WEEK-ENDS WITH THE PRAIRIE FALCON 



A Commuter Finds Recreation in Scaling Cliffs to 



Observe the Nest Life and Flying Habits 



of These Elusive Birds 



By Frederick Hall Fowler 



With Illustrations from Photographs by the Author 



TWELVE times a year I present my- 

 self before the ticket window of our 

 local railroad station in California, 

 slide through the necessary coin, and cry: 



"Without!" 



Back through the window comes a 

 monthly commutation ticket to the distant 

 city — "without" Sundays. Sundays are 

 mine to do with as I will, and for several 

 years I have willed to spend them far afield. 



Formerly Sundays and the latter halves 

 of Saturdays had shown a growing tendency 

 to get mixed up with all the other days — 

 days on which with ceaseless care I pursued 

 my interesting but exacting profession of 

 civil engineer, computing with endless labor 

 the stresses in dams and beams, the yield 

 of rivers, and the peaks of floods. 



"Without!" was fast losing all signifi- 

 cance. A change was imperative, and that 

 change took me back to an interest of my 

 not-too-distant youth — the pursuit of birds. 



Before long I was renewing my acquaint- 

 ance with that interesting bird, the prairie 

 falcon,* in the canyons extending eastward 

 in the Coast Ranges and opening into the 

 northern San Joaquin Valley. 



Let me introduce him as he presented 

 himself to me one breezy day when I was 

 making my way along the base of a nesting 

 crag (see page 622). 



Suddenly the male swept over the crest, 

 saw me, gave a prolonged scream, and 

 started upward. He did not spiral up in 

 long circles, as these birds usually do, but 

 in short loops and at as steep a pitch as his 

 wildest efforts would permit. 



Up, up he went, with an occasional 

 breathless scream, until he was fully 300 

 feet above me and probably half again that 

 distance down wind. With a few last up- 

 ward-reaching wing strokes he attained his 

 pitch and balanced for a moment to turn 

 toward me. 



* See "Eagles, Hawks, and Vultures," by Alex- 

 ander Wetmore, with 30 portraits in colors by 

 Allan Brooks, National Geographic Magazine, 

 July, 1933. 



Then, with a few more strong wing-beats, 

 he started down like a stone from a sling. 

 Once on his way, he closed his wings until 

 they were not more than one-quarter open 

 and held as motionless as the vanes on an 

 arrow. His tail, also, contrary to the ideas 

 of many bird artists, was closed nearly to a 

 point. His head, with beak pointing straight 

 at me, was in such a position that I could 

 note perfectly the dark markings, or "mus- 

 taching," so characteristic of the falcons. 



One hundred feet above me, sensing that 

 his aim was perfect, he closed both wings 

 completely and came like a bullet. 



At 30 feet I forgot all I had ever learned 

 of a falcon never striking a man, and ducked. 

 At the same moment he opened his wings 

 very slightly, set his rudder upward, and 

 whizzed by, not more than ten feet above 

 my head. His speed upward appeared 

 nearly as fast as during his descent, although 

 at first he did not fly a stroke. 



When the momentum of his swoop had 

 expended itself, he fought his way upward 

 as before and came at me again, this time 

 down wind. 



It was a wonderful opportunity to observe 

 just how a falcon must look to a fleeing 

 meadowlark that gives one last glance over 

 its shoulder before the fatal stroke. 



PHOTOGRAPHING A BIED'S HOME LIFE 



With a still and a movie camera, instead 

 of the gun of my earlier years, I stalked the 

 prairie falcon. Finally I set out to watch 

 and record the nest life from the laying 

 of the eggs until the young take wing. 



It soon became evident, however, why 

 the falcon's eggs are a prize of the collector. 

 Two years passed before I found a nest 

 within a reasonable distance of my home 

 that was not robbed within a week after 

 the eggs were laid. 



This "nest on the cliff," as it came to 

 be known in our pilgrimages, was high on 

 a sandstone ledge in the head of a small 

 canyon near the top of a ridge — a region of 

 mountain pastures nearly 2,000 feet above 



611 



