Blood Ties

  BLOOD TIES

  Ben Crane

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  AN APOLLO BOOK

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  About Blood Ties

  An uncannily brilliant evocation of the falconer’s art and a moving story of a man’s discovery of how to be a father.

  This is a book about a man’s relationship with hawks, and his self-education as a falconer, and about his discovery that despite his Asperger’s Syndrome, which hampers his normal social interactions, he can forge a loving bond with the young son he thought he had lost. He rediscovers his full humanity through his commitment to the training of falcons and his love of the natural world.

  Ben Crane writes with uncanny accuracy and lyrical precision about the intricacies of birds’ behaviour and their instincts. He has a ruthless eye for the minute details of natural processes – of plumage, the patterns of flight, of killing, death and decay. He’s as clear-eyed about himself and his detachment from ordinary human society as he is about the flight of peregrines and goshawks.

  Here is nature writing at its very best, interwoven with an affecting human story and an account of how a man mastered the ancient craft of falconry.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Blood Ties

  Dedication

  Introduction: The Falconer and the Hawks

  1. The Road to Pakistan

  2. Further Travel

  3. The Drop

  4. The Ascent

  5. ‘CC’

  Epilogue

  Endpapers

  About Ben Crane

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  To Pete for the space,

  to Steve and Hollie for the tools,

  and E and J for the pant-stretching mirth

  INTRODUCTION

  The Falconer and the Hawks

  In the warm, womb-like space of the cottage, the light from the open fire flickers and casts dull shadows of birds across the wall. On my gloved hand is a slender, lightweight and beautifully patterned female sparrowhawk; to my left, a smaller but no less impressive male. Both hawks emanate a quiet, self-contained calm. A fine balance of delicate precision, coiled, unsparing instinct, contained within a gossamer skein of feather, skin, muscle and bone. They remind me of that thin slither moment just before a jack-in-the-box pops. Both hawks arrived from the wild, injured; to have them legally in my possession is a rare pleasure.

  It is not commonly known, but hawks smell.

  After her accident, the female sparrowhawk’s breath became a mixture of metallic sour fish and ammonia; a rancid, tacky odour that remained on my skin and in my nose. The male, cooped up and cloistered from the world, had lost his lustre, had the stale rot of forced captivity.

  All hawks have a protective sheen, a bloom, weather-proofing against the rain. A fresh bloom on a hawk with perfect feathers is divine. The detailed rehabilitation of each hawk complete, they now emit a low, musty tang, the smell of soft earth, rotting peaches, the marmalade mossiness of dried twigs. Anything that smells this good is undeniably fit and ready to go free.

  The rehabilitation and release of these sparrowhawks is the penultimate stage and culmination of an obsessive journey – a journey that sent me in search of a visceral and unmediated relationship with the natural world. One that exposed me to many profoundly moving moments. I witnessed golden eagles soaring from monolithic granite mountainsides, over Austrian castles and across the blizzard-streaked landscapes of Germany and northern Europe. In temperatures of minus 32°C, near the Sioux Indian reservations of South Dakota, a tiny speck, a trained falcon, looped over, stooping hundreds of feet. At extreme velocity she sliced across a pheasant, sending it wheeling and tumbling to the ground, as descending blood froze in beads and pomegranate-red flesh was cast across snow. In the hazy heat of a Croatian summer dawn, I saw the speeding smear of a wild sparrowhawk chasing coturnix quail into an azure sky, scattering them in a mottled brown explosion of little clockwork fireworks. In ripping cross winds, and the harsh winter of South Dakota, I witnessed the most powerful falcon of all. A rare, wild, almost black, melanistic gyr falcon, a silhouette of wraith-like proportions, set against the reflective silver ripples of a vast lake. In Texas I followed a family unit of wild Harris hawks. Shrewd and cunning pack hunters, they scudded after rabbits through the desert scrub where pale sand meets turbulent sea on the Gulf of Mexico. It was also in Texas that I trapped a diminutive American kestrel. Shoulders cobalt, tail feathers metallic burnished bronze, he was brighter than a hummingbird and bit me hard before being released.

  Of all the journeys I have undertaken it was time spent with the tribal falconers of Pakistan in 2007 that overwhelmingly changed my perception of birds of prey. Like all indigenous people, the tribal falconers’ methods have remained unchanged for many thousands of years; their form of hunting with hawks is perhaps the purest I have ever experienced. On the whole, they are poor subsistence farmers, falconry forming part of their survival. For these people, falconry is deeply ingrained within an identity, which itself is set in equal balance with their environment.

  My time in their company exposed me to a way of life little known to the Western world. Despite the obvious language barriers, seemingly insurmountable cultural differences and customs, we shared, through falconry, an instant kinship, became friends and respected one another.

  Some of the lessons I learnt have now been translated into the training and rehabilitation of the hawks in my cottage. The Pakistani falconers’ methods are ancient, evolved and so refined that on these hawks’ exquisitely formed shoulders rest generations of shared human history. They are perhaps the most important hawks I have ever owned. They are utterly irreplaceable, priceless in a very literal sense, and I cannot wait to set them free.

  I hope I never see them again.

  *

  Looking back, it seems inevitable that I would be a falconer.

  As a child, our household had respect for different races and cultures, and stories of travel pervaded our lives. In his youth, my father followed the hippy trail through Europe and down into India. He travelled to America and also worked for mining companies in the outback of Australia. He kept mementoes of his travels in a huge oak chest. I would climb inside and spend hours touching and looking at these strange, otherworldly objects: fossilized wood, a desiccated puffer fish; a spiky ball of pale tan and tinted yellows; a dingo’s canine tooth; coins; beads; wooden totems; and numerous black-and-white photographs. One image remains in my mind to this day. Standing in a desert, two lithe young men hold a pair of protesting eagle chicks – their wings are pulled apart by the men and extend to waist height.

  My mother and father’s approach to parenting was non-conformist, libertarian and not without turmoil. All rules were fluid, fluctuating on a whim, practical jokes common. They once convinced me I had the power to lay eggs. A nest was built and I was encouraged to sit and wait for one to arrive, like a broody, five-year-old human/hawk hybrid, dressed in a pair of Spiderman underpants. I can still feel the tense curl of expectation in my stomach. The inevitable disappointment was huge.

  Our cottage was situated deep within the English countryside. Exposed to nature at an early age, artistic and creative, I lived in my imagination or in the outdoors. I built numerous dens and hideouts, weaving wood and leaf litter, cutting and creating my own world in the process. I made fire, would hunt and trap animals. I taught myself to tickle brook trout, whipping them out of water by hand. Once they had been gutted, I flash-fried them for lunch. In the spring and summer, slowworms, newts, frogs, toads and gallons of tadpoles ended up in buckets. I threw stones at a hornets’ nes
t, and big brutal insects spilled into the sky in a massed ochre cloud, the buzzing tone dangerous and low. I tied daddy-long-legs into cotton thread, flying them high into the sky, before winding them back to the ground, joyfully repeating the process for hours. An injured mole, cleverly kept and watched in a metal box, was fed worms I dug from the garden. Unable to keep up with her voracious appetite, I eventually released her. I clearly remember her soft silver coat and fat, pink-paddle hands as she swam back beneath the soil. Numerous tennis-ball-sized baby rabbits arrived on the floor and doorstep. Some survived, others succumbing to the stress and mess and the cat’s jaws. On a low winter afternoon, alone among snow-stripped saplings and bare trees, a muntjac deer screamed. In front of me on the floor, an isolated, trident-shaped footprint. A head full of my own fantastic stories and the strange noise of the deer, I knew for certain it was a monster. I panicked and ran. Overly inquisitive and without an active idea of cause and effect, I dipped my hands into the depths of a fallen tree. I removed a palm-sized baby squirrel; it was cold, almost lifeless. To raise its body temperature, I tucked it into the only thing warm enough, my sweaty plimsoll. I ran the half a mile home barefoot, scuffing and blistering my feet. Later I fed her cow’s milk but failed to keep her fragile life from slipping away. From the long grass in our garden, I ‘borrowed’ twenty grey partridge chicks from the nest of their strutting, calling mother. Each was the shape and texture of a bumble bee, and I built them a new home across my duvet, using a hairdryer to keep them warm. Once discovered, they were boxed up and driven to a member of the local shoot, to be raised, released then shot: the oddest parental logic. Smaller birds were a better prospect, some fallen from nests, others brought in by the cats. I raised one by hand; it would perch indoors on the curtains, flying across the front room for worms and hand-held maggots and was a potent shape of things to come.

  As an adult, life has not been straightforward.

  I fail to maintain close long-term human friendships, or intimate relationships. I dislike crowds and large groups, much preferring my own company for extended periods of time. Visually, I am hypersensitive, amplifying and magnifying all communication and, with no filter, it often takes days to decompress and unravel meaning. When talking to people, I have multiple interpretations of one conversation. I will avoid eye contact, become distracted and agitated easily, my levels of fear and anxiety are often unbearably high; around strangers, I am in a fight-or-flight position for much of the time. Unconsciously, I will overstep the mark, push boundaries and blurt out inappropriate comments. This often makes me seem impulsive and anarchic.

  I also develop relentless sets of routines around subjects that interest me. To waver or break in them causes me distress and frustration. I explore these subjects at the expense of everything else, exhausting myself and anyone else close to me.

  I’m a natural outsider, unable to relax yet struggling to meaningfully connect, but nature has continued to intercede for me as a place of peace, a welcoming conduit of stabilizing emotion – a place where I feel most able to express and communicate who I am.

  I find nature to be infinitely absorbing and visually relaxing. I am utterly in thrall to the in-built freedoms and multiplicity of the natural world. The mesmerizing fractal nodes and colourful noise, the giddy rush of detail, the delicate points of pattern in the forms of animals, plants, elements, tastes and textures, all make perfect sense. Deeply democratic, all that scuttles and swims, sucks, prowls, bounces or blows, everything that hatches, pushes, pulses, flies, fans or breathes is of interest to me. I am in love with the endless creativity that throws up varied forms, billions of ideas that flip and fold, live and die, survive or pass. The natural world is the embodiment and perfect playground of difference, a force celebrated simply by and for itself, a place without boundaries or fear, out of which I have built a self-willed and life-affirming education. Nature remains the most significant, meaningful and consistent relationship of my life. Without it, I feel helplessly lost.

  My discovery of birds of prey was a revelation. When I held a hawk for the first time, shocked by an emotion of such startling power and clarity, I felt an internal, audible crack. This was what I had been searching for.

  Over time, the detailed characteristics of the hawks slowly emerged. The powerful connection I experienced made complete sense. Hawks are very pure creatures, highly nervous, intelligent, fearful, and loners for large portions of their lives. They live in the moment, possessing few subtle grey areas, acting or reacting on an in-built hardwired nature. If handled inconsistently and without care, they return to a wild state, quickly. A good relationship between a hawk and a human has definite, intimate parameters, parameters absolutely set by the hawk and not by the human. They do not waver, cannot be bullied, coerced or negotiated with. They possess their own internal logic and have very specific requirements. To succeed in building a strong relationship, all human ego must be subjugated in favour of the hawk’s needs. When training a hawk, you have to think through them in order to create a workable bond. You have to surrender and enter their world, understand it through their eyes and serve them with patience and a deeply held empathic equality.

  Anything less and you will fail.

  It was after watching the falconers of Pakistan, and participating in the lives of other falconers, that the facets of my feelings of identity with nature and my understanding of hawks all fell into place. It was their methods and ways of living that drew everything together. Among these people, in differing degrees, I found an attitude reflecting my own. It was through the merging of East and West, ancient and modern, that a better understanding of birds of prey, their quarry and conservation, began to materialize for me. My experience in Pakistan showed me that falconry is a connected patchwork of experience, is interchangeable and mutually supportive, no matter which culture is involved. And the highest, most durable, most transcendent falconry, regardless of the continent, stems from the same fundamental, ancient source: indigenous wild hawks, flown over wild landscapes, hunting indigenous wild quarry.

  Perhaps the most important fact I took from my trip to Pakistan was the simplicity and freedom of their falconry; that their lives revolve utterly around the hawks: everything starts and stops with their immediate location and landscape. To witness humans deploying 5,000-year-old methods with style and humour, taking only what they need and never leaving a trace, was a truly beautiful thing. From this I came to realize my deep human instinct to hunt is morally correct, that hunting with a hawk is not cruel, unusual or destructive but an activity that replicates and exists in harmony with nature: that harvesting food using hawks is a gift and privilege, conducted in a wholly balanced way.

  On my return from South Asia I entered a slow transition, unfolding and unpicking the journey into a workable logic. The experience stored itself away like a seed, the soft kernel of buried knowledge waiting to split as time passed. Almost four years later, in 2010, the shattering news arrived of a terrible, violent event. The tribe, the village, their children, the dogs and the hawks, were displaced by unprecedented flooding. A direct effect of climate change, a living, breathing, history of agriculture and falconry was wiped out in a matter of days. This event prompted a quiet, motivational anger (which remains part of me). This was not some abstract news story – turn the page and forget about it. In my own peculiar way, I elected not to forget and, enriched as I was by the experiences of wider travel, the tribal falconers’ methods and approach to falconry eventually transformed my life.

  It would be a lie to say this transformation was planned, or in some way a considered lifestyle choice. It was not. The rooted circumstances and triggers were beyond my control, arriving with a sudden drop and from an odd, unexpected angle in the same year the devastating floods arrived in Pakistan.

  Viewing my story from a distance, I observe an alarmingly steep emotional descent at the point my son was born. At a moment when most people celebrate and rejoice, I entered an altogether different, darker, more vio
lent, psychological journey, my failures and frustrations underpinned and set in motion by the then unrecognized aspects of my personality. At the time I was not conscious of my descent and was to a large degree powerless to prevent the free fall. But as I fell I committed myself to a course of action that horrifies and angers society. I walked away from my son without any idea of how, when or even if I would ever return.

  It would be disingenuous to say that falconry or rehabilitating wild hawks helped me at this time, that, in saving them, I somehow saved myself. That is the stuff of fiction. When the pain and guilt was at its worst I had abandoned not only my son but also birds of prey, returning to both only when I had wrestled myself free of the emotional wreckage my life had become. This freedom was pivotal – it sustained my mental clarity and calm, through which my love of the natural world provided a stable framework to rebuild and regenerate. From this platform I kept climbing, recalibrating and joining the dots. My journeys, the lives of the falconers I met and my very own existence ceased being separate stories and coalesced into a free-wheeling road map, a way of living and a way of understanding myself that I should have started on many years ago. I saw that my feelings towards nature, and birds of prey in particular, ran in parallel with my feelings for my son. I worked out that they were, in fact, two sides of the same coin – the deep love of one could, with gentle observation, inform and unlock the deep love for the other. Out of this realization I tentatively began to re-form a relationship with my son and his mother. I learnt to overcome my fear of fatherhood and found a way to positively express myself through and for my son. Perhaps this then is the central theme of my story.

  My life is now defined by the hawks, their moods, the seasons, their landscapes and the quarry they hunt. I have finally found a place apart where I can rehabilitate and release wild sparrowhawks and hunt goshawks in the same manner, and for the same reasons, as found in Pakistan.