Attacked in the Woods II
The goshawk does not forgive us our trespasses

By Robert Winkler
About the Author

he pair of northern goshawks had me pinned to the ground. On a hiking trail overlooking the Saugatuck River in Fairfield County, Conn., I had intruded on their nesting territory. Piercing alarm calls had rung out, and from a thickly wooded slope the goshawks had burst into view. I have no doubt it was the same female I had run into a year before, this time reinforced by her faithful mate. Goshawks are known to keep their nesting territory for years.

In seconds these feathered stealth fighters had separated and stationed themselves in low hemlock branches, with me in the middle. Now they had me in their crosshairs and were taking turns launching themselves at me. Their battle cries never let up.

In Connecticut goshawks begin nesting in April and will vigorously attack people who trespass in their woods. As predators, we threaten their family's survival and must be evicted. It does not deter them that we are many times their size.



The goshawk has reason to feel bold. It is the largest accipiter, a genus of hawks adapted for life in the woods. The female goshawk, larger than the male, is near the size of a red-tailed hawk and has a wingspread approaching four feet.

With stocky wings and a long tail, the goshawk can accelerate quickly and turn sharply in pursuit of explosive grouse and nimble squirrels. So highly evolved is the goshawk that, if sufficient prey is available, I believe this consummate killer can take it at will.

As the goshawks streaked toward me, voices rising, I felt sure they would strike, but at the last moment they veered away. In a defensive crouch, I pulled down my hat brim to shield my eyes from their menacing talons, and each time they passed I raised a hand to keep them from raking my head. I was waiting for my chance to bolt.

When not broadcasting its presence with alarm calls, the goshawk patiently waits in a tree until spurred into action by the movement of a prey animal, or it patrols the woodland corridors swiftly and almost silently, in either case often surprising its victims. The red squirrel that becomes a goshawk's meal may not have seen or heard it coming. If a prey animal flees, the mighty goshawk can overtake and seize it.

The two goshawks shot at me repeatedly through the densely packed hemlocks, flying so skillfully they hardly disturbed a branch. After attacking, each goshawk swept up to a perch and turned to face me. As they got set for another launch, I stole some close looks.

Built powerfully and cloaked in silvery gray—with a dark cap, finely vermiculated light-gray breast barring, and bushy white undertail coverts—the goshawk stands in high relief against the looming forest. A broad white stripe above the goshawk's orange eyes intensifies their ferocity. Few animals wear their wildness so well.

The goshawk could have been better named. "Gos" is Old English for goose—not the hawk's usual prey in these parts. Its Latin name, however, speaks the truth: Accipiter gentilis is hawk nobility.

Benefiting from reforestation and laws protecting raptors, the goshawk has in recent decades been expanding its breeding range from the north into Connecticut. Now the goshawk can be found nesting in recesses of the more wooded suburbs. There it enjoys insulation from people, except for occasional run-ins with hikers and birders, who need the woods almost as much as the goshawk does.

Using the hiking trail as a flight path, the two goshawks flew close to the ground, like radar-evading bombers. The trail, overhung with hemlock branches, formed a dim forest tunnel. Speeding through it, the goshawks locked onto me, eyes filled with rage. They attacked with head and wings aligned in a glide. Their head-on approach made them hard to see, like paper turned edgewise, and I could not accurately judge their distance.

What impressed me most was their quickness, remarkable for so large a bird. Poised on a branch just before takeoff, they would, I estimated, take several seconds to reach me—a few flaps to gain speed, then a glide. I was way off. The goshawks were on me an instant after launching.

Their unbelievable speed and virtual imperceptibility left me helpless to gauge the precise moment to protect myself. They overwhelmed me with air superiority. The goshawks seemed to possess superavian power.

Finally I saw my opening. When both goshawks were perched at the inward end of the trail, I broke away, running for the trailhead without looking back. I ran as hard as I could, but I wasn't really afraid. I ran with the thrill of having faced primeval wildness.

Related articles:
Attacked in the Woods I: A female northern goshawk burns her orange eyes into my memory
The Flicker Fusion Factor: Unlike birds, humans aren't adapted for high speed, so drivers should wake up and slow down

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A message from Robert Winkler

Jeff Brush/Connecticut Post (used with permission)

If you enjoyed this essay, I know you'll enjoy my critically acclaimed book, Going Wild: Adventures with Birds in the Suburban Wilderness (National Geographic), which expands on many of the short pieces I've posted here. Why do I write about birds? Because they represent the wild in all its glory. They're numerous, diverse, intelligent, talkative, and beautiful; their power of flight never ceases to amaze; and they're the most conspicuous class of wild animal—even in the suburb, they're just about everywhere. Whether you're a beginning or advanced birder, a fan of nature writing, a curious suburbanite, or a reader in search of that rare bird known as a good book, Going Wild could very well change how you view your world. So get your copy now, or buy one for your favorite birder or nature lover. Best deal on the Web: brand new, perfect copies $5 each (69% off) at National Geographic Books.

"Goshawk" by John James Audubon; adult male (left), young (center), adult Cooper's hawk (right); plate #141 in his Birds of America (1827-38)
"Goshawk with Spruce Grouse" by Louis Agassiz Fuertes (c. 1910; oil on canvas)
Text Copyright © 2000 Robert Winkler

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