Owls have always fascinated me. Part of that fascination comes from their elusive nature and their largely nocturnal habits. They’re so well hidden that one could be perched right above you on a trail, and you’d walk by without ever knowing. Another part comes from their deep symbolism, stretching back to the earliest civilizations, often tied to mystery, wisdom, and the occult. I think I can understand why. Whenever I look into an owl’s eyes, I feel as if I’m glimpsing something ancient—almost like I’m looking into its soul… or perhaps it’s the other way around. And strangely enough, of all the animals that have appeared in my dreams over the years, owls show up the most. A part of me wonders if they recognize me in those other worlds I enter at night. Whether it’s the majestic presence of the Snowy Owl, the sheer size of the Great Horned Owl, or the charming little face of the Eastern Screech Owl, these raptors have given me some of my fondest moments in wildlife photography. Today, I want to share one of my favorite chases—one I still can’t fully believe I managed to capture: the Barred Owl.

Barred Owls are powerful forest hunters, often found in woodlands near water. They perch high in the canopy, scanning the ground below for small mammals, reptiles, and birds. Yet even as predators, they must stay alert—Great Horned Owls will drive them out of shared territory, and mobs of crows, woodpeckers, and songbirds will harass them relentlessly until they move on. During nesting season, Barred Owls are fiercely territorial and defend themselves with sharp talons. Their boldness has even made its way into urban legend; a Barred Owl was once blamed for a 2001 murder, though the evidence strongly suggests this was never the case.

Where I live, Barred Owls rarely—if ever—grace us with their presence. Most sightings occur farther north, well beyond my usual range. After weeks of research, I realized my best opportunity would be in Westchester, where one particular owl had been consistently reported by birders on eBird for nearly two weeks. The real challenge, of course, would be finding it. The owl was somewhere within a preserve of more than two hundred acres of which I had never stepped foot in before.

My girlfriend joined me on the trip, and by then she was starting to feel like a bit of a good-luck charm. Just that week, we’d already spotted an Eastern Screech Owl and a Great Horned Owl. If we managed to find the Barred Owl, that would make three owl species in one week!

However, the moment we stepped onto the unfamiliar gravel path, I realized that might have been wishful thinking. That feeling only grew stronger as we followed the trail deeper into the preserve and emerged into a wide clearing—a massive lake ringed by endless trees, steep rock faces, and a maze of branching routes disappearing in every direction. I scanned the landscape and wondered which way to go. But I also knew it didn’t really matter. So I chose the path closest to the water and continued on.

As we hiked the path along the lake, the silence became impossible to ignore. It was quiet—too quiet. No people anywhere, and hardly a single bird calling. I never like when the woods feel that still. Maybe it was because, over the past week, I had watched one too many spooky hiking stories on YouTube—and the one thing I remembered from all of them was that when the animals go silent, it’s usually because they’re hiding from something that my eyes have yet to uncover. I told myself to stop overthinking, shake off the nerves, and stay focused on the task at hand. 

We continued our journey, moving deeper toward the center of the preserve, the trail now sloping steadily upward. At one point, I thought I glimpsed a Red-tailed Hawk, but it flew off too quickly for me to confirm. We kept climbing, the hours slipping by, yet still no sign of the Barred Owl. I started to wonder if this was a lost cause. How foolish I had been to imagine that I could stroll into hundreds of acres of woodland and expect the owl to greet me like a host at the door.

But then the unexpected happened. Sometimes, when you’re searching for a particular animal and you’re right on the edge of giving up, the universe tosses you a small gift—just enough to keep you going. Sometimes that gift leads somewhere. Sometimes it doesn’t. For us, it came in the form of movement: the Barred Owl lifting off from a tree branch about thirty feet away. I turned to my girlfriend and pointed upward just in time for us both to see it glide silently across the sky and disappear into the dense trees ahead. Yes, it was hidden again, but at least now we knew it was here. That alone was enough to bring a smile to both our faces. And so, renewed with hope, we continued on.

At this point, I marched forward with my eyes fixed on the sky, completely ignoring the trail markers—not the smartest thing to do—with my girlfriend close behind. We headed in the direction where we had last seen the owl disappear, passing small creeks as we went. I scanned the treetops furiously, searching for any sign of movement, but saw nothing. Then —  a sharp “cuk-cuk-cuk,” each call rising in volume and pitch. I looked up into the distance just in time to see a Pileated Woodpecker flying in distress—and behind it, a Barred Owl in pursuit. Finally—some noise! We stood frozen, watching this beautiful scene unfold until both birds vanished into the trees. Then, once again, we continued forward, not wanting to lose the owl. 

Silence returned. The only noise coming from the footsteps from our boots.  However, as we walked, a thought crossed my mind: Is the Barred Owl the apex predator of these woods? Could that be why everything had been so quiet—the smaller birds staying silent, hidden, aware of what moves above them? 

We scanned the trees—nothing. We kept walking until we realized we had done a full circle. Forty minutes had passed. Exhausted and frustrated, we stopped and sat down.

My girlfriend looked at me. “What should we do?”

“Stay here,” I said. “I’m just going to check a little bit ahead to see what’s there.”

I walked up the path and saw that it continued deeper into the dense woods with no clear end in sight. Then I looked across the lake—that’s where we need to head back. The sun was starting to dip lower. I estimated we had maybe two hours of good light left. 

I glanced back at my girlfriend. She was still scanning the trees, monocular in hand, determined. I sighed. When do I call this search off? I wondered. But before I could decide, the Barred Owl answered for me. It glided silently overhead, passing just above my girlfriend’s head without her noticing. I waved frantically, trying to get her attention without yelling and risking scaring the owl away—but she didn’t see me.  

I rushed toward her, excitement bubbling up.

“It flew right above your head! You didn’t see it?”

“What? No! Are you serious?” she said, startled.

I pointed toward the woods. “It went that way. Let’s move slowly.”

We walked as quietly as we could, trying to soften the crunch of leaves and snapping branches beneath our boots. It didn’t take long before we spotted the Barred Owl—about thirty yards away, perched on a low branch maybe five feet off the ground, tucked in the shade. If I could get closer, the lighting wouldn’t be ideal, but at that point I wasn’t about to complain. I looked at my girlfriend and whispered that I was going in. Dropping to the ground, I began to army-crawl forward, using the large rocks in front of me as cover. When I finally reached the spot I wanted, I lifted my head to take the shot—but the owl was gone. I couldn’t help but laugh. Of course.

I called my girlfriend.“Do you see it? I can’t see it,” I whispered into the phone.

“No… I don’t,” she replied. 

And then I spotted it again—higher this time, perched deeper in the branches, still in the shade, about twenty yards away. “I see it,” I said, and quickly hung up. I raised my camera and started snapping away. The photos weren’t perfect—the lighting was not ideal—but at that moment I didn’t care. I called my girlfriend over and the two of us watched the owl resting quietly on the branch.  

“Not the best lighting… but it’ll do,” I said.

“It’s beautiful,” was all she could manage.

“Not the best lighting… but it should do I said.”

“It’s beautiful.” Is all she could say.  

We thought that might be the end of it—just a brief glimpse of the owl in the shadows. But the owl had other plans. Sometimes, in these chases, you’re given a gift—whether from the universe or from the animal itself. And what happened next felt like a testament to that belief. Whether it was God rewarding my persistence, or the owl deciding to reveal itself fully, it lifted off the branch and flew to another tree—this time landing directly in the sun. A photographer’s dream! It was so perfect that I was able to set up my tripod and snap away.

For the next fifteen minutes, we shared that moment with the Barred Owl, completely undisturbed. Not once did it show any sign of wanting to flee. It was as if the owl no longer saw us as a threat—maybe even respected the persistence it took to find it. Whatever the reason, the moment felt like a reward, and the chase was worth every step. 

I think back to what my girlfriend said about the Barred owl being beautiful. It’s true, it is. But it was also something more. I can’t help but feel that the Barred Owl gets an unfair reputation for being aggressive—and it certainly isn’t as “cute” or marketable as the Eastern Screech Owl. Yet there is a different kind of beauty in the Barred Owl, one rooted in presence, in strength, in a quiet but undeniable right to live.  Not long after this encounter, I learned that the U.S. government had authorized the killing of over 450,000 Barred Owls in the West in an effort to prevent the extinction of the Spotted Owl. My stance on population control deserves its own essay, but in short, I find it astonishing that humans—despite all our intelligence, technology, and “management”—still resort to killing as our primary solution. And for the Darwinists out there: who are we to interfere with nature’s course if we claim to believe in evolution so deeply? At what point does “management” become disruption? At what point do we stop pretending we understand the balance better than nature itself? As people, we must realize our place in God’s ecosystem, and remember the beauty in every one of his creatures.