“The Snatcher” Lives Up to Its Name

By “Awake!” correspondent in Suriname

“WHAT legs!” I exclaimed when Heinz Heyde, naturalist and writer, handed me a pair of yellow legs as thick as a child’s wrist.

“In real life they are bigger,” my smiling host said. “This pair dried out and shrank a bit. The biggest I’ve ever seen, though, had three-inch-long [8 cm] claws,” he added, pointing to the menacing, black nails that jutted out of a foot as big as my hand.

These impressive legs and claws, I learned, are unequaled among birds of prey. When zoologists first examined the bird that proudly displays them, they were reminded of the winged monster of Greek mythology named harpyja. Said legend, harpyja would snatch humans with its enormous vulturelike claws. So this big-clawed eagle was appropriately named harpy, which means, “the snatcher.”

“In Suriname,” explained Mr. Heyde, “some local inhabitants call it pia” (pronounced peea). As the harpy lives in the thick, tropical rain forests of the Americas, it is rarely seen, even by the most stalwart bird-watchers. However, at times it does touch down on a tree close to the riverside and gives away its presence with a loud “peeeeea, peeeeea.” Hence, its local name.

Call it what you wish, it is the harpy’s reputation as a snatcher that prevails​—and frightens some people. To what extent, though, has it earned this notorious name?

Harpy in Action

Because the harpy always keeps a majestic distance between itself and an observer, it does not easily reveal its fascinating secrets.

The harpy is a solemn study in black, gray, and white. Picture it perched like a carved statue in the top of the highest tree of a forest. Standing three feet (0.9 m) tall, the adult female (one third larger than the male) is the world’s strongest​—and largest—​eagle. In size and brute strength, it is the rain forest’s unchallenged aka-granman, or “chieftain of the birds of prey,” as local residents respectfully call it.

True, the harpy’s wingspread is shorter than that of soaring birds of prey like the condor. But the harpy’s territory has little room for soaring; swift maneuvering and high speed are needed in the dense forest. And the harpy is well designed for speed. With strong, deep wingbeats and short glides from treetop to treetop, it swiftly brushes through the forest’s canopy, listening and watching for signs of prey.

There under a tree branch hangs a sloth! Quickly building up speed to a dazzling 40-50 miles per hour (64-80 km/​hr), the harpy dives on its victim. When only a few feet away from the prey, it turns sideways, thrusting its claws fully forward. It grabs the sloth, snatches it from the tree, and carries it off victoriously​—“snatcher” indeed!

The sudden air raid, though, throws the animal kingdom into turmoil. Parrots, tree porcupines, opossums, agoutis, and coatis all vanish​—and with good reason. They are all on the harpy’s menu. But most panic stricken of all are the monkeys. “As soon as monkeys spot the eagle,” explains Mr. Heyde, “they beat the alarm. They scream at the top of their voices, knowing it is a matter of life and death. I have seen them simply drop themselves from treetops, like ripe mangoes falling on the forest floor. Even the black spider monkeys are scared to death!”

Snatching What?

Mr. Heyde’s casual remark raises a frightening specter: Could the harpy really snatch something as large as a big spider monkey? I asked Gerard Brunings, a bush pilot who owned a harpy as a pet some years ago.

“Sure they can,” answered Mr. Brunings. “Once my pet harpy attacked a lamb. When it got bigger, it went after some neighborhood dogs! One day it seized a dog at least two feet (0.6 m) tall. It was so heavy, though, that the bird just could not manage to lift off. So with wings flapping, it dragged the dog over the road, holding on till it reached our garage.”

“They are strong, indeed, and bold at that,” a veterinarian named Marcel van Ommeren later confirmed. “Even when cornered they don’t give up.”

“How, then, do you treat a sick harpy,” I asked the animal doctor.

“The only way I can treat a harpy is by pressing a long, forked stick against its breast. Then I quickly stretch my arm, give it an injection​—and try to stay clear of those threatening claws.”

If the thought of this powerful, snatching bird now makes you a bit nervous, you are not alone. In fact, Mr. Brunings claimed that some human inhabitants of Suriname’s jungle have come to view the harpy as a dreadful enemy. “Some call him loktoe tigri, or ‘tiger of the sky,’” said Brunings. “They firmly believe that the harpy snatches and carries off small children!”

Ornithologists, though, have claimed that such fears are unfounded.

Snatching for Another Purpose

The harpy’s snatching ways have built a reputation that could threaten its very existence. Nevertheless, the harpy eagle’s powerful claws and beak can also serve a peaceful purpose. Usually every other year around the latter part of May, harpy couples pick a giant silk-cotton tree in which to build a nest. Often using an old nest as a starter, they “remodel” it to suit their personal taste.

To do this the harpy couple begins snatching​—not opossums and monkeys—​but sticks that are then interwoven into a platform that measures four feet (1.2 m) across and is two feet (0.6 m) thick. Green sprigs from nearby trees are used for touch-up work. Interestingly, though, the female is a bit pickier in this regard. Neil L. Rettig, an authority on harpy eagles, says that the female may fly around for a full five minutes before she picks the sprig that suits her fancy. The male, however, shows no such preference and collects them at random. Even in the animal kingdom, females show a knack for interior decorating!

When nest building is done, the harpy female lays two eggs and settles down for a 56-day incubation period, braving the hot sun and the slashing rain. The father, though, prefers the outdoors, coming back once a week to bring his mate food. He very considerately takes a turn at guarding the nest, allowing his mate to fly to a nearby tree to enjoy her meal. When break time is over, though, he returns to the jungle until she calls for him with her urgent “peeeea” to remind him of his family obligations.

After one egg hatches (the second egg is ignored), father’s work doubles. He makes food deliveries twice a week until the eaglet is half grown. And for about three months, mother feeds the chick. After that the young one is able to feed itself​—though it still prefers to be fed by its mom. After a month the eaglet gets on its feet and wobbles around imitating its parents’ repetitive “peeeeeea.”

When strong winds sweep over the nest, junior is seen flapping his wings, actually taking off for a moment. When five months old, the eaglet can fly around but is still fed by its parents for some more months until it is strong enough to go its own way. The day soon comes, however, when it takes three or four deep strokes, makes a graceful long glide, and disappears into the forest.

There it will live up to its name as the consummate snatcher of game. True, the harpy’s reputation may endanger it. However, observed bush pilot Brunings: “When we fly over the jungle, we spot them once in a while from the plane, flying in pairs or by themselves. I think they will manage to survive.”

[Picture Credit Line on page 20]

©Zoological Society of San Diego