Early afternoon had settled into the Manzanita, Oak, and Pine covered valley on the eastern side of the Los Padres National Forest where I had spent the day hoping for a nice spring turkey (Meleagris gallopavo intermedia). It had been a wonderful spring day, cool in the predawn darkness biking into position and setting up my hid and decoys. The brilliant blue sky and periodic clouds had balanced the temperature to a comfortable upper 60s range.
It was April and the hills were green with the short-lived grasses that give the “Golden State” its characteristic hues. Blue and purple Lupine, Golden California Poppies, and a whole riot of wildflowers colored the green meadows.
The Manzanita was richly green and the Poison Oak was just fully leafing out and was casting it’s pollen to the winds along with most every other piece of brush in the valley.
Dawn had brightened the sky finding me already in the field. I had left the car before 5 in the morning, biked about 4 miles out from the trail head and split out south off of the main Indian’s Road canyon. Up a small side canyon where I had hunted Quail (Callipepla californica) last season; I worked up onto a side of the hill overlooking a large meadow and set up my blind backed into the manzanita.
I was out bow hunting for spring turkey and so was fully clothed in camouflage and tucked back into the Manzanita with a soft camo drape supported by the brushes’ limb tips just in front of my position. Twenty-five yards out in front of me, my Jake decoy faced directly towards me with a hen decoy just off to the left. The decoy setup was staged to encourage a big Tom to come strutting up, face the jake head on and flare his tails feathers in display. When a Tom did that, he would provide me an excellent shot with a carbon fiber shaft.
The day had past quietly enough, me working a call now and then in the morning after I had first set up, then whiling away the late morning and early afternoon poking around looking at the flowers, and snoozing in the sun, then back in the blind for the late afternoon and early evening. And the evening was shaping up to be a bit more promising, I had some return noises from a gobbler on the far ridge, and was hoping to coax him down to my decoys when all of a sudden my thoughts of taking home a turkey vanished.
A metallic blue hued Rock Dove (Columba livia), commonly called a Pigeon, hit the ground hard some 60 or so yards in front of me. From the crumpled impact and the stillness by which it lay, it was obvious that it was dead before it hit the ground. Within seconds a small Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus) landed lightly on the pigeon’s lifeless body, settling his wings tucked in tight to its body.
The Peregrine was not much larger than the pigeon, but much sleeker built with light colored leg feathers and soft brown breast and wings. From the falcon’s size, I assumed it was a male as in the Peregrine as with many birds, the female is larger than the male.
Since I was set up hunting, I had all of the equipment and supplies I could hope for to observe the falcon’s feeding and I silently put down my turkey call and picked up my binoculars. I was at first disappointed that I hadn’t seen the Peregrine strike the pigeon in flight. I have never seen that happen in person, and to have been so close and have missed it, was disheartening.
But now, with the falcon on his prey so close all thought of the initial kill flew from my mind as I concentrated on noting every motion as the Peregrine fed. I brought the binocs up to my eyes and focused on the beautiful Peregrine perched on the breast of his recent kill. He was a wonder. Lightly colored with every feather laying as if recently preened into perfect position. Bright yellow across the beak, clear of eye and trim and fleet. He immediately bent to tearing out feathers along the pigeon’s neck.
His head would dip, burying his hooked beak into the ruffled feathers and come back up to release them into the light cross breeze. Time after time for what must have been 10 or more actions, all he did was strip feathers from the neck and chest of the pigeon. Each head bob accompanied by a release of feathers that floated off on the breeze and into the grass some distance away. But, in no time at all his sharp beak came up stripping the flesh downward along the breast. During the next several minutes I watched transfixed as the falcon alternated between tearing out breast feathers and stripping bright red breast flesh out and swallowing it with a jerk of his neck.
Just as he was finishing off the right side of the breast, four Crows (Corvus brachyrhynchos) came cruising up the small valley we were in and instantly spied the falcon on his kill. Intent on chasing the Peregrine off and taking the pigeon for themselves, they came at him; swooping in a line, the first crow veering right at the last second, and as the falcon pivoted to meet it the second flared to the left; as the falcon swung around to face the new dive-bomber, the third crow followed the first to the right and past the falcon’s exposed back.
The tactic worked. As the third crow attempted to rake the falcon’s back and the fourth crow drew a bead on him, he felt threatened enough that he spread his lithe wings and leapt off of the pigeon, quickly climbing up to the topmost branch in a dead barkless tree immediately overlooking the kill.
The four crows settled into a couple of live oak trees down low where they could almost taste the fruits of their labor. Through the magnification of my binoculars each of the crows stood out bold and black, glistening in the late afternoon sunshine. Their black eyes shown from above the obsidian beaks, shifting rapidly back and forth from the pigeon carcass to the falcon in the tree above.
You could almost hear their thoughts. They wanted to pounce on the carcass, but were afraid of the falcon some 40 feet up above their heads.
After a few moments, one of the crows took wing and climbed up to a position in which it could dive at the falcon. The remaining three crows followed suit. Flapping wings and calling raucously back and forth, gaining position and diving at the falcon and veering away. But this time, the attack was not as tightly coordinated and the sharp beak and flashing response of the Peregrine overwhelmed the crows and shortly the falcon leapt from the treetop and drove away all four crows.
As soon as the crows fled for their lives, the falcon returned to the pigeon carcass, settling lightly, folding wings, and returning to stripping the flesh. He fleshed out the right thigh, leg, and ripped off and choked down the bright yellow right foot. On completing the leg, the falcon stopped feasting to stretch. First one leg, out, then the other, wings, shoulders, and neck; standing up tall and taking time to look around carefully for the first time since settling back on its prey.
He stood mutely, eye’s slowly blinking in the low angel rays of the drooping sun.
After a few minutes of relaxing, he went back to work on the pigeon; alternately stripping feathers and flesh from the left breast. But almost as soon as he returned to feeding, a large shadow swept across the ground and a large Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura) dropped heavily onto its feet about 15 feet off to the side.
The Peregrine spun to face the buzzard. Feet spreading, shoulders dropping, wing tips spreading, head down. The force of the falcon’s glare seemed fiery enough to crisp and crinkle the buzzard’s feathers, but the buzzard simply ignored it. Hopping slowly forward the buzzard’s vastly larger size carried the confrontation before it even started and the falcon was forced to take wing a second time, again abandoning his meal for the second time.
The buzzard ignored the Peregrine, who rose effortlessly to the dead treetop once again.
Staring down, the falcon seemed to scowl at the buzzard as the buzzard set in to finish off the pigeon. One quick small gulp as if to sample the pigeon, and the buzzard stopped to look around carefully. Reassured that all was safe, the buzzard bent again to the pigeon’s breast, coming up with a large strip of flesh. Just at that moment, the Peregrine launched off the dead tree branch in a stoop that dropped him straight at the back of the buzzards head.
I heard the impact just as the falcon’s clenched feet came in contact with the buzzard’s head; the falcon flared at that vary moment and again leapt skyward to return to his perch.
The buzzard’s head was snapped forward and driven all the way down into the feathers of the dead pigeon. As the falcon regained his perch, the buzzard staggered upright, wobbling one shaky step after another. The buzzard staggered around for some 30 seconds or more, obviously trying to reset the nerve functions. As its senses returned, it had evidently come to realize that it needed to get out of town before it was steamrolled again, and the buzzard abandoned the carcass and the field of battle.
As the buzzard’s wing beats and shadow retreated down the valley, the little Peregrine settled back on the pigeon. I watched him completely finish off the bird and lift back into the sky just as the setting sun’s rays lifted off of the grasses and brush surrounding the kill site.
The entire event took most of an hour. An hour I doubt I will ever forget. And while I returned home without a spring tom that day, there will be other times. And I returned with a memory that is so much richer. One of the best hunting days I have ever experienced.
Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved
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