Waiting in the Wings
For almost a quarter century, Falcon Environmental’s birds of prey have patrolled the Pearson airspace, keeping passengers, flight crews, and aircraft safe. Recently, Wildlife Control Officer Brent Jeffrey let us tag along on a day in the life of a Pearson falcon.
Keeping wildlife out of Toronto Pearson’s airspace is essential for avoiding collisions and time-consuming delays. Still, the airport has seen its fair share of uninvited guests. Great blue herons head on over from nearby Etobicoke Creek. Canada geese appear in springtime droves en route to breeding grounds. There have been lizards, frogs, and (yes) snakes on a plane, and once, an ostrich bound for African Lion Safari made a break for it along an infield tunnel. But there’s no bigger wildlife nuisance than a thousands-strong flock of starlings, which swoop down to the grass to feed on the bugs stirred up by the rumblings of an aircraft. One bird, struck at the right angle, can do expensive damage to a plane.
If a pilot isn’t keen on landing in the midst of that flock, they’ll inform Air Traffic Control, which in turn calls Falcon Environmental, run by President Pierre Molina and VP Rob Shevalier. Housed in a low-slung, prefab building at the northern edge of the airport, Falcon has used birds of prey to patrol Toronto Pearson for the past 24 years. All airports deploy some sort of deterrent—often pyrotechnics, shotguns, and air cannons—to shoo wildlife away. But over time, birds get accustomed to these artificial sounds, so the GTAA takes a more natural approach. “We want those birds to move. We want them to have fear,” says Brent Jeffery, a Wildlife Control Officer who’s worked at Falcon since 2002. “They won’t ever get used to a bird of prey.”
The birds—roughly 15 Harris hawks and 10 falcons, ranging from 4 to 25 years old—are kept on site in a pair of mews, with heaters brought in for the colder months and the dulcet sounds of JAZZ FM playing 24/7 to keep them calm. (In mid-November, a switch is made to Christmas tunes.) It’s a safe bet that each day will begin with some sort of situation on the airfield, so early in the morning, Jeffrey chooses a hawk and falcon to take with him in his truck, based on how quickly they respond to a small morsel of food on his glove. “That signifies a bird is hungry and ready to go,” he says. “No one wants to run a marathon after a Thanksgiving dinner.”
Since a stuffed bird won’t give chase, Falcon holds its raptors on the edge of hunger, which is achieved through meticulous weight management. That’s not to say copious amounts of quail aren’t consumed: Altogether, the falcons, hawks, and one bald eagle named Ivan can go through as much as 25 quail a day in the winter, supplemented with vitamins and egg yolks and whatever prey they can catch. Harris hawks are partial to the taste of starlings, and Jeffrey’s 19-year-old hawk, L’Acadie, can gobble six or eight in one day, especially in the summer when they’re fledgling.
After being selected and weighed, it’s into the truck: hooded and on a custom-designed perch, in the case of the falcon, or tucked into a plexiglass box in the passenger seat, for the hawk. “If there’s nothing active on the airfield, I’ll still let them out to stretch their wings,” Jeffrey says, and on an 11-hour shift, he usually flies four or five birds so they can get some exercise. But if wildlife does need to be managed, Jeffrey becomes a model of multitasking: on one radio with Air Traffic Control, on another with Airline Safety, on yet another with his colleagues, all while navigating a vehicle at 40 km an hour across grass, taxiways, and runways without getting in the way of anyone else.
The hawks, happily, are pretty hands-off: “It’s all about power windows, and the bird goes out,” he says, flying to chase off ducks or gulls and then coming back to the truck—and to a tidbit of quail Jeffrey leaves in the corner of its plexiglass box. Falcons tend to be flown off a glove, their hoods removed, and though they can easily soar several thousand feet in the air, Jeffrey keeps them closer to 200 feet by playing cat and mouse with a gull-wing lure. “You need falcons low enough that they can cast a shadow and be seen by the problematic birds,” he says. That shadow is enough of a deterrent, and once the wildlife scatters, Jeffrey blows a whistle, lets the falcon catch the lure, then trades it for a quail reward and a ride back in the truck.
A bird’s day ends when his flight does, with a bath (warm in the winter, cool in the summer) and, at least for the hawks, a little snuggle. Falcons are a bit more standoffish: “They’re like cats, very particular,” Jeffery says. “Hawks are more social—they’re like dogs.” But all the birds, he insists, are exemplary co-workers. “They’re all individuals. Some are gentle, some are a little cranky, but they’re wonderful—I love them all.” He considers this for a moment. “I don’t like a couple of them, but I love them all.”
