Mark Lynch
The Book of Flaco: The World’s Most Famous Bird.
David Gessner. 2025. Durham, North Carolina: Blair (Carolina Wren Press).
“It is true that his year was influenced by man’s poisons, man’s buildings, man’s attempts to capture and watch him— but he was wild in this sense: he authored his own story.” (p. 235)
“Most of these feel-good urban wilderness stories have not-so-happy endings.” (p. 37)
Flaco was the Eurasian Eagle-Owl (Bubo bubo) that escaped from the Central Park Zoo and lived in Central Park for most of 2023. Maybe you first heard about Flaco and his followers from one of those human-interest fluff pieces typically featured at the end of the television news. Perhaps you learned about Flaco from one of your online feeds. Flaco, or at least his “widow,” even made it to Saturday Night Live. It was the kind of story that briefly held your attention and then was quickly forgotten—unless you were one of the many dedicated Flaco watchers. Writer David Gessner never personally saw Flaco but fell down the rabbit hole when he began to talk with Flaco followers and the various contingents who vehemently argued about the owl’s fate and how people should behave around Flaco. The Book of Flaco is no simple tale, but a story that touches on how people think about nature, the meaning of wildness, and how birders think about nonbirders and other birders. It is also a tale of how the internet blows up every odd incident into an emotional donnybrook.
David Gessner is a professor at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington. He has written several books about nature and Cape Cod as well as two fine books about watching Ospreys: Return of the Osprey and Soaring with Fidel. He is a fan of Thoreau. But his writing is never what is typically thought of as “nature writing.” Rather, his work is often focused on what humans think about nature and how those beliefs drive people to act. His daughter was going to school in New York City, and it was during one of his visits there that he came across the story of Flaco.
At the beginning of The Book of Flaco, Gessner outlines the tale he is about to tell, warning the reader that this owl tale is no simple feel-good story of a wild animal in the city.
Flaco authored a story whose moral, and even its basic narrative arc, is still uncertain and varied, dependent very much on who you talk to and what you read. The poor owl carried so much symbolic weight that it was a miracle he could fly. Freedom was the first word on many lips, but human beings, being human, found much to disagree on when it came to the owl. The internet, being the internet, amplified those disagreements. The narrative began with the bird’s escape and the zoo’s attempt to recapture him, which most supported at first. Once the early predictions that Flaco would not be able to hunt in the (relative) wilds of Central Park were proved wrong, however, the narrative began to change, and there was a growing deep and heartfelt resistance to the attempts to capture Flaco. Free Flaco followers signed petitions urging the zoo to stop their efforts, and their comments flooded the internet, as did criticism of their position. Ornithologists weighed in, some claiming the non-native bird would be a danger to native ones, adding to the theme of Flaco as immigrant, trying to make it in a foreign city. But the experts also worried for Flaco—his ability to survive in the wild, the poisons he might be ingesting once he started hunting successfully—setting up the central conflict of the narrative that would grow over the next year: safety versus freedom. (p. 9)
Flaco didn’t just “escape” from the Central Park Zoo. Some person or persons used a professional grinder on February 2, 2023, to cut the steel mesh of his cage. They have never been caught. Flaco was no wild eagle-owl. He was the offspring of other captive eagle-owls and had spent a depressing 12 years in a cage far too small for any raptor, let alone one as large as an eagle-owl. On leaving his cage, he had no wild skills that would help him survive, and initially he could not even fly well. The initial attempts to capture Flaco by zoo personnel were when he was found on a sidewalk. Those attempts were unsuccessful, and Flaco escaped into Central Park.
Over the next several days, Flaco was spotted in several places in the park, and crowds gathered wherever he was to appreciate his presence and take countless photographs. Owls are among the most charismatic species of birds, and the Eurasian Eagle-Owl, with its impressive size, beautiful tawny feathers, piercing orange eyes, and long head tufts is the owl of many people’s dreams, birder or nonbirder. So, it is little wonder that his continued presence in Central Park would soon become an event, actual and virtual.
From the start Flaco existed in two realities: the Park and the internet. He was always an actual bird and a virtual one, followed on foot and on-screen. In this way he mirrored us, our world, and his wildness was a curiously chronicled one, cultivated in decidedly unwild ways. But if those who tracked him wielded cell phones and cameras instead of spears and bows, the primitive thrill of the chase was real. (p. 22–3)
One of the key figures who helped Flaco become an online sensation was local birder David Barrett. His Manhattan Bird Alert became the place to see the latest photos of Flaco. He would also post alerts as to where Flaco was at any moment, thereby facilitating the growth of the crowds watching Flaco. Barrett soon became the lightening rod for the emotional outpouring, positive and negative, centered on what to do with Flaco.
The Wildlife Conservation Society and the associated Central Park Zoo tried baited traps and call recordings to try to recapture Flaco, much to the ire of the Free Flaco folks. The Society even considered using a cannon net but declined when they considered what would happen if they accidentally injured Flaco in the process. After all, thanks to the internet, the world was watching. They soon just gave up trying to get Flaco back in his woefully inadequate cage. For many of the keep Flaco free folks, the zoo and society became the villains in this drama. At least initially.
The posting of the many photographs contributed to online viewers appreciating the life of this escaped owl as a Disneyesque story, with heroes and villains.
Things heated up on X, with plenty of attacks, attacks on the Flaco-watchers for crowding the bird, attacks on the zoo for persisting with trying to catch him, and attacks on David Barrett, made a target by virtue of the prominence of Manhattan Bird Alert. (p. 31)
Online viewers got hooked on the plot. “‘There was an adventure element to the whole thing,’ said David Propson, whom I first met on X as @bangkodave: Flaco and a crow. Flaco meets a squirrel. And suddenly you were sucked into the story. The adventure.” (p. 50)
Of course, ornithologists and certain birders weighed in, expressing concern that all those people crowding Flaco were having a negative effect on the bird’s ability to hunt and rest. Furthermore, what was Flaco feeding on? City rats? What effect was that having on his health? Barrett strongly felt that he was providing a chance for birders and non-birders alike to enjoy a spectacular bird, an embodiment of wildness, they would likely never see in their life. Gessner uses roles from the film Caddyshack to characterize the different camps in the birding community focused on Flaco.
Very roughly speaking, it is a rift between the populist and elitist takes on birding, though elitist might not be exactly the right word for the ornithologists and bird-watchers who prefer a quieter and less intrusive kind of interaction with birds. Maybe purist is better. If one were to caricature the two sides, it might help to turn to that cultural touchstone known as Caddyshack. The elitist birders would be embodied in Judge Elihu Smails, the country club snob played by Ted Knight, and they would look down on the populist birders the way the judge looks down on Al Czervik, the crass new money character played by Rodney Dangerfield. (p. 83–4)
I think this is an unfortunate comparison that is not fair to all parties. Besides, as a birder, I more closely identify with Carl Spackler, played by Bill Murray.
When Gessner interviews some of the folks who saw Flaco, the story becomes more complex. He talks with playwright Nan Knighton. She lives on the thirteenth floor of a New York apartment building. Knighton is not a birder and had not been following the Flaco saga. Flaco landed on her balcony one night, allowing very close views. Flaco stayed for two hours, and Knighton had a genuine deep emotional experience. “He came to me,” she tells Gesner.
He came to me. Hard not to be jealous. How we all wish he had come to us. But that is not the nature of these things. Not the nature of grace. Thousands went in search of Flaco, but Flaco had come to her. Blessed is not one of my favorite words, but it is a word that many people used to describe Nan’s good fortune, and it seems to fit well enough. (p. 73)
It becomes clear that Gessner is trying to discover some deeper truth in the story of Flaco. Why do people love nature? Why does an escaped captive bird in Central Park elicit so much heated emotion?
Here we may be edging to Flaco’s deeper appeal. I think that there is in each of us a desire to break out of the lives we find ourselves trapped in (even when those lives are safe and for the most part, good). Those moments when we finally do break out can loosely be called wild. We suddenly realize things aren’t the way we have been telling ourselves they are. We are shaken out of ourselves. Jostled. The rattling hamster wheel of our minds suddenly stills. One part of wildness is surprise, the unexpected. But it is something else, too. Something ineffable. Something we crave, but have forgotten we crave. Something we have pushed aside, decided not to take seriously, dismissed to our own detriment. (p. 66–7)
In the first months Flaco wandered around the 843 acres of Central Park. But on Halloween of that year he began to venture out of the park south through the east side of Manhattan, and he eventually returned to Central Park around November 13, 2023. A number of the many photographs of Flaco are included in The Book of Flaco. He is shown mobbed by robins, perched on a baseball backstop, and atop several of the many water towers in the area. Residents and Flaco followers became accustomed to his nightly hooting. “Residents grew used to the hoots and were sad when they were gone.” (p. 4)
Then, on February 23, 2024, Flaco was found dead in an alleyway. “During his final days, Flaco spent much of his time in hidden courtyards and alleys on the Upper West Side, supplementing his rat diet by occasionally feasting on rooftop pigeons at night. Both, it turned out, helped kill him.” (p. 2)
The necropsy of Flaco was performed by Bronx Zoo pathologists. His body contained several rodenticides and pigeon herpesvirus. The latter kills in just days after infection. Flaco’s death caused a genuine feeling of grief among his followers. There was also a loss of sense of purpose.
“After Flaco had been dead for a week, David made what amounted to, by his standards, an emotional confession to her. Here is what he said: ‘I don’t know what to do with my nights.’” (p. 6)
These heartfelt sentiments were countered by recriminations and “told you sos” from ornithologists and some birders who had warned Free Flaco folks that an out-of-place bird in Central Park was not leading an ideal life. “Flaco had never been a wild bird, had never really felt free but had been scared and anxious the whole time he was outside his cage. So went the new narrative.” (p. 177)
There is little doubt that New York City is a dangerous place for most large wildlife.
The Book of Flaco is an interesting, thoughtful book that attempts to arrive at some conclusions about the erratic and conflicting attitudes that humans have towards nature, wildness, and freedom. There have been other tales of New York City birds that have captured the public’s hearts and imagination, including Pale Male, the Red-tailed Hawk, and Rover, the Bald Eagle. Gessner’s in-depth journalist coverage of the Flaco tale elevates this story to something very different and worthwhile to read. This book is a serious treatment of what at first blush seems like a frivolous story. Why do we get so emotionally involved with wildlife in what amounts to dire circumstances? Did people think Flaco would live out his life in Central Park? Did they hope he would leave the area and eventually end up in the wilds of Canada? Once the zoo gave up trying to capture Flaco, was there any possibility of a “happy ending”? Even if the zoo had recaptured the owl, was returning him to that dismal cage a “good” outcome? The Book of Flaco ends with Gessner traveling to Finland hoping to see a wild Eurasian Eagle-Owl, which was the perfect way to end this sad story of captivity, escape, and obsession in the Big City.
We can argue all we want about the meaning of Flaco. Yes, he was still a captive bird, tame in some ways. But by Thoreau’s definition his final year was a wild one. The story he wrote was his own. During that year he changed and grew and learned. He acquired new skills, or rather old skills newly found. His was a tragic story, but it was his. For the first twelve years of his life everything, from what he was fed to how far he could fly to whether he could interact with other birds to finding a mate, was controlled by human beings. In his final year that was not the case. It is true that his year was influenced by man’s poisons, man’s buildings, man’s attempts to capture and watch him—but he was wild in this sense: he authored his own story. (p. 235)
To listen to Mark Lynch’s interview with David Gessner about this book for WICN radio, go to: https://wicn.org/podcast/david-gessener.