Something Wild Passed Down

My introduction to falconry came on a quiet day when Dan took me in his pickup, a hooded gyrfalcon riding calmly on his fist, to a secluded playa on the east side of the ranch.

Up to that point, my only interactions with the bird were watching Dan feed, weigh, and hood it. At one moment, under his guidance, I gently held the hawk while he crimped a telemetry transmitter to the base of its tail feather—a safeguard in case the bird decided to take off on a fly-about.

I had never been that close to a bird of prey before, let alone held that level of wildness in my hands.

The experience was captivating—but not as captivating as watching something primal rise to the surface in Dan.

Over the last sixteen years, Dan and I have had our fair share of “shit shows” together.

Buffalo that don’t cooperate. Horses that need doctoring. Spaniels full of porcupine quills. Wildfires. Bull-headed neighbors convinced the grass of the Great Plains was put here by God solely for their cattle.

In those early years, most of these situations were first-case scenarios for me. But no matter how sticky things got, Dan was always the same calm, collected presence—as steady as if he were sitting at the dinner table.

The more intense the situation, the more centered he became.

But the day he took me to the playa to catch a duck with his gyr, I saw a different man.

The Slip

He explained how a “slip” worked.

First, he removed the hood, revealing two obsidian pools fixed to the sides of the falcon’s head. Then he turned his ball cap backward so he could keep an eye on the bird as it climbed.

The gyr rose steadily, gaining elevation.

Dan watched.

When the bird reached sufficient height, he snapped his head toward me. His face had changed—his green eyes were intense, focused, wild.

I had never seen a human so alive.

“It happens fast, so don’t blink,” he said, releasing the cocker spaniel to flush the ducks now glued to the water beneath the predator circling hundreds of feet above.

As soon as the dog entered the playa, the ducks broke for the air, flying low through predetermined escape routes.

And then the hawk fell—a free-fall so fast it seemed impossible.

The gyr singled out a mallard, closed the distance, and collided. The mallard dropped. The falcon doubled back to finish what it had started.

Dan still has a falcon—Peanut, a hybrid between a gyr and a peregrine.

His long battle with cancer has limited his ability to hunt with her, and our family has seen how demoralizing that’s been.

I’ve felt a quiet guilt, knowing he’s given me every opportunity to take up falconry, knowing I’d be learning from one of the best in the world.

But I’ve never committed.

Jilian and I have tried to stay laser-focused on ranch and Wild Idea operations so Dan and Jill can live their retirement freely.

And we’re okay with that.

The day I watched my first slip, I snuck a glance at Dan while the bird was free-falling.

What I saw was a man in another dimension.

He wasn’t just watching the hawk—he was with it.

He was in the breeze that made the grass dance like ocean waves. He was one piece of the many that make up the landscape he loves.

Sometimes I wonder if he worries about that connection being lost after he’s gone.

A Couple Weeks Ago

A couple weeks ago, something unusual happened.

A Pipe Carrier from the neighboring reservation stopped by to pick up buffalo skulls for ceremonial sun dancing.

We talked, laughed, and before he left, he told me we needed to smudge together.

So we did.

He gave me a gift—an eagle feather—as a sign of gratitude.

Later that night, the boys were playing football in the backyard when they came running inside to tell us a massive hawk had crashed into the fence and was injured.

Naturally, I called Dan and Gervase.

They arrived shortly after.

Gervase picked up the juvenile male red-tailed hawk.

Once I managed my own fascination, I looked at Dan’s face.

I saw hints of what I’d witnessed at the playa—that same spark, that same wildness.

And I saw something else: my oldest boy’s calm demeanor.

Lincoln had shown interest in falconry a year earlier, so Dan and Gervase had taken him on as an apprentice.

They taught him the basics of handling and feeding, took him on slips, and even helped him hand-make a hawking bag out of buffalo leather.

It was clear Lincoln was the front-runner to carry Dan’s falconry legacy.

But this moment felt like a sign.

There had been a hang-up in Lincoln’s apprenticeship—by law, an apprentice can’t possess a peregrine. Only kestrels or red-tails.

This particular red-tail brought a certain sparkle back to Dan’s eyes.

It seemed to breathe new life into him.

Connection Passed Down

Gervase has been nursing the hawk back to health.

It can fly again and is incredibly tame.

Dan and Gervase stopped by the house the other day to feel me out about getting Lincoln’s fist under the hawk.

I told them they didn’t need to ask—I knew they’d already made up their minds.

Deep down, I was glad.

Dan had found someone he sees himself in, someone he can travel to that other dimension with.

And it reminded me of something Dan wrote in Rites of Autumn:

“It’s not about the individual. It’s about the species, and the species is about the habitat.”

Falconry, buffalo, prairie—it’s all the same truth.

Connection passed down, held carefully, and offered forward.

— Colton Jones