Ten years ago, a confusing encounter changed Helen Macdonald’s understanding of the connection between humans and the natural world
It was the autumn of 2006 in Uzbekistan, a few months before my father died. I’d driven with a group of other fieldworkers in a Russian jeep down to the banks of the Syrdarya river in Andijan province. Once we’d pitched our tents, I went for a stroll in the hot, blank forest sunlight. It was very still and quiet. My feet crunched on salt-crusted mud and across leaf litter sparking with grasshoppers and sinuous silver lizards. After a mile or so, I found myself in an open clearing and looked up. And that is when I thought I saw a man standing in a tree. That’s what my brain told me, momentarily. A man in a long overcoat leaning slightly to one side. And then I saw it wasn’t a man, but a goshawk.
Moments like this are very illuminating. Despite my lifelong obsession with birds of prey, I’d never thought before, much, about the actual phenomenology of human-hawk resemblance, which must have brought forth all those mythological hawk-human bonds I’ve studied for so long. Back in the early 2000s, I had been working on my doctoral dissertation in natural history at the University of Cambridge, but I never finished it. I wrote a book about falcons instead. I recounted tales that didn’t fit in my PhD – of the mafia threatening to drive a falconer out of New York City because his falcon was a threat to their pigeon-flying activities, stories of fan dancers, jet pilots, astronauts and the diplomatic shenanigans of early modern royalty. But everything I’d written about this strange symbolic connection between birds of prey and human souls felt as if it had a different kind of truth, now, one forged of things other than books. I looked up at a hawk in a tree, but I saw a man. How curious.
Related: Costa biography award 2014: H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald
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