Stories from the Field: Prairie Falcon
With several precious eggs tucked safely inside, a female Prairie Falcon stands guard at the entrance to her aerie on a remote cliff in southern British Columbia.
Last spring I was involved with monitoring efforts throughout the arid regions of BC’s Interior, where both the endangered anatum subspecies of Peregrine, and the provincially imperilled Prairie Falcon can be found. In short, previously known and prospective nest features are checked via helicopter, to determine the presence or absence of nesting pairs. Falcons are fiercely territorial around such sites, and it’s proven to be a very effective method of inventorying these species that can occupy otherwise difficult to access locations, spread broadly throughout vast and often noncontiguous territories. However, what we found at many historically-active sites was quite grim: empty nests, and little to no sign of activity in the area. Particularly worrying, was the apparent lack of Prairie Falcons throughout the entire upper Fraser and Chilcotin drainages, where extensive grasslands and the adjoining basalt cliffs have long held the bulk of our small population. In recent years, it’s been here that the last handful of pairs have hung on; benefiting from the remoteness and relatively unaltered state of their foraging habitat. Further south, habitat has been impacted significantly throughout formerly occupied ranges. In addition to a cliff ledge or small cave in which to raise their young, Prairie Falcons require large tracts of open grassland/shrub steppe habitat where they hunt small mammals and birds. The pervasive spread of vineyards throughout the Okanagan and lower Similkameen Valleys – perhaps the most egregious influence on many species at risk, and biodiversity as a whole in southern BC – in addition to other disturbances, have forced them out of many areas entirely. Like so many other endangered species, Prairie Falcons are slipping away quietly from this landscape, with little to no public awareness. Without the alarm bell of a 3m diameter old-growth fir getting hauled along a busy highway, or a river devoid of salmon, it’s understandable how something like this can quite literally fly under the radar.
Disheartened by our findings – or lack thereof – we lifted off for another day of flying elsewhere; holding out hope for better news on the Peregrine front. While a total thrill and an incredible privilege, the searching itself can be physically taxing. We spent many hours diligently scanning cliffs and photographing out open windows while hugging the canyon walls; expert piloting ensuring we stayed rotor side up and accessed all the possible terrain. It almost felt like some sort of lengthy and extreme birding amusement park ride, which I’m sure my green complexion and ringing ears would attest to. Towards the end of the day, while searching a new and complex zone, I fortuitously spotted a male Prairie at point blank range, perched in a stunted tree along a narrow ridge. A female in flight soon followed, but due to fuel constraints and the compact nature of the topography, try as we might, we just couldn't confirm a nest. Though in agreeance it was an encouraging sign, we pulled back with the unspoken consensus that further verification wasn't worth us augering into the talus below.
I came away from these experiences with some of the fondest memories of my life. Seeing areas of our most stunning and rugged wilderness from the air heightened my obsession with these landscapes and their wildlife denizens.
I thought about the Prairie Falcons often during the past year. I wondered if their breeding efforts had been successful, and if so, where did their offspring disperse? Would they attempt to raise another family the following year? Particularly when the darkest, wettest days of winter inspire daydreaming and adventure planning from the warmth of indoors, I spend entirely too much time pouring over satellite imagery. Often, it was as though my cursor was magnetized towards this network of cliffs. I panned and zoomed, trying to envision their nest.
Another spring progressed, and I found myself by no accident, back in the same area. Evidently, GPS coordinates don't tend to be particularly accurate if taken while coursing over sheer terrain in a chopper. So to confirm the exact site, I glassed the cliffs from as close as I could drive, examining some telephoto shots to see what accessing on foot might look like. Through the heat haze, I eventually found that same scrappy tree, where just shy of a year prior, on a hot afternoon, a male Prairie stared back quizzically at the enormous, noisy red bird with numbers on its tail. The next day, I shouldered my pack and hiked the few kilometres through the sage until the terrain pitched up, gaining several hundred metres. A steep ridge led into a labyrinth of spires and gullies, that while beautiful, remained rather uninviting for a creature woefully ill-equipped for such a place. My pace was slow without the cloven hooves of the bighorns that clattered above me, raining down pebbles that funnelled into furrows in the cliff. Better yet, on the wings of a Prairie, all this route-finding would be irrelevant. Regardless, upward progress was made. I studied the few tricky sections of exposed scrambling, as if I were to be successful, my next trip up would be with camera gear in tow; the weight of which would be a liability, if not a hazard in this sort of terrain. Before too long, I had passed through the consequential section and my nerves eased. Rounding a boulder, I spied the little tree that I’d come to know well, despite previously experiencing it only briefly through a lurching viewfinder.
No Prairie, no surprise. But beneath the gnarled, bare limbs were the salmon-coloured feathers of a Northern Flicker. Falcon food, I thought, as the area was littered with fresh droppings and cast pellets. Still here. I quelled my excitement as I felt it sneaking up. I’ve learned through many disappointments not to get ahead of oneself when dealing with wildlife, as nothing is ever certain. I positioned myself atop a small rocky outcrop to survey the area, just as he would. Only unlike the hungry Prairie, my sights weren’t set on the Solitaire singing from the tall fir, or the hapless Ground Squirrel visible only to him in the steppe below. My hope was to spot the nest I’d imagined so many times before, when my mind drifted to the prospect of this very adventure. Time passed, as did bouts of light rain that darkened the tan cliffs. Though throughout the past decade, I’d experienced enough days of scrambling in these sun-baked hills to appreciate the rare cool. Just as I thought to change vantage points, I heard the distinctive calls of a female Prairie. I reeled around to follow her purposeful flight, binoculars stopping abruptly to settle upon the pothole in the cliff where she all but disappeared. My emotions welled up and I felt like I could burst. I’ve found nowhere else in life to source this same feeling, and I suppose it’s one of the things I chase by setting off with the intention of finding a special place or a certain living thing.
It was hard to believe I had just found the home of what would seem to be the last remaining pair of this charismatic raptor in British Columbia. Given how tucked away their aerie was in this convoluted network of rock, it gave me hope that other pairs could be sequestered away in the remotest corners of our province’s grasslands. As someone who desperately wants to experience all this part of the world has to offer, that prospect simultaneously motivates me to seek them out, while also taking peace in the fact that there are sites nobody will ever see or know about. I think the push and pull of this is the most complicated, and perhaps my favourite part about living where I do as a fervent naturalist.
After sitting in that moment and admiring her nest from a distance, I began inspecting the various vantage points near me that might offer an opportunity for closer photography during a subsequent visit. I marked a few locations and began descending into the grasslands, getting sidetracked, as is routine – this time by a pile of petrified wood. I wondered what might have made its home in this tree before it met its end and turned to stone.
I could already feel the burden of my heavy pack as I weaved through the flatlands the following morning; the gaps between sagebrush defining my route. Though a short section gave me pause, where any fall or deviation from the narrow line was not an option, I made my way up uneventfully. Exploring the vantage points for photography on the other hand, was more engaging than I’d imagined. Ironically, the rotten quality of these conglomerate formations that formed such an appealing nest feature for the falcons, also makes for the most unappealing terrain imaginable for scrambling. If pressure is ever applied disproportionately on one hand or foot hold, the friable rock would crumble away without warning, and any sections that are more consolidated are covered by a thin layer of scree from higher upslope. Thankfully, I was able to tuck into a few less exposed overlooks and get to work with my camera. After observing her incubating for quite some time, always facing the back wall of the aerie, I feared I may not come away with any successful images. I waited patiently and she eventually got up to turn her eggs and stood briefly at the entrance. She was well aware of me, but seemed to pay me little mind – a relief, as falcons in general are famously timid. As not to overstay my welcome, I soon packed up and carefully extricated myself into more relaxed terrain.
It was a relief to know the gear that nagged at my shoulders allowed me to capture some images of a moment so ephemeral it may never happen again here in BC. Reading the historical accounts of what once was here in our grasslands, I marvel at what it would’ve been like to watch Sage Grouse lekking on cold spring mornings, or stumble upon a Pygmy Short-horned Lizard scuttling across the parched ground. I’ve never thought much about my photos in relation to posterity, as its always been a very personal pursuit. However, given the rate at which the indelible mark of humans is altering our wild spaces, perhaps my photos of these birds would serve as a time stamp of sorts, should they disappear from the landscape altogether. I hope to see them again soon.
Should you be inspired to support conservation efforts that help species such as the Prairie Falcon, please see the Nature Trust for more information…
https://www.naturetrust.bc.ca/
