In last week’s column, I touched upon Greenfield-based singer-songwriter Oen Kennedy’s affinity for wildlife, especially birds. This week’s column begins with the results of an informal poll I conducted following a riveting conversation with Kennedy.
I posed two questions to six loved ones. To the query, “Would you accompany a scientist on a quest to locate mountain lions?” three said yes, two said maybe, and another said no.
When asked, “Would you climb a very tall, snowy tree to access a drugged mountain lion weighing 85 pounds, and climb down with the animal tucked under one arm?” all six looked at me as though I spoke a foreign language. Which I do. In this case, however, I framed the question in English.
In 1987, Oen Kennedy met a Fish and Wildlife scientist in Colorado who was heading into the wilderness to track mountain lions in order to measure and tag them; Kennedy and another civilian went along on the adventure. The scientist released two dogs — Japanese pointers — wearing radio collars. The humans followed the dogs for an hour until they found two mountain lions 20 feet up in a tree.
“Japanese pointers are among the few dog breeds that can climb trees,” said Kennedy, “and these two were inching their way toward the lions.” When the mountain lions spotted people, they jumped to the ground and took off with the dogs in hot pursuit.
Next, the lions climbed a pine even taller than the first. “With dogs climbing toward them, the lions swatted and snarled, while the dogs barked and salivated,” said Kennedy. “The Fish and Wildlife guy darted the lions and got the dogs down while the lions went to sleep.”
Despite their unconscious state, the lions did not fall from the tree. “There was a thick nest of branches at the top,” explained Kennedy, “resulting in something like a hammock.” The scientist secured the dogs and noted that someone needed to retrieve the lions. Despite slippery conditions, Kennedy, who was 26 years old at the time, volunteered.
“I got the one weighing 65 pounds, tucked her under one arm, and climbed down,” he said. “Then I got her brother, who weighed 85 pounds. Mountain lions can get up to 150 pounds, so these two weren’t full-grown.”
The scientist took measurements and blood samples, and then Kennedy and the other observer got to hold the slumbering animals. “They were beautiful, and they smelled so good!” said Kennedy. “They smelled like lions. That’s the only word that works. They smelled warm, musty, sandy and earthy all combined, but they had this special ingredient called Lion.”
When the animals began to stir, the humans stood off to the side. “When the lions woke up,” said Kennedy, “they were gone in a flash.”
Extraordinary experiences with various animals have shaped Kennedy’s life, but birds hold a special place in his heart. In 1978, then-teenaged Kennedy had a stirring avian encounter after leaving a jazz festival: “I heard a chickadee whistle from a telephone line and mimicked the bird without even knowing I could do it,” he said. “It was like the bird conveyed information directly to me. I soon found I could recreate many bird sounds.”
In writing songs honoring birds, Kennedy whistles their sounds in his songs, but he avoids using his ability to fake birds out.
“All migratory bird species live on a caloric edge,” he said. “I don’t try to fool them, because the calories they get from insects, seeds, worms, arachnids and fruit must be used for activities like nest building, establishing territory, singing, migrating and scuffles. I don’t want to deplete their energies.”
A year after Kennedy’s musical chickadee encounter, he hiked in the Alaskan wilderness and perched on a bluff while watching swallows swoop over a montane lake. “Three chickadees in a nearby bush made tiny little tiny sounds while looking at me,” said Kennedy. “I felt the fabric of space and time bend and realized I was in the presence of a massive amount of energy.”
Kennedy’s ability to still himself in the presence of birds and to suspend ordinary thought processes influences his creativity. In 1989, he wrote “Yellow Bird” while on Maine’s Monhegan Island. At the edge of a pond at sunset, Kennedy trained his binoculars on a yellow warbler.
“I sensed that the absorption of sunlight in the golden yellow feathers was greater than the sum of photons going in,” he said, referencing the lyrics: “So much light coming out and surrounding, my heart is opening wide. So much energy in such a tiny space. E = mc squared, I realize.”
In 1992, a yellow-bellied sapsucker was seriously injured after hitting Kennedy’s window in Somerville, located northwest of Boston.
“I collected the young male off the concrete, got him medical care, and fed him with an eyedropper every hour for a whole weekend,” said Kennedy. “I named him Beauty, and when I first fed him, Beauty was angry about being held. He pecked the eyedropper, and one of his crown feathers landed on the eyedropper. It was tiny and bright, somewhere between vermilion and scarlet. I always thought if my house was burning, that feather might be the one thing I’d save.”
After Beauty recovered, Kennedy sought a spot appropriate for a creature who’d missed part of his migratory journey. “I drove him down to Delaware around the end of November,” he said.
Over the course of 35 years, Kennedy has learned the songs of all New England birds and can whistle them with uncanny accuracy. But it’s no parlor trick; this local artist is filled with reverence and heart, and shares those gifts with others every chance he gets. His first album, “Aluminum Green,” opens with a gorgeous birdsong provided by Kennedy, and his brilliance has continued and developed since that debut project.
Readers can find a video of Kennedy singing “Beauty” at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMKR63Zrzz8. For more information about his recordings and work, visit oenkennedy.bandcamp.com.
Eveline MacDougall is the author of “Fiery Hope” and can be reached at eveline@amandlachorus.org.