The year 2007 began much the same as prior years for Junior and Penelope. Here he is in his winter roost in early March. Penelope has probably already laid eggs in the cavity beneath him and he will soon abandon this roost for one across Killbuck Creek, so as not to draw attention to the nesting tree. They couldn't know what was coming.
The weather turned very cold in late March and early April with temperatures near record lows and strong winds. The cold was devastating to small animals everywhere, especially young birds. During this cold spell we rescued a Great Horned owlet that had fallen or been pushed from its nest. Thanks to good care from Diane Shaffer at the Animal Resque Haus, it was able to grow and eventually be released into the wild.
We think Penelope's eggs had just hatched when the bitter weather struck. Unable to regulate their body temperature, we believe the newly hatched owlets perished from the cold in spite of Penelope's best efforts to keep them warm. There were no owlets from this nest in 2007.
Soon after the cold spell, we found Penelope away from the home tree. Here she snacks on a late April day (above), while Junior watches (below).
We had bright hopes for the owl family in 2008. Things seemed to be proceeding normally. Penelope had disappeared (presumably to sit on the eggs) and Junior had again moved his roost across the creek to some pine trees. Then one day Penelope appeared in the same grove of pine trees. Moreover, she was soaking wet, even though the day was dry. She was not her usual reticent self, but was moving about and highly visible. There was no one to keep the eggs warm.
This was the last time we saw Penelope. We don't know if she was suddenly taken ill or how to explain her behavior. We think she must have died, but have no proof.
Junior and Penelope had raised thirteen owls in just six years. That included two sets of triplets in the last two years that they were successful. Triplet owls raised to adulthood are rare because it takes so much effort for the two parents to provide enough food and care to be successful. Perhaps the effort was just too much for them.
Junior continued to patrol the territory, but did not hoot as much that year. See the screen savers for a picture of him in a buckeye tree that spring, a few weeks after Penelope disappeared. Junior and Penelope enjoyed each other's company in all seasons and would often call to one another or sit together. Now she was gone and part of him seemed to have died.
Junior returned to the big sycamore tree in November to resume his winter roost. He hooted infrequently and seemed to make no effort to attract another mate. We were struck by how much he now resembled his old Papa, shortly before Papa died (right).
This is the last picture we have of Junior, taken on the last day of 2008. He is hunkered down in his familiar roost in the big sycamore tree and his feathers are being blown by the cold winter winds. This winter was already the coldest in ten years and it would get worse.
There were two big snowstorms in late January leaving more than eighteen inches of snow on the ground and the weather was very cold. We heard Junior on two mornings in early February, before dawn, on the west side of Killbuck Creek, away from his roost. On each occasion he hooted his full eight-note song just twice. That was the last we ever heard or saw him. It was almost like he was saying goodbye.
We have never found any trace of Junior, nor of any other Barred Owl. We would like to think that, when the end is near, they retreat to the shelter of a hollow tree, much like the place they were born, and settle down for a long last sleep.
Sleep well, old friend. We will miss your frequent visits, your nocturnal songs, your fuzzy little owlets. Perhaps, in time, one of your grandsons will happen upon the home grove and recognize what a perfect place it is for owls with the sycamore trees, the creek, the meadow, and the woods. Perhaps, in time, we will again hear the eight-note song of the Barred Owl echoing down Killbuck Creek. And if we do, we'd like to think that a bit of you lives on here still.