Owls, Hawks, and My Time in a Tree

The Isle of Wight has a lot to offer visitors and locals. Miles of beaches and dozens of water sports; public footpaths across, and all around, the island; multiple amusement centers and parks; wildlife excursions, shopping towns, bus tours, golfing, etc. I opt for a visit to the renowned Owl and Falconry Center in the afternoon and the chance to climb a tree at sunset with the island's best-kept-secret-outdoor-opportunity, the Goodleaf Tree Climbing Company.

I bus to the Owl and Falconry Center (passing a miniscule but loudly-signed "Church Of The Roundabout" that's, you guessed it, right beside a roundabout looping through Newport) and arrive at 12:30, in time to sit for a while near the birds on their tethers and catch the 1:00p and 3:00p flight shows.

The inventory at the center includes harris hawks, European and bengal eagle owls, saker falcons, kestrals, peregrines, buzzards, bald eagles--many of which I'd never heard of or seen before.

The shows provided up-close opportunities to see the birds fly and stoop after lures, feel them skim inches by the audience--sometimes closer--and land in perches in front of us. Having seen the first show, I knew where to stake out an even better spot for the second show, smack in front of the left-end flight post. This put the birds barely a foot from me. Lovely.

Here are a few I enjoyed from the collection, in order of appearance below:
On ground perch--Charlie, Saker falcon, 5 yrs old
On post perch, side vw--Will, Harris hawk, 7 yrs old
On handler's hand--Chester, European Eagle Owl
On stump--Joey, Bengal Eagle Owl, 5 yrs old
On handler's knee--Cherokee, Bald eagle, 5 yrs old
On post--Phoebe, African spotted eagle owl, 3 yrs old








Walking down the lane to catch the bus back, I felt completely happy to be traveling alone, on my own schedule, following my own whims. I've found I can live through times of boredom and that I don't need to try to distract myself from them. Like all other emotions, ennui passes and yields to something else.

The weather has stayed warm and comfortable and after another maddening trip through Wight's cell phone vortex, I finally managed to hook up with Paul, the husband half of the couple who runs the Goodleaf Tree Climbing Company.

He picks me up outside Whippingham, a rural village with a post office and not much else for amenities, and we drive to a field that is part of acreage that belonged to Queen Victoria. Oaks more than 250 years old grow here, and I wonder what they've seen of royalty and romps over their years.

Paul has already set up the area for climbing. Ropes and harnesses drape from branches 30 and 40 feet up, a hammock sways high in the boughs, and a post-climb snack and hot tea in a thermos wait on a blanket on the grass. Llamas and sheep are nearby, the belching sheep kept at bay by a light wire fence. I am the second climb of the day--three gals from Spain came earlier for a bachelorette party; the bride-to-be stayed on the ground to take pictures.

Paul is a professional arborist and has brought his love of tree climbing from New Zealand to Wight. His favorite hours are spent sitting among tree branches and giving others the chance to enjoy the experience.

He hooks me into the step-in harness, a system that offers three-way support at thighs and back so the wearer can swing safely free anywhere the ropes and branches will allow. It is the same kind of gear he uses for his arborist work, and is different from rock climbing equipment, which primarily supports the legs and hips.

He teaches me the ropes, literally: explaining how to step into a loop, pull one side of the rope down, stand in the loop, and thereby lift myself up half a meter at a time under my own power. Raise the loop, step again. Occasionally set a knot in the rope below me, as a safety catch.

It's an easy, rhythmic process once I get the hang of it. Step into the loop, bring the outside rope down, stand in the loop, and go up. Look down. Wow. The leaf-littered ground seems far below.

I recall the sensation of being in a hot air balloon, standing still, in silence, 3000 feet above the ground. There, I could feel little but stillness and the rough wicker basket beneath my hands. Here, I can feel the wind swing the branch from which I'm suspended. I bounce a little with its sway. It's like riding a gentle swell, the wind lapping at the branches, me bobbing like an apple.

I experiment with swinging. It's scary, at first, to trust the harness to hold and the ropes to bring me back to center. To trust that I won't swung so far as to whack myself into a branch behind me or spin a foot into something at the side. And fun, too, once I relax into it.

I move the foot loop up another half a meter, step, slide, rise higher. Concentrating only on the ropes that I'm manipulating, I have no sensation of going anywhere. It is only when I pause, rest, look around, that I can see how far I've come and that I'm almost high enough to clamber onto the first big branch.

By its thickness, this branch is maybe 100 years old. Sturdy. Pliable in the wind. Its rough bark is easy to get a grip on with hand and boot. I pull my ropes higher and climb on to find a handhold and a standing spot.

The wind is picking up, and I prop against the trunk to feel a surprising amount of sway. I never knew how much a tree's entire body responds to its environment.

Paul wants me to lean back into the harness, away from the tree, propping my legs like an easel on the branch. He makes it look easy. I'm thinking the ropes are too short to enable me to do this, I need more slack. I give myself more. It doesn't work. I only feel more precariously balanced.

I shorten the line and squat tentatively on the branch, feeling the pull of the harness against my waist. No way I can lean back...nowhere to go on this short tether. This isn't going to work. Slowly, hesitantly, I stand...and understand.

By using the support, I am able to brace against the tree, to stand and turn, and, if I like, to release the tension and balance on the trunk. That last bit I'm not quite ready for, and I get to another part of the tree by clinging more than I suspect is necessary, while Paul skips around me like a monkey on a loose leash.

I learn a lot by watching him, and I put it to use hauling myself out of the hammock later, using the ropes and my feet as well as the harness. The hammock is about 25' up, a cradle hanging in the breeze. "When the bough breaks--" No, don't go there.

Paul has brought up a book for me to read. I decide to just lay back and look up into the late-day sky through the branches. Paul leaves me there for as long as I want to stay.

When I call out that I'm ready to come down, Paul rappels up with enviable speed. He reminds me how to release the rope in gentle slides, undoing my emergency stop-knots as I go, and I glide down with more grace and speed than I expected.

As I drink cooling tea and finish off the sweet, robust energy bars his wife has made, Paul collects and folds the equipment and sends a retrieval rope up the tree for the next climb. We haul the picnic basket, bags of gear, and helmets over the fence and back to his car, and he takes me on a scenic tour to the bus station, where a bus to Sandown is right there waiting.

On the ride back, I am able to assess what I've just accomplished. I'm feeling proud of myself and happy. And a twinge of disappointment: I could have been more daring than I was, could have practiced more stands on the branches, could have tried the climb between two trees that Paul had set up.

I catch myself in this moment of self-judgment. Yes, I am usually cautious the first time I try things out. A spiritual reader, Joan, observed that the first time she met me. I need information to know what to expect might happen, to know that I'm safe before giving it my all.

I see now that it's OK for me to be that way in the world. I'm not missing out on anything by being cautious. I only miss out by not showing up, not being present, not participating at all.

This is what finding my center is all about. Feeling for the edges, living through their expansion, through the fear that they will never end, that this extreme will never end, that I'll never reclaim my center. Swinging to the edge of the rope and then trusting that I will come back.

The inescapably physical nature of the tree climb has taught my body what my head and heart are still learning--what it's like to go out on a literal limb and lean into support, to release and swing, free and fearless, knowing that I will return to center naturally, easily, and at the proper time.

This climb, simple as it was, granted me a new sense of my own balance. The next time you see a big old oak tree, look up: you might spot me skipping around like a monkey on a loose leash.