Losing Ground
I turn off my car and reach into the passenger seat for my camera bag. I’ve done this so many times that I barely have to look as I arrange my gear. My eyes are focused ahead, over the fence and above the rise of the hill in front of me, searching the sky for what brought me here, a mere fifteen minutes away from home. Camera strap around my neck, hand warmers tucked into my pockets. Make sure I have my car keys. Car locked, and away I go.
It occurs to me that I may have overdressed for the occasion as I trudge up the hill. It’s early March in upstate New York, which usually means freezing temperatures, and I’d dressed appropriately for the early morning. But now it’s the afternoon, and sunlight warms the icy air. My snow boots are heavy on my feet.
I’d avoided the southern entrance to the Saratoga National Historical Park for most of the winter. The expansive once battlefield, now grassland enables high winds of even ten miles per hour to beat you into submission. Other birders I’ve spoken to like to say that if you try to birdwatch here anytime past November and before April, you’re bound to be blown away by the high winds, or find yourself frozen in place. Of course, the park is nothing compared to true Arctic elements, but semi-rural New Yorkers have to chat about something.
But today was different. It was oddly warm. It hinted at what was to come: Bobolinks singing their robotic song, like sidekicks from a sci-fi movie. Eastern Meadowlarks perched up high, yellow as butter, looking more like they belonged on a great prairie rather than in a small northeastern field. Of course, at one point in time they would’ve looked like they belonged in any North American grassland, to those who saw them regularly.
When I visit the Saratoga Battlefield, I often think of the wildlife the soldiers might’ve seen before lining up their muskets, fighting for a nation’s beginning. It occurs to me that it’s likely not a thought most people have, but I can’t help but remember that the Passenger Pigeon would’ve been alive at that time. Gray Wolves still prowled New York, and you could hear the bugle of the Eastern Elk from miles away.
Now, the Saratoga Battlefield in the winter is desolate. It looks empty. It makes me think about loss. How much the nation that those Revolutionary War soldiers fought for has caused us to lose—either through neglect, or mismanagement. Eastern Elk and Passenger Pigeon hunted to extinction, and Gray Wolves eradicated from the state. Bounties put on Timber Rattlesnakes. Bald Eagles with lead poisoning. At one point in time, Saratoga County was wild—but now instead of the sounds of birds and insects and frogs filling the air, we have traffic, housing developments, and Walmarts.
Then I take a deep breath, and remember to look. The battlefield may seem desolate—but long brown grass and bare trees will do that. I know better: this grassland habitat is precious, and has attracted a rare visitor during their migration to the northern tundra. There is still wilderness here.
As I crest the hill, I spot two figures standing next to General Benedict Arnold’s old restored headquarters, the Neilson House. I wave to them, and they wave back. They’ve also heard the news, and one holds a camera, the other a pair of binoculars.
“Any luck?” I call out, a standard greeting between birders.
“Nothing yet,” replies Tom. Tall and lanky with a white, groomed mustache, Tom has birded in Saratoga County longer than I’ve been alive. I know because I can see his records on the eBird website. I’d met him only four days before, while looking for a Barrow’s Goldeneye on the Hudson River in Stillwater.
Next to him, Carl shakes his head. Another retiree, Carl is a head shorter than Tom and has the lightest colored hair I’ve ever seen. I met him last spring while searching for a Philadelphia Vireo at another popular birding spot nearby. He’d helped me find the bird, high up in the canopy, right before I was about to leave.
I sigh, then nod and move to stand beside them in vigil. I chat idly with Tom about when our quarry was last seen—two days ago, at four-thirty in the afternoon. It’s about four-forty-five right now. As we wait, a few more birders approach us—an elderly couple, and a middle-aged woman. It occurs to me that I am the youngest here by at least two decades. I was lucky enough to be able to abscond from work early, but it’s likely that others my age are still working or commuting.
At the top of the hill, the six of us have a 360 degree view of the surrounding fields. A family group of Eastern Bluebirds twitter from the shrubs beside the Neilson House, one of them landing on an information plaque describing the turning point of the Revolution. A large flock of Red-winged Blackbirds cloud the sky for a moment before disappearing into the distance. All the while, a large herd of White-tailed Deer meander through the tall grass.
“There,” says Tom.
Two cameras, three pairs of binoculars, and one scope rise into position.
“Where?” I whisper.
“To the left, down the hill—see that tall sycamore?” I nod. “It’s flying. Look to the right of the sycamore. Do you see that blue trail marker?”
I scan. There’s a pale shape, the flash of light wings and a brown-streaked underbelly. A silhouette with a round face.
My heart’s in my throat. “I got it!”
My camera struggles to focus on the moving shape, but once it does, the Short-eared Owl is revealed to me—their flight, often described as “mothlike,” is graceful and bounding as they move across the field, their fiery eyes locked onto the grasses below them. While hunting, they pay little attention to their audience at the top of the hill, and I take as many shots as my camera will allow, cursing to myself each time the device has to pause to process the photos.
The timing is perfect. The blaze of the setting sun lights the owl like a candle. There are sighs and soft wows from the other birders around me. The joy I feel is indescribable.
Short-eared Owls were once common in the grasslands of upstate New York. Just ten years ago, there was a parcel nearby named the Halfmoon Grasslands that held records of more than five at time. When I drove by two weeks prior, however, I found a housing development—unsuitable for Short-eared Owls, who need large expanses of grassland that mirror their tundra breeding grounds in the summer. Before today, I had only seen the owls at the Fort Edward Grasslands, forty-five minutes north in Washington County. Unfortunately, that is another grassland slated for development—though protested by many, a solar company had recently obtained rights to build atop the habitat there.
A Short-eared Owl had not verifiably visited the Saratoga National Historical Park for three years, until this one. Due to their steeply declining population, many feared that they may never again hunt across the old battlefield. And yet, here was one. Just one.
Carl whistles quietly in awe, and Tom says to me, “Last owl I saw was in Fort Edward. And it was way darker than this. They rarely come out before dusk.”
And yet, dusk is rapidly approaching. My arm starts to ache from holding up my camera, and, eventually, I put it down. As darkness descends, I watch as the owl crosses over us and into the next field, becoming a soft tawny blur above the grasses.
They dive, wings disappearing into an ocean of reeds.
“I think it has something,” whispers Carl.
Sure enough, the owl rises up, a small rodent clutched in their talons. From this distance, I can’t tell what the unfortunate creature is, aside from an owl’s dinner.
Having succeeded in its hunt, the Short-eared Owl concludes their evening dance, wheeling abruptly away from the six of us on the hill to soar across a hedgerow into a distant field. I don’t blink as their features grow more and more obscure, until they finally disappear into the brown, leafless stubble beyond.
“I hope they come back,” I say wistfully to no one in particular. It’s likely that this owl will stay for a few days, maybe, before continuing north, taking the time to hunt and replenish their energy for the long migration. But there’s no guarantee that they will return next year.
“Me too,” I hear Tom reply.
It’s almost completely dark as I make my way back to my car. I’m both overjoyed and heartsick. I’m ecstatic to have seen the owl, and yet I can’t fully fend off the feelings of sadness, anger, and loss. There should be more, and they should be safe from endangerment, and worse, extinction.
I take a deep breath and start my car—my camera, with the photos of the owl, carefully tucked away in its case. I remember that the owls aren’t extinct yet. And that I wasn’t alone at the top of that hill. I remind myself that there are others who care, too.
Author’s Note: The names of the species mentioned in this piece have been purposely capitalized to highlight their significance. Historically, common names were a recognizable way to describe an animal—yellow warbler, spotted salamander—and therefore lowercase. But capitalization implies elevated status, and, over time, common names have become an official way we recognize species. If corporations and man-made structures are awarded capitalization, why not Red Foxes and Sugar Maples, which are specific populations of living organisms that have existed for far longer than them?
ELIZABETH ROOS
Short-eared Owl with Glowing Wings
digital photography
Elizabeth Roos graduated from SUNY Geneseo in 2023 and now designs coursework for apprentice electricians at the Electrical Training Alliance. In addition to being an avid birdwatcher and nature photographer, she’s also a board member of the Southern Adirondack Audubon Society, where she regularly contributes to their newsletter, The Fledgeling. Forever a wildlife enthusiast, you can most often find Roos outdoors, exploring the surprisingly diverse ecosystems of Saratoga County.