Golden Light, Gray Ghost:
A Winter Encounter in the Bog
A raptor soared above the treeline, vanishing before I could identify it—an omen for the chase ahead. Still, it sparked anticipation, like catching the scent of caramelized sugars wafting from an oven. With patience and persistence, I hoped to glimpse a Great Gray Ghost.
With a printed map, I navigated the Sax-Zim Bog’s gravel roads, weaving through spruce and tamarack forests. This northern Minnesota wetland is a winter haven for Boreal Chickadees, raptors, and—if I was lucky—the elusive Great Gray Owl.
Yet, the search was not without challenges: racing against the clock to cover an expansive territory under extreme weather conditions. Dubbed the “Phantoms of the North,” the owls could roam and hide anywhere in the bog’s 4,000+ acres. To increase my chances in this game of hide and seek, I had to be ready at dawn and dusk, the prime windows for sightings. Complicating matters, my visit coincided with a polar vortex—each morning the air temperature plummeted -33°F, cold enough to freeze exposed skin in minutes.
To prepare, I read about behaviors and studied photographs of the Great Gray Owl, the largest of its kind in North America. Its most striking feature is its large, round facial disc, which enhances its ability to hear prey beneath a foot or more of snow. Its plumage, a mesmerizing pattern of fine concentric rings in gray and white, evokes ripples from a pebble tossed into a calm lake.
As I searched, the absence of traffic noise settled over me, replaced by a silence that enveloped the serene bog. Snow blanketed the ground, draped over tree limbs, and filled last season’s bird nests. A flock of wild turkeys browsed for plants in the trenches along the highway. Herds of white-tailed deer grazed at the edges of fields.
Sun dogs flared in the sky as if cheering on the sun’s ascent. Their rainbow light wielded a paintbrush, seemingly flecking the land with colors as bright songbirds emerged for the dawn chorus: Redpolls, American Goldfinches, Purple Finches, and Blue Jays. Though the tamaracks shed their golden needles long ago, the sun’s light made their trunks and branches glow a resinous-yellow, contrasting against the green wall of black spruce. The scene would have been heightened by owls, but they remained hidden.
After midday I arrived at the welcome center and made inquiries. No sightings had been reported from the morning—it was a slow day. The popular theory was the Great Gray Owls were conserving energy due to the extreme cold and bright sunlight.
The site had its charms: scenic trails and feeding stations teeming with activity. Black-capped Chickadees, Hairy Woodpeckers, and Canada Jays fed on nutrient-rich seeds and animal fat from a white-tailed deer carcass, crucial energy sources for maintaining body heat and surviving the frigid temperatures.
As I left the grounds that afternoon, I wondered how the bog appeared through the owl’s eyes? Did the sedge meadow’s fringe conceal the entry to a labyrinth of vole tunnels? Were the telephone poles bordering the agricultural fields ideal perches for hunting rodents foraging leftover grains? Of all the miles I’d explored, which should I revisit? What zones offered the most abundant hunting grounds for the owls to sustain themselves?
Earlier, I had overheard a hired bird guide telling a client that finding a charismatic bird yourself is far more satisfying than stumbling upon a crowd photographing one. As dusk neared, I knew would need to rely on my instincts—as others retreated from the cold and fading light.
I devised a plan: first, I would use the golden hour to travel east following the Whiteface River, then double back toward Highway 5. Next, I would drive loops around the vicinity of the Starflower Bog until the night sky and stars overtook the horizon.
The first strategy yielded little—only empty telephone poles, snow-covered fields, and a frozen river reflecting golden rays. Mine was the lone vehicle, kicking up a swirl of gravel dust and snow. I passed flocks of crows and saw lichen, the color of fuzzy, celadon sweaters, cloaking the trunks and needleless limbs of the tamaracks.
As the day waned, I switched tactics. Loop after loop, I slowly drove as the sun sank lower. About 15 minutes before sunset, I traveled north, watching the trees to the west darken against a vibrant sky. The forest, a tapestry of aspen, spruce, and tamaracks, rose from the frozen ground into the shifting twilight.
Amongst the living trees stood their dead kin, snags with jagged, broken limbs. Snags fascinate me—their afterlife offers nesting shelters for woodpeckers or swifts and convenient perches for hunting raptors like hawks and owls. Their stark, weathered, and statuesque beauty is arresting, too. Snags are stunning representations of time created by a band of anonymous sculptors.
One snag caught my eye. Its two remaining branches forked into a shape like a giant wishbone. The left branch didn’t dwindle like the right. Instead, it thickened—an unexpected smudge, a dusky shadow against an evening sky that was blushing as pink as blossoms. As I inched closer, the shadow took form. A Great Gray Owl.
This was the moment I’d been chasing since dawn, and it was finally mine. I parked and reached for my binoculars. The owl listened intently, tuning in to the sounds of the bog—the faint footsteps of voles beneath the snow. It turned its head from the north to south, then back again. I locked eyes on its brilliant yellow ones and traced the white patch of feathers below its round face, a soft bowtie of feathers.
The owl leaned forward on its perch, peering at the ground. Had it heard or seen something worthwhile? Then, with a silent step into the air, it spread its wings and glided across the road, disappearing into the forest. The long hours of searching, the anticipation bubbling like caramel on the stove, finally culminated in this sublime moment. The reward was as sweet as I had imagined.
In the aftermath of discovery—one I hoped to repeat soon—I reflected on persistence and the serendipity of being in the right place at the right moment. Alone on the road, I recalled the guide’s words: finding your bird is something special.
Yes. It was.
© 2025 Melissa Kalinowski. All rights reserved.