Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Fielding Lewis and the Ivory-billed Woodpecker


                   Fielding Lewis's controversial 1971 photo of an Ivory-billed Woodpecker. 

One mystery I always hoped to sort out was the identity of a hunter who had taken two snapshots of a male ivory-bill in 1971 and sent them to George Lowery, a famed ornithologist at Louisiana State University. When the man had initially reported seeing a pair of ivory-bills, Lowery assumed he had seen pileated woodpeckers and encouraged him to try to get a picture. When he subsequently shot some pictures, Lowery was convinced and went immediately to the Atchafalaya Swamp of southern Louisiana, where the man had seen the birds. Although Lowery never saw the ivory-bills, he did see an excavation the birds had started in a tree.

The man asked that his identity and the exact location of the place he’d taken the pictures not be revealed. Like many southerners, he had a visceral fear that the feds would come in and impound the land, so he couldn't hunt there anymore. Lowery respected his wishes and never divulged the information.

That summer, Lowery took the pictures to the annual meeting of the American Ornithologists’ Union, expecting all the scientists to be excited by this amazing physical proof of the continued existence of this species, even at that early date long thought extinct. Instead, he was met with immediate withering skepticism. One of the first things the other ornithologists did was to peer at the snapshots through an electron microscope. Their verdict: obviously a fraud—a taxidermied bird hung in two different trees. Some of them laughed at Lowery behind his back, jeering at his gullibility. Some darkly suggested he may have been in on the hoax. But no one who knew him could ever have believed that.

Lowery kept quiet about the affair after that, and a few years later he passed away. The story of the hunter who gave him the pictures grew from that point on until he became a legendary figure, shrouded in mystery—an old Choctaw living far out in the swamp; a greasy-haired hermit who only came to town once or twice a year to sell his beaver pelts. People speculated wildly in books and magazine articles about who he might be and where in the vast Atchafalaya Swamp he saw the birds. I had no idea who he was. I just knew that I wanted to talk with him, to look him in the eye and decide for myself whether I believed his story.

I did hear about a man named Fielding Lewis who supposedly had seen ivory-bills somewhere in the Atchafalaya in the 1970s. I wondered if there was any possibility that he could be the mystery man. One day I did an Internet search for his name and got only one hit in the entire state of Louisiana. And this Fielding Lewis did live in the southern Atchafalaya. Could it really be this easy? As I was getting ready to call him on my cell phone, I got the wicked thought: maybe I should pretend that I know he took the pictures and see what he says.

“This is Tim Gallagher from Cornell University,” I said as the man answered the phone. I’m interviewing people who have seen ivory-billed woodpeckers, and I’d like to ask you about the pictures you gave to George Lowery in 1971.”

Without a pause he said, “Okay.” Then he told me he lived out in the woods and I’d never be able to find his place. He suggested that Bobby Harrison and I meet him in front of a Cajun restaurant not far from his home. When I called my wife and told her this, she said: “Don’t do it! It’s the South. We’ll never hear from you again.” I assured her everything would be fine. Bobby is with me. What could go wrong? But to be honest, it did seem a little strange.

We ended up getting to the restaurant a couple of hours earlier than we’d planned, so I called Lewis again. A woman answered and told me he wasn’t home; he had gone to his office. His office? All my fantasies about this guy immediately imploded—the stringy-haired swamp rat living in a shack perched precariously on wobbly stilts above the swamp; the trapper poling along in his hand-hewn pirogue—all gone. And I missed that image. So who was this guy? What would he really be like?

By this time, Bobby and I were too excited to go inside the restaurant. We hung around outside, peering at every car that passed. Finally a big white Chrysler New Yorker pulled into the parking lot, driven by a portly man in his seventies, puffing on the biggest cigar I’ve ever seen.

“Fielding Lewis?” I said as he stepped outside. He nodded and we shook hands. He looked like a character from Tennessee Williams—like Big Daddy, larger than life, with a booming voice and a bone-crushing handshake.

As we drove behind, following him to his office, I noticed the frame around his license plate said “Louisiana State Boxing Commission.” I asked him about this as he opened his office door, and he told us he was the state commissioner of boxing and had been a boxer himself years earlier. Stepping into his office, we were hit by a wall of choking cigar smoke. It was like going through a time warp, passing into the 1940s. On the wall hung a black-and-white World War II era cigarette ad of a Hollywood starlet puffing a Chesterfield. Framed pictures of boxers stood on every available desk or table, including a nice autographed shot of Mohammad Ali as a teenager, when he was still called Cassius Clay.

Lewis was a great storyteller and he regaled us with endless anecdotes about his many exploits over the years and the numerous fascinating characters he’d encountered in his life. We finally got him talking about ivory-bills. He spoke about George Lowery—how he was the nicest person he’d ever met. They had become close friends, he said, and he had a picture of him posing with his grandkids. Then I hit him with the big question: “Did you know that those pictures you took caused a huge controversy with ornithologists and that some of them think the bird was taxidermied?”

He stared at me, visually stunned for moment, and then bellowed with laughter. “Now where the hell would I get a stuffed ivory-bill?”

Bobby and I came away believing his story. And when we visited the spot where he had reportedly seen the birds, we found numerous huge cypresses, but most of them were dead—victims of salt-water incursion back around the time he had seen the birds, which was interesting. Slowly dying trees like that would have been a natural magnet for infestation by wood-boring beetles and species that feed on their larvae, such as ivory-billed woodpeckers.

[excerpted from The Grail Bird by Tim Gallagher, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt]

Thursday, February 7, 2019

Remembering Tom Cade



Tom Cade passed away yesterday at the age of 91. Considering his age and the state of his health, I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I'm still having a hard time imaging a world without Tom. He was such an inspiring figure to me for so long. I first heard about him in my teens, and it was such a proud moment when I first met him and got to know him. What can you say about Tom Cade? Of course, he was a renowned biologist, a raptor conservationist, an Ivy League professor, and a lifelong falconer—but he was so much more.

Tom Cade (left) and Jim Weaver

Tom was a dynamo who poured all of his energy and leadership skills into a valiant attempt to turn around the Peregrine Falcon's perilous population decline. By the mid-1960s, most of the Peregrine eyries across the United States had been abandoned and the species was no longer breeding east of the Mississippi River. Tom strongly believed he could breed Peregrines in captivity and release them to the wild in sufficient numbers to have a massive positive impact on the dwindling falcon population.


Tom's enthusiasm was contagious. Many falconers contributed their own birds to use in the captive-breeding program at Cornell. And many of them also volunteered their time and provided initial funding for the project. No falconer could imagine losing the Peregrine Falcon. Tom and The Peregrine Fund—an organization he founded in 1970—released some 4,000 captive-produced Peregrine Falcons in the space of 28 years in what became one of the most successful endangered species recovery efforts ever attempted. I'll never forget attending the event in August 1999 at the World Center for Birds of Prey in Boise, Idaho, when Secretary of the Interior Bruce Babbitt officially removed the Peregrine Falcon from the Endangered Species List. What an amazing accomplishment. And what a great way to end the Twentieth Century.

Uummannaq, Greenland, 2000.                                                                       (c) Tim Gallagher

I had the great privilege the following year of accompanying Tom Cade, Bill Burnham, Kurt Burnham, and Jack Stephens on an expedition to Greenland—actually a follow-up to research conducted nearly a century earlier by Danish ornithologist Alfred Bertelsen, who had extensively mapped out numerous nest sites and breeding colonies of birds in the Uummannaq region of Greenland. When Tom was a young graduate student at UCLA in the early 1950s, he had read a paper Bertelsen had published in a Danish ornithological journal in 1921, and he decided he would someday retrace Bertelsen's route and see how much the bird numbers and species makeup had changed in the intervening years. And he did it, decades later at the age of 72—traveling countless miles up iceberg-choked fjords in an open boat; camping out on the frozen ground as frigid Arctic winds tried to rip the tents to shreds. I'm still impressed by Tom's determination and stoicism in the face of hardship. I'll always remember that. Rest in Peace, my old friend.

(Left to right) Bill Burnham, Kurt Burnham, and Tom Cade in Greenland.          (c) Tim Gallagher


Tom Cade and Kurt Burnham in Greenland.                                                  (c) Tim Gallagher

Tom Cade in a helicopter in Greenland.                               (c) Tim Gallagher

With Tom Cade in 2015 at a celebration in his honor at Cornell.

 Tom Cade and his wife Renetta at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology.    (c) Tim Gallagher

Tom Cade with Phyllis Dague, who worked with him for many years.  (c) Tim Gallagher

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Bob Martin, Falconer

I'm saddened to report the death of my old friend Bob Martin, who passed away last week at the age of 73. Bob first took up falconry in the late 1950s when he was in his early teens. He and his friend Mike Arnold, who lived in the same neighborhood in Burbank, California, were absolute fanatics about the sport, reading everything they could find about falconry and tirelessly searching the nearby hills for raptor nests. Their efforts took a quantum leap forward when they met Bob Klimes, president of the Southern California Falconers' Association, and Bob McCallum, who were both avid game hawkers and provided the two boys with help, advice, and stellar examples to follow. 

    A recent picture of Bob with one of his peregrines from a 2018 article by Brent Frazee.

I first met Bob when I was 14 years old, in the mid-1960s, at a meeting of the old Santa Ana Valley Falconers' Association, which met each week at Jack Hagan's house. I remember Bob had a fresh-trapped passage tiercel peregrine—one of the first tundra peregrines I'd ever seen—and I was absolutely awestruck. Fortunately, Bob wasn't stuck up about having such an impressive bird. Then, and throughout his falconry career, he was always generous, freely sharing his vast knowledge about training raptors. 

He was an excellent hood-maker, and some examples of his work can be seen at the Archives of Falconry. His craftsmanship showed in everything he created, from hoods, blocks, and falconry bags to the log house he built nearly singlehandedly in Montana. He was also a talented musician, playing and singing with his wife JoAnne in their bluegrass band. 

Bob was always a staunch game-hawker, flying first-rate falcons in spectacular style. Last season, he went on the road with his two intermewed peregrines, Salt and Pepper, flying them at sage grouse, prairie chickens, and other challenging quarry. He had planned to do the same this fall. Sadly, it was not to be. He will be greatly missed.


                                     Bob Martin with his peregrine in the 1960s. Photo by Mike Arnold


               Bob Martin (at right) and Bob Mechsner in La Verne, California, in the 1960s. Photo by Dan Fenske

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

My latest book is about to launch . . .


I wrote Born to Fish with my friend, Greg Myerson, a world-class angler who turned his life around through fishing. From his earliest days, Greg used fishing as an escape from the violent world of his mobster father, but then it became an overwhelming obessions in its own right, destroying his relationships and work life. Finally, in August 2011, he caught an 82-pound striped bass, shattering a world record that had stood for 29 years. Yet at the very instant he achieved this crowning glory, he instantly had a staggering epiphany and regretted killing the fish. An unlikely conservation hero, he is now at the forefront of the effort to save the large striped bass, which are the most prolific breeders and vital to the dwindling Atlantic coast striped bass population, now devastated by overfishing and pollution.



The book has some great cover blurbs by Helen Macdonald, Walter Anderson, Bobby Kennedy, Jr., Ted Williams, Tony Huston, and Stephen Bodio.

Friday, January 12, 2018

Falconry talk tomorrow in Salem, New York


I hope all of my friends in the Saratoga Springs, NY, area will join me tomorrow for falconry talk, food, and beer tasting. All proceeds go to the local food bank. Here's a link with directions.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Rest in Peace, Roger Upton

                                                                                                                                           Tim Gallagher

I was saddened to hear about the death of legendary British falconer Roger Upon, who passed away on October 29th at the age of 80 after battling Parkinson's disease for several years. Roger was a tall, impressive man. In his youth, he had served in the Queen's Household Cavalry, and he always cut a dashing figure in the field, often clad in a tweed cap and sport coat, sometimes with a red handkerchief stuffed in his pocket as an accent. He was an accomplished author, who became the chief chronicler and historian of British falconry. His Books include: Birds in the Hand: Celebrated Falconers of the Past; O For a Falconer's Voice: Memories of the Old Hawking Club; Hood, Leash, and Lure: Falconry in the Twentieth Century. He also wrote an excellent book about hawking in the Middle East, titled Arab Falconry. He will be greatly missed by his friends and family as well as the entire world falconry community. Rest in Peace, my friend. 


                                                                                                                                Tim Gallagher

                                                                                                                                           Tim Gallagher

                                                                                                                                           Tim Gallagher

                                                                                                                                           Tim Gallagher