By Pam Murphy
It’s time for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center.
Whomp-whomp-whomp. I was outside on that first Friday evening in December doing barn chores in the darkness when I heard the sound and went to investigate. A panel of the barn’s tin roof, loosened by the wind, was now thumping, whomping with each gust. Afraid the flapping panel might wrench free and harm my two horses, I ran to a neighbor’s to ask for help. A builder, he drove right over with an extension ladder and determined he needed roof nails and a hammer. But, he needed me to sit on the panel to secure it while he retrieved his tools.
So I sat on the roof in the snow squall, unafraid of heights yet totally afraid of losing my footing and gliding nonstop from the roof to the ground. But the snow squall passed, the clouds cleared, and from my perch on the barn roof, I could see stars glittering through the leafless branches of the cottonwood tree beside the barn. There was no human-caused white noise or sounds from the natural world in that moment, just peace and tranquility arriving with falling snow. The fear of what if from the loose roof panel transformed into comfort and solace amidst that night’s falling snow.
After moving to a small farm in the Bitterroot Valley in late October of 2003 (the mountains were calling and I had to go), I quickly made friends with the Montana weather because farm animals require care year-round, day and night. No matter what was happening outside, they needed food and shelter, and caring for them helped me learn to love the seasonal rhythms and sounds of the night.
My awareness of Montana’s night sounds began during my “last call” checks each night amid greetings from the barnyard chorus. The soft nickering of the horses, the baas and bleats of the sheep and goats, the never-subtle brays of the miniature donkeys, and the slightly off-key humming of the llamas meant all was well. Gradually, I began to notice sounds of a Montana night.
Midwinter, I listen for the Hoo hoo, HOO hoo hoo of the Great Horned Owls. Been a hoot-owl howling outside my window now ‘bout six nights in a row. The lyrics to the Michael Martin Murphy song, “Wildfire,” serenade me when Great Horned Owls call (or “hoot”) in January and February to mate or to establish or defend territory. One will call from my property, with an answering call from a neighboring property; this duet usually occurs between 2 and 4 a.m. Either I am comforted by their hoots, reassured they are here; or disturbed when they are silent for extended periods, wondering why they are absent.
Just as the calls of the Great Horned Owls are heard throughout winter nights in Montana, summer evenings are for Common Nighthawks, recognized by their calls of peent-peent. Many times, I hear them before I see them as they feed at dawn and dusk, diving for insects with their mouths open, capturing prey as they fly and dive in loops, again and again. During the daytime, if you look closely, nighthawks can often be found roosting on horizontal tree branches, camouflaged by the bark and hidden by the foliage, location revealed by their white throat patch if it is visible. I have never found one roosting on my property so am content with watching and listening to their performances on summer evenings.
I have chosen Montana as my home and embrace her seasonal night sounds, from silent snowfall on a barn roof to owls, nighthawks, and everything in between. The Montana night is calling and I must go.
Today’s Field Note was written in the Field Notes Writing Workshop at the Montana Natural History Center. This is Pam Murphy for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center, providing natural history education for schools and the public throughout Montana. To find out about upcoming events and programs at the Center, call 406.327.0405, or visit our website at MontanaNaturalist.org.
