using lead. I cut the breast flesh of each bird into smaller pieces, checking and re-checking before washing the meat under a tap, just to be sure. Until his feathers are fully grown, CC needs a constant supply of food: twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And all of it has to be prepared fresh and to the same exacting standards.
