You probably saw the video, here’s the inside scoop!
Craig Boren graciously invited us to join him hunting jacks at one of his favorite spots out in Utah. We met him at 7:30am at a gas station and followed him a fair distance out into the backcountry, where we got to work. The air was crisp, downright chilly. A cold front had moved in, dusting the mighty Wasatch Front in a dazzling crown of white. Craig brought his “A-Team” this time, two experienced Harris’s Hawks, “Spice” & “Bolt” that he’s been working with for a few years. Through the lens, but also in presence, we witnessed a bond forged over countless hunts, there was a chemistry that demonstrated years of dedication and success.
Each teammate knew their role, knew their job. The Harris’s were almost aloof in their confidence, casually observing the wide-open terrain sprawling out into the horizon before them, miles of sage that they’d flown many times before. This was their turf.
Craig set off at a brisk pace, and we struggled to keep up wielding our heavy camera gear. The hawks rode atop their war chariot, scanning dirt, sagebrush, and dead grass in computerlike fashion, separating colors and analyzing shapes at lightning speed.
Boom! Like a shotgun blast, they launched off the T-Perch, rocketing across the sage, eating up the distance between them and their quarry before diving, boom, BOOM!
Nothing.
Craig caught up, breathless. I caught up, ragged.
The birds seemed disappointed, but unfazed. They retook their throne and painted Craig’s hat with a big white one, shaving a few grams of resistance weight off of their next assault. A few slips later and it paid off, this time after a long loping flight across the endless horizon, the first arced down like lightening, boom, jackrabbit evaded but made a fatal error in turning back, BOOM. This lightening hit the same tree twice, the squeal filled the remote expanse, a shrill confirmation of the Harris’s duo’s prowess.
Craig was ecstatic, and we caught up, the feverish adrenaline that sweeps every falconer at every successful kill beginning to subside. He traded off with the Harris’s using his baby blanket technique, commenting about how he has to acquire a new blanket each season because his wife (who’s also a falconer) refuses to allow him to throw them in the washer. 6 blankets, I mused, as that’s about how long Craig said he’s been at it.
We were now 3/4 a mile from the cars, and began moving back towards the vehicles. Craig’s not the overly bloodthirsty type, (every falconer is at least mildly bloodthirsty), he knows what this plot of land holds in terms of game, a ton, but still isn’t in a rush to kill everything all at once. This time he decided to circle around to some deeper sage before zig-zagging back to the car over uncovered ground.
Slip, miss. Slip, miss. Slip, pull fur, miss, head towards where that one went, slip again, I see Craig lift something into the cloud blanketed sky, tufts of rabbit fur float away in the ever-so-light drizzle. Another miss on the same rabbit. “He’ll be cold tonight!” Craig yells.
But this frustrated the Harris’s. Maybe even broke their calm demeanor. Maybe made them a little mad. They exploded off the T-Perch after the next jackrabbit unfortunate enough to exist before them with a fury. They literally hammered it so hard it didn’t scream! Craig, knowing his birds, was just as excited, running over the next rise while pumping his fist. He knew that even though we couldn’t see the birds or hear the jackrabbit, it was definitely a kill. He reads their body language like they read the horizon, he could tell they were out to seal the deal.
They did.
Two jacks and we walked the 100 yards back to the car.
Everybody and two dead bodies came home, it was a good day. A really good day.
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