A barred owl in the Ramble and a family of barn owls on a West 70s water tower have turned Manhattan’s most opinionated neighbourhood into a nation of silent, binocular-wielding pilgrims
Who Goes There
UPPER WEST SIDE. Owl mania has descended on Manhattan, according to amNY’s report on owl mania on the Upper West Side. A barred owl has been roosting in the Ramble in Central Park since mid-September, drawing groups of birders with binoculars and long lenses, while a family of American barn owls, up to five young owls plus two parents bringing food, has taken up residence on a water tower in the West 70s near the park. David Barrett, who runs Manhattan Bird Alert on X, posted photos of the water tower family, and the neighbourhood has not been the same since.
The Upper West Side, a district famous for its strong opinions about bagels, co-op boards, bike lanes and the correct way to fold a newspaper, has fallen into a reverent hush. Residents who have not spoken to the people in the next apartment since the Clinton administration now stand shoulder to shoulder on street corners, staring upward at a water tower with the expression of pilgrims awaiting a miracle.
The Water Tower Congregation
Wooden water towers are among the most familiar features of the Manhattan skyline, and for most of their existence they have been ignored. Now one of them has become the most watched structure on the West Side. A retired dentist who lives across the street said he had looked at the tower every day for 31 years without a single thought. Now I own three pairs of binoculars, he said. My wife says I have lost my mind. I tell her I have found it. It is on the water tower. It has five children.
A building superintendent nearby said the crowds had changed the rhythm of his block. People used to stop on this corner to complain about the garbage pickup, he said. Now they stop to whisper. They point. They gasp. A woman cried yesterday. I asked if she was okay. She said a barn owl looked at her. I have worked here twenty years and nobody has ever cried about the water tower. I am starting to feel left out.
The Ramble Celebrity
The barred owl in the Ramble has its own following. Michael Krauss, a biology professor who has birded in Central Park for about 45 years, told amNY he found the bird after seeing a large crowd gathered, a method of wildlife detection that experienced New York birders recognise as entirely reliable. In Central Park, a crowd of silent people looking up at a tree means an owl. A crowd of loud people looking up at a tree means a drone. A crowd of people looking at their phones means the Wi-Fi is working.
Hendrik Weideman, a volunteer with the Wild Bird Fund, led a group that included children to see the owl and stressed the importance of giving the birds space, since barred owls roost during the day and hunt at night. Birders say the etiquette is simple: stay back, stay quiet, no flash and no calling out to the bird. A veteran birder from the West 80s said she had developed a strict internal policy for newcomers. If you shout, I glare, she said. If you use a flash, I glare harder. If you try to get closer for a selfie, I tell you about my knee surgery until you leave. It is very effective.
The Flaco Factor
The excitement owes something to Flaco, the Eurasian eagle-owl who left the Central Park Zoo in 2023 and lived in the park and around Manhattan for about a year, becoming one of the most beloved celebrities the city has ever produced. Krauss pointed out an important difference: the barred owl is a wild bird, while Flaco had been released by people. New Yorkers, however, are not always interested in fine distinctions when it comes to their feathered heroes. A woman in a Flaco T-shirt said she had come to pay her respects. Every owl now carries a little bit of him, she said. Scientifically that is not true. Emotionally it is entirely true. I choose emotion.
The Science Of Spotting
According to the Parks Department, winter is actually the best season to see owls in the city, because bare trees make them easier to find and owls breed in winter. Barred owls like to sleep high in eastern white pines in parks such as Central Park, Inwood Hill Park and Pelham Bay Park. Barn owls are rare in most city parks, with sightings noted in Pelham Bay Park, the New York Botanical Garden and Floyd Bennett Field. One birder told amNY she finds birds by watching for movement, which, in a neighbourhood full of joggers, dog walkers and people chasing the 1 train, demands considerable concentration.
A Columbia graduate student who has started birding this autumn said the hobby had transformed her relationship with the city. Before, I looked down at my phone, she said. Now I look up at trees. I have walked into four lampposts and one hot dog cart. But I saw an owl. It was worth all of it. Except maybe the hot dog cart. The man was very upset.
Real Estate Implications
In a neighbourhood where real estate is a contact sport, it was only a matter of time before the owls entered property discussions. A broker on Columbus Avenue said he had already received inquiries about apartments with a view of the water tower. One client asked if the owls convey with the unit, he said. I said the owls are wild and belong to no one. She asked if that meant they were rent stabilised. I said that is not how owls work. She said that is not how anything works on the Upper West Side, and she is right.
A Neighbourhood United
The most remarkable effect of the owl season may be social. Residents report conversations with strangers, shared binoculars, swapped snacks and even, in one confirmed case, the exchange of phone numbers between two neighbours who had been feuding over a radiator for nine years. We saw the baby owls together, one of them said. Something changed. We are still not friends. But I have stopped reporting his radiator to the landlord. That is growth.
The Last Word
As dusk fell on Friday, a small crowd gathered beneath the water tower in the West 70s, binoculars raised, breath held. A young barn owl appeared at the edge of the tower, tilted its pale heart-shaped face toward the street and blinked. Below, forty New Yorkers, people who would normally argue about anything, said nothing at all. Then a delivery cyclist rang his bell, the owl vanished and forty New Yorkers turned around in perfect unison to glare at him. Some things, the retired dentist said, will never change. Thank God.