THE CONDOR Vot,. IX A SEASON WITH THE PACIFIC HORNED OWL BY NELSON CARPENTER T is a hot August day in southern California. The nesting season has closed and some of our smaller birds are gathering in flocks As .I sit turning the ' leaves of well-filled note-books, many pictures of past seasons are brought to mind. The first scene to be recalled as I open each book is one near the home of some pair of horned owls. The winter of 1903 was the last I spent in San Diego County, and was also the most productive in the way of notes. My first entry that season is dated Feb- ruary 8. It was made as soon as I reached home on a Sunday evening after a long wet tramp' that is still fresh in my memory. My brother and I had started out immediately after dinner on a prospecting trip for Bubo treasure. Our destination was a deep canyou t?vo miles from home. A pair of horned owls (]]ubo z?'rg?inianus pact)fcus) had occupied an old red-taWs nest in a tall sycamore for many years, but had selected a cave in a rock pile just above the old site the previous season. This cave I had found by "following my nose" when searching the gulch in 1902. Instead of going up the ravine the same as usual, that year I went directly over the hill and entered the canyon above the hawk's nest. While scrambling down the hill a strong breeze brought a stench that did not smell like fresh meat by some days. Curiosity always gets the better of me so I followed the scent which soon led me to the bottom of a steep rock pile. Here among a heap of pellets and bones lay a dead horned owl. It took only a few moments to locate the cave, five or six feet above, which contained three fresh eggs half buried in the earth. This cavity was so easy of access that any species of mammal no matter how helpless could have entered without half trying. I packed the set, but it was not without regretting the loss of so faithful a pair of birds. However on the day when my first 1903 note was written my brother and I decided to follow the course chosen the previous year. From the top of the hill the red-tail's nest could be plainly seen and was deserted as we had expected. With little hope we hastened our steps to the rock pile. To our surprise Mrs. Bubo went flopping out from beneath our feet leaving two clean, nearly fresh eggs. On our way home we met the Dixon brothers, and now that "the ice was broken" we determined to hunt up another pair. Operations began along a small creek near home where a horned owl had been shot from a hawk's nest in an oak tree February 2 of the prewous year. The nest contained one egg on that date, but altho the bird had been shot we expected to find another female in possession. Luck seemed with us; so we pounded the hollow trees and threw rocks at a couple of old hawk's nests but with no results. Where the creek emerged from a deep canyon we divided our party, two of us climbing the hill to some rock piles while the other two continued up the creek bed. I, of course, was in the party who had to climb the hill. We soon reached our cave, however, and found it just as it had been for years. It was so situated that a fine view of the entire canyon lay before us, so it was an easy matter to follow the movements of the party below. They were two-thirds the way up the ravine and seemed to be having as bad luck as we, ?vhen to our surprise an owl flew out from under a large overhanging rock but a few feet to one side of them. One of the party disappeared into the cavern and soon emerged with another set of two nearly fresh eggs.
