Introverted Protocols

Friends of mine told me they saw short-eared owls flying over a large hay field south of town. A few days later, I drove out and parked along the side of the road by the hay field. At 4:30 p.m., two cars pulled up next to me. My friend Bob and another local bird watcher named Steve walked up and started scanning the field for owls. I had heard about Steve, and I recognized him from seeing him at other birding hot spots. I was envious of his gear. Especially his 400mm lens — a cannon of focus that seemed to set him apart, a silent, singular presence in the field. I had heard about Steve, the man who let his silence speak for itself.

After about 15 minutes, the first owl appeared on the far side of the field. We watched for a few minutes and then Bob said he had to get back to town and left me with Steve. We had a moment of silence when I wondered if Steve would depart as well. Then we started chatting and he told me the sunsets here are often incredible. I turned and looked to the west and gasped at the burning orange sunset. We both started taking pictures and commenting on the ever-changing pallet of colors in the sky.

I noticed subtle layers of orange, Steve paused and said “I can see the same layers in the blue sky.” Each comment prompted another as our relationship gradually unfolded in tandem with the shifting light.

For the next 30 minutes, we watched the sky catch fire as we talked about photography. Steve was quieter than me, which was impressive. We were two quiet entities, introverts treading lightly, using silence itself as a shared, unspoken protocol in unknown territory

The sunset was starting to fade, but it had one last flourish left for us. Thin ribbons of white clouds over our heads caught the last rays of the setting sun and they started turning orange. The color intensified as the sky darkened. Bright orange ribbons of cloud were set against a blue black sky. The effect was so sublime we both knew we could not capture it in an image. We just looked at each other and smiled.

I said, “That was amazing. It’s worth coming out here just for the sunset.” At this point, it was dark, and I told Steve I enjoyed hanging out with him. We said goodbye and headed back to town.

A couple of days later, I got a Discord message from Steve, and we started sharing images and discussing bird photography. During this time, I kept thinking about sunsets and short-eared owls and when I could get back out there. I was daunted by a recent snowstorm that dropped 8 inches of snow in the country. Roads were likely to be slippery and it was quite cold.

But then Steve sent me a message one day around lunchtime and said, “Conditions look good, I am heading out to see the owls this afternoon. Do you want to join me?” I hesitated at first and checked the weather and learned that it was 20° with high wind. Despite the cold, I found myself replying yes to his message . I told him I would meet him out there just before dusk. We met on the eastern edge of the field near the area where the owls like to hang out. We got our gear ready and walked through crunchy snow to stand at the edge of the field. The wind razored our skin. I pulled my hat down, zipped up my coat, and looked out over a seemingly plain white hay field. Coyote tracks meandered through the alfalfa, deer were running from some unseen threat, a Meadowlark called as the sky took on an orange glow. This place was teeming with life, teeming with stories written in snow and air.

We took in those stories, shared parts of them with each other, as we became part of this place, part of a larger story

The owls rose up, silent and weightless, out of the tall grass and ghosted through the air like moths. Their flight stitched our world together. We would not be here without them. The more we watched, the tighter our social bond became.

One of the owls flew past us heading east. As Steve turned to track him, I heard him say, “Oh wow! Look at the moon.” I turned to the east. The full December super moon loomed large on the horizon, surrounded by a delicate pink sky known as Venus’s belt. I became absorbed in the compression of all that light—sunset fire in the west, moonrise glow in the east, owls moving between, the way it collapsed distance and time.

The brilliant sunset and super moon created a surreal atmosphere. I turned back to the hay field and the owls were silhouettes against an orange sky. They were pirouetting in the air, dancing in the darkness.

The distance between Steve and I compressed into a familiar rhythm, a synchronous rising and falling of camera lenses. Our language became more direct and spare. “Did you capture that dive?” and “The center of the field has the best light right now.”

We were both absorbing the cold, light, birds, snow, and wind. When it got too dark to take pictures, we lingered and reminisced over the incredible experience. My hands and feet ached, and the cold seeped into my core. After 30 minutes of conversation, we headed back to our cars where Steve said, “I am wearing my big boots next time. My feet are killing me.”

Before we departed, Steve showed me his thermal imaging scope and offered to let me borrow it. I said, “Sure,” and we headed for home. The little scope was fascinating It detects heat so you can see animals in the dark. Steve hopes it will help him find a Saw Whet Owl before the end of the year.

A few days later, Steve stopped by to pick up the scope, and we were talking about birds in the driveway when my extroverted wife Mercy stepped outside and started asking a series of rapid-fire personal questions. Steve was caught unawares. She learned more about him in two minutes than I learned in two weeks. It was an extroverted tour de force.

We learned that Steve is from Bloomington and works as an appliance repair man. He told us he is trying to move to Colorado. When Mercy stepped back inside, I noticed that Steve looked a little shaken. I felt the need to reestablish proper introverted protocols, and I started talking about how much I love the electronic shutter feature on my camera. I saw him relax, and we settled back into a discussion of photography. A shared technical language that serves as a shelter from the storm.