But I can’t help feeling that the real subject of this book is neither forests nor owls, but fieldwork.
Primoye is a remarkable place, and Slaght’s passion for it is palpable his fascination with fish owls, too, the reader quickly understands and shares. Slaght has a rare gift for startling evocations of the natural world.
There is peace and healing to be found in such a life, and perhaps just the right balance for his soul. The primal forces of the Primorye have drawn him close to his essence to his strengths and vulnerabilities - to his impermanence. It is a testament to his talents as a writer-researcher that we appreciate why Slaght loves it here. For this reason and others, this is an unusual (and welcome) book for our times. Keeping us tucked close, we discover what it feels like to become aware of every little thing, to fully inhabit a living landscape. Slaght has spent so much of his life waiting that waiting has long since evolved into a Zen-like state of noticing, of presence. Slaght knows this life, but he has never burrowed so deep into its dark, silent heart. Mostly this is a book about the rigors of fieldwork, about cohabitating in close quarters, being stranded for weeks by storms, floods and melting ice, rejiggering strategies, 'aching' immobility, malfunctioning equipment and various other misfortunes, all vividly rendered. Deep in the woods it gets strange, and Slaght’s tireless search for owls is relieved by entertaining accounts of eccentric recluses, hunters and mystical hermits.
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