About Us

Ghost

On January 5, 2025, around 9–10 a.m., Ghost passed away peacefully in his mews. There was no sign of struggle, which brings me comfort knowing it was quick and painless. We believe it may have been a seizure (which falcons are known to have).
Ghost’s journey was anything but easy. He didn’t have the best start in life—raised in isolation, without flying or human interaction, his body and spirit were weakened. Passed from one falconer to another, he struggled to meet expectations he simply couldn’t fulfill. By the time he came to me in 2020, he was misunderstood, distrustful, and deeply wary of humans.
But something clicked when I met him. Despite warnings that he was “mean” and “hated everyone,” he hopped onto my glove and roused—a clear sign of trust and contentment. From that moment, I knew he was meant to be mine.
The first year together was challenging. Ghost needed medical attention, strength training, and an enormous amount of patience. His health improved slowly but surely, and despite his physical limitations, he showed incredible resilience. He even learned to trust me with hooding—something that once terrified him.
Over time, Ghost blossomed. He became a remarkable ambassador for his species, teaching people about falcons and falconry. His bond with my dogs, especially Volk, was something special—Ghost would perch by Volk’s crate, even grooming his tail. It was a connection that brought him comfort and happiness.
This past year was his best yet. He thrived in his role, performing flawlessly during flights and meet-and-greets. He even courted me during the spring, a bittersweet reminder of how much he trusted and loved me. He was content, happy, and truly at peace in his life.
Yesterday, I held him until dark, stroking his head and telling him how much I loved him. My other birds said their goodbyes in their own ways, as did my dogs—Volk staying the longest, nuzzling him and conforting me. For now, Ghost rests safely at home. You taught me patience, resilience, and the power of love & trust. I will carry your memory with me always. Fly high, my sweet boy. I love you and always will.

Sakoot

Sakoot was found as a late hatchling in late 2021, struggling to thrive in the wild. When we took her in, she was underweight and lacked muscle mass. We immediately put her on a proper diet, added medication and vitamins to her food, and started a rigorous exercise and strength training routine. In no time, she reached a healthy hunting weight, and her muscles were stronger than a bodybuilder’s!

Sakoot became a wonderful Animal Ambassador, allowing people to get up close and personal with the most common hawk in North America. By our fourth hunting season together, though, something started to change. She began to respond more slowly to the glove and showed less interest in participating in the hunt. There were even moments when she started to act aggressively toward her hunting dog, Zeigar. Then, one day during a hunt, she footed me right through my right hand and held on for about five minutes.

Now, this was a raptor who had been perfect in every way, so I knew something wasn’t right. Every day felt a little off. So, I did what any good falconer would do—I reached out to everyone I knew who had intermewed a female red-tailed hawk for more than three years. Surprisingly, there aren’t many of us. The consensus was clear: Sakoot was ready to return to the wild. She wanted to be free to make beautiful babies in the wild, and who am I to stand in the way of that after four incredible years together?

On May 10th, I released Sakoot about three miles north of my house, on private property in the hills—far from humans and rodenticides. I stayed with her for a couple of hours before letting her be. I’ve gone back to her release spot several times since, but I haven’t seen her yet. In a way, I’m happy about that, because I know she has everything she needs to be an apex predator. She’ll have her own territory and, hopefully, a handsome male to bring her food. By spring 2026, I’m sure she’ll be raising some fantastic babies.

I’ll never stop looking for her, though. Every red-tailed hawk I come across, I assess to see if it’s her. And when I do see her again, I’ll know her immediately.

Until then, be free, Baby Girl.

Crash

Crash and I didn’t have much time together—about three months, to be exact. But from the moment we met, we shared an immediate connection. Crash was bred in San Diego to be an abatement raptor, which meant he was literally made to hunt. And hunt he did. I got him when he was about 6 or 7 months old from my abatement boss, and he immediately settled into our home and into our pack.

His favorite job sites were crow and seagull locations, and man, could he work. On his best day, he caught four seagulls in under 30 minutes, with a crop the size of a baseball, already looking to take on number five. He wasn’t footy or mental on the glove, and he didn’t hesitate to catch either. I could fly him anywhere, for any length of time, and he was always ready for more.

It did take him a while to learn about windows, though—he wasn’t the best at avoiding them at first! But at home, he was a literal puppy dog—sweet and gentle during education shows. And then, when it was work time, he turned into a serial killer, doing exactly what he was made to do.

Unfortunately, Crash developed an antibiotic-resistant beta staph infection that ultimately took him from me when he was just 10 months old. We spent $5k trying to save him, but in the end, the infection won. The loss hit harder than I expected—especially on my dad. I’ve only seen my dad cry three times: when his dog died, when he technically died from a brain aneurysm, and then when Crash passed.

We’ll never have another hawk like him, but I hope one day, we come close. I think about him every day, especially when I’m out working in abatement, wishing he was by my side. One day, little man, we’ll be together again.