I have become an ardent fan of the largest living species of owl, the Blakiston’s fish owl. But I’m happy to report that this book has changed me. I once cared for a rescued barn owl, and while it was a beautiful creature, possessing a cat-like hauteur and strangely human face, it was about as rewarding to interact with as a porcelain statuette. There’s something puppet-like about this creature, like a living Jim Henson creation, but it also resembles a beast pulled straight from the pages of a medieval bestiary – which is fitting, because Owls of the Eastern Ice reads like a modern-day grail quest: a tale of one man’s travels through a daunting landscape of snow and ice and radioactive rivers, searching for an animal that seems all ghost.Ī confession: I’ve never understood why so many people are obsessed with owls. Its feathers are shaggy and wet, and from its mouth protrudes the tail end of a silver fish. Arms crossed, hands deep in a pair of unwieldy leather gauntlets, he holds against his chest a huge owl. Behind him are snowy woods and running water.
Pale, bearded, dressed in black, he gazes at the camera with forbidding intensity.
J onathan Slaght has the best author photograph I’ve ever seen.
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