Photography by Rebecca Sams
It’s a warm Sunday afternoon in October, and I’m strolling through a scrubby field in Carlisle, scanning the cover breaks. A beagle named Peter has disappeared under a carpet of milkweed, goldenrod and cocklebur. An empty tobacco barn looms behind us, tall piles of stripped hemp stalks on each side. It’s a rabbit hunt. But there are no shotguns in sight. Today, we’re hunting with hawks. To be more precise, they’re hunting with us.
I’ve tagged along on a falconry hunt with two members of the Kentucky Falconers Association to take a closer look at a venerable sport that’s experiencing a renaissance in Kentucky. Falconry has ancient roots, beginning as early as 1700 BC. The name conjures images of the past—the emperor hunting with his eagle; the prince with his peregrine; the lady with her merlin; the knave with his kestrel. But the sport is very much alive in the present, as the growth of the Falconers Association attests. The group, which disbanded in the 1980s, re-formed in 2017 and continues to attract new members. What’s the draw for this rare breed of hunters? Why train and meticulously care for a hawk when a 12-gauge is no fuss and cheap to shoot? That’s what I’m here to learn.
Clint Carpenter, president of the KFA, has brought a red-tailed hawk. Darrell Layne, who also is the chief of police in Carlisle, has brought a Harris’s hawk. The two have been flying and hunting together for quite a while—Darrell got Clint started in the sport, serving as his sponsor (one of the many requirements to get started in falconry). Darrell learned about falconry as a young teenager while watching a special on Kentucky Educational Television, became actively involved in his 20s, and was the first person to bring falconry to the Carlisle region.
“It’s addictive,” he says. “And it gets worse every year, not better. There is no feeling in the world like turning a hawk loose, hunting with it, and watching it come back.”
Clint opens the back of his lime-green Jeep to access the “giant hood”—a darkened box used for transporting hawks safely. He removes a red-tailed hawk that perches on his wrist, adjusting to her surroundings. Leather straps called “jesses” encircle her legs, allowing Clint to hold her steady. Her legs also sport tiny bells attached with slender straps called “bewits.”
“What’s her name?” I ask.
Clint shakes his head. “No name,” he responds.
I guess I’ll call her Red.
When he feels she’s ready, Clint launches Red into the air. Rather than sailing downhill to the creek bed, she perches on the ridge of the tobacco barn, watching the brush intently. Peter and a supporting cast of two—Django and Maggie—dash off to chase rabbits.
Clint follows the dogs, so I strike up a conversation with Darrell. Darrell serves as sponsor for his region, which means any would-be falconers within his territory begin by sending inquiries to him. He says the process is demanding—deliberately so. New falconers begin by finding a sponsor, taking an exhaustive written exam, building special housing (called a “mews”) to detailed specifications, having their facilities inspected by a Kentucky Department of Fish and Wildlife Resources conservation officer, and completing a Kentucky Falconry Permit application, all before they even begin to hunt.
After that, there’s a two-year minimum apprenticeship stage in which falconers document the dates they’ve possessed birds, how many days the birds were flown, and details on game taken, in addition to working closely with the sponsor to complete regular facility inspections. For many people, the commitment is just too much.
“When people find out what’s involved, that’s usually the last time you hear from them,” Darrell says. “People call it a hobby, but it’s not. It’s a lifestyle.”
Suddenly, a howl rings up from the brush near a dry creek bed, and my skin prickles. Peter is on the scent of a rabbit. Red heard it, too. The change in her is apparent.
“Look at her,” Darrell says. “See how she’s crouched forward, bobbing her head? She sees him.”
Sure enough, Red is rocking and bobbing, intent on the action all but invisible to us land-dwellers. During hunting season, she’s kept at what falconers call “hunting weight.” In layman’s terms, she’s motivated.
Darrell cocks his head, listening to the beagle. “That’s a big rabbit,” he says. He explains that rabbits follow a consistent path, almost like a racetrack. Rather than being predictable, and therefore a liability, this tactic gives rabbits an edge over predators. They know every rock, stick, dip and gulley, which allows them to run all-out until they reach shelter. The bigger the path, the bigger the rabbit.
“I’ve seen a rabbit jump 4 feet in the air, right over a hawk, just before it hits the ground,” Darrell says.
Clint emerges from the brush. He’s filthy, sweaty and bleeding in a few places, but he looks as happy as Peter the beagle, maybe happier. Peter hollers again, even farther downfield.
“Big rabbit,” Clint says.
Throughout the afternoon, the easy familiarity with which Clint and Darrell discuss the habits of rabbits, squirrels, dogs and hawks reminds me, again, that there is a great difference between an outdoorsman and someone who hunts from time to time. These falconers are not just invested in their birds; they’re invested the whole process, from the ground up.
Suddenly, Red dives off the barn and strikes, maybe 50 yards out.
“Clint, she’s hit the ground!” Darrell yells.
When we catch up with Red, she’s sitting on nothing. We figure she had missed, until Clint picks her up and finds a little garter snake lodged in her talons. He casually pulls it away and chucks it in the brush. “Afraid this snake ain’t gonna make it,” he says.
He casts her off again, and she lands on a perch halfway up a black walnut tree in a creek bed.
“She’s in the game now,” Clint says. “See her bobbing her head? She’s watching it in the grass.”
Peter is bawling his head off. The bells on Red’s ankles ring as she jumps higher in the tree, then higher still.
“Oh, she sees it!” Clint says. “Good girl.”
But Peter has moved on again, bawling down in the holler. Frustrated and hungry, Red takes off to catch up with the beagle.
“He’s coming back!” Clint yells.
Sure enough, Peter has turned the rabbit. Red is now sitting in the top of a dead sycamore, eyeing the terrain with ferocious intensity. If the rabbit makes the mistake of running across the open hillside, it will, in Darrell’s words, “have problems.” But soon, the beagle goes silent. The rabbit’s holed, Clint says. And rabbit psychology dictates it will not likely come out again today.
Clint calls Red in with a piece of game reserved for this purpose. Falconers call it a “tidbit.” He feeds her a morsel, waters her with a squirt bottle and gives her a well-deserved rest in the giant hood.
Darrell casts off his Harris’s hawk, Phoenix. “They’re smart birds,” he says. “It’s amazing what they can do.”
In the wild, Harris’s hawks hunt in packs. The males, which are significantly smaller than the females, scratch around on the ground to cause the prey to jump, while the females hunt from the air. But what they offer in terms of brains, they lack in weight, which means they can’t punch through dense underbrush. Today, working alone, Phoenix will wage a war of strategy, watching the cover breaks and waiting for her chance. All birds will miss sometimes, but Harris’s hawks are more calculating, pickier about which chances they will take.
Phoenix chooses a dense maple and sits, lethargically. She’s not used to hunting with Peter the beagle. Darrell says once she understands he’s jumping up game, she’ll come to life. Unfortunately, that chance never comes. Peter comes up short on rabbits. Clint does, too, and not for lack of trying. Darrell calls Phoenix back and puts her in the giant hood.
Clint gives Red one more chance by a dried-up pond. It’s late now, and the insects are cacophonous, the shadows long. Peter dives into the brush, eager. Red is focused, ready to redeem herself.
“This is all up to her,” Darrell says. “We’re basically like the dogs. We’re trying to scare up game for her, but she’s the one making all the choices.”
Finally, I sit. A creek bed lines the seam of two hills. In a tree at the far end, over the tops of goldenrod, I see Red, patient and still.
“Get in there, Peter, let’s go!” Clint says. There’s a terse edge to his voice now, as the light begins to fail.
Peter isn’t getting any scent. He’s off in a thicket, but the long-expected howl never comes. The insect chorus fades to a mezzo piano. Red has decided, now, that it’s quitting time. She ruffles her chest feathers and pulls one leg under her body—she’s roosting.
“When the sun starts to go down, they’re not thinking about rabbits,” Darrell says. “She knows this day is shot. She’s done.”
“Well, that’s it,” Clint says. He looks apologetic. Then, as if to make up for the lack of rabbits, he asks, “Do you want to call the bird to you?”
I don’t hesitate. Moments later, glove on, I’m waving a skinned rabbit leg in my left hand, fist outstretched toward the hawk on her perch. She bobs her head suspiciously. “Get closer,” Clint says. I walk up the hill, shaking the tidbit and hollering, ludicrously, “Here! Come on!”
To call a pet is one thing. To call a wild creature—a predator—is another. It feels audacious, like commanding rain or hail. It feels, perhaps, like a prayer—offered without expectation, but not without hope and not entirely without fear.
The hawk stirs, her bells jangling. She leaps, speeding effortlessly on parallel with the hillside. The cool wind sings in her feathers. Involuntarily, I flinch. She lands on my fist perfectly, precisely, but the last thing I saw—what I still see—is the bird in flight, wings bearing her up, beak angled dangerously into my line of vision.
In the fading light, trudging through milkweed and goldenrod, I know why falconry captures hearts, absorbs waking moments, and wrecks all sense of proportion for the practitioners of the sport. It’s not about the hunt, as such. It’s about the privilege of bearing witness to these raptors; seeing the world through their eyes; and at the end of a long day in the field, calling to your fist a creature of the air.