by Frank Keim
Have you ever wanted to be a bird? Or after you die, come back as one? I have, and my choice is the Gyrfalcon. I used to watch these raptors a lot when I lived in Scammon Bay. Especially in spring I would search them out, skiing or walking over to their aeries in the tors on top of the Askinuk Mountains behind Scammon Bay. It was there I found them in the middle of their magnificent aerial displays, the male and female flying round and round each other in the sparkling clear air above the greening mountains.
The male seemed to be the real show-off in this mating game, first gaining elevation with rapid wing beats, then circling and diving, wings slightly tucked, at high speed towards the female who was gliding slowly above the craggy rock towers where they would make their home. At the last minute he would put on the brakes and careen upward in a mighty swoop within just inches of her, then come back around again and again, hoping to impress her enough to land below and… you guessed it.
With aerial displays like the above performed by such large majestic falcons, little wonder the bird has the name it does, Gyrfalcon, which derives from the Latin “hierofalco,” meaning “sacred falcon.” Little wonder, also, that down through the ages it was the hawk that was most revered by falconers.
While we’re on names, I should mention that the falcon’s scientific name is Falco rusticolus, which means “hawk that lives in the country.” And then there are the Yup’ik names, Eskaviaq, which they use in Hooper Bay, and Cekaviaq, which they use in Scammon Bay and along the Yukon River. Both Yup’ik names probably have to do with the way the falcons scatter the ptarmigan’s and other birds’ feathers in every direction when they hit them full force in the air.
Speaking of feathers, the feather color of gyrs varies according to its color phase. And there are three of these: dark, gray, and the magnificent white phase. In the Askinuk Mountains above Scammon Bay I saw all of these phases during the five years I traveled up there counting nests. My favorite was the white gyr, although I saw fewer of these than the others.
One of the things I noticed right off the bat while watching the aerial displays of these falcons in springtime was how much bigger the female was than the male. According to one source, the female can be 30-40 percent heavier than the male. For good reason, since it is the female who does the egg laying and most of the incubation, which can last for more than a month.
It’s interesting that gyrs, like other falcons, do not actually build nests. They simply occupy a raven’s or Rough-legged hawk’s old nest, or lay their eggs in a scrape on a protected ledge near the top of a rocky crag or cliff, just like Peregrine falcons do. Once I found a gyr pair had located in the middle of an abandoned Golden eagle aerie. The female looked tiny in that giant nest.
Wherever she makes her home she usually lays four pale (yellow, white or buff, finely spotted with dark red) colored eggs there and incubates them for between 29-36 days. Sometimes the male will help her out in this, but mostly he stands or flies guard nearby and provides the female with her food needs. He does this through the early nestling period, since the young hatch at different times. After that both birds hunt for and feed the young. Since the young first fly between 49-56 days after hatching, this is a long time. And it doesn’t stop then, for the young are still dependent on their parents for a month or more after fledging.
Most of the food the parents feed their young is ptarmigan. In fact, studies have shown that in Alaska up to 89 percent of all gyr food by weight is Alaska’s state bird, although they will mix this with seabirds, shorebirds, grouse and small mammals when available.
While hunting, gyrs usually fly low and fast, “contour hugging” to surprise their prey. Once I saw a gyr perch in a copse of willows and alders near Scammon Bay where a ptarmigan had taken cover in the deep snow, then dive into the snow to flush the ptarmigan into the open. It then followed the ptarmigan up the mountain, climbing sharply above it and suddenly plummeting down on it. That’s when it earns its Yup’ik name Eskaviaq, or Cekaviaq, depending on where you’re watching it do its feather-scattering thing.
When the parents bring back prey for their young, it’s interesting to watch how the young share the dead animal. The older and bigger hatchlings have the first stab at it, then the younger smaller ones get their share. If there is plenty of ptarmigan in the area, all of the young should have the opportunity to fledge and learn how to hunt for their own food.
After the young start flying, it’s also fascinating to watch how their parents teach them to hunt. The adult presents itself as the target and encourages the young to dive on it, which they do clumsily at first, but over time with more and more grace, until finally they can practice on the real thing and earn their Yup’ik name.
I consider myself privileged to have been able to watch gyrs as much as I have, especially in the Askinuk Mountains near Scammon Bay. For the Gyrfalcon is a rare bird indeed, there being only between 200-300 pairs in all of Alaska and fewer than 5000 individuals in all of North America. Next time you catch a glimpse of a gyr, remember that statistic and join the ranks of the privileged few who have even seen them.
