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Despite the fact that shorebirds are providing
endless and rewarding entertainment at the lake, I seem to be drawn in the
other direction. I offer my birding adventure today as a sample
of what's happening in the high montane habitat. I was drawn to Snow
Basin again this weekend in search of more woodpeckers. I stopped
just below the resort to take in the view and listen. I
heard drumming immediately--but drumming of a different kind. The
unmistakable muffled, accelerated thumping told me a Ruffed Grouse drummed below
me, down a steep embankment that formed one wall channeling a gushing, snow-melt
cataract. I could see many logs below, but none selected as a favorite by
a Ruffed Grouse. No view from above revealed the musician. As I
walked down the road for a better view, another drummer thumped much closer and
from above. Endless peering, squinting, scanning, and
repositioning didn't either reveal the bird, or disturb him.
And then I finally saw him, a fat cresent on the
ridgeline, silhouetted against the sky. He appeared to be poised on a
horizontal log. I could tell this was my quarry by his shape and
by the slight movement of the variegated brown plumage. I waited
minutes. The grouse turned his head slightly. I imagined he was
listening for his competitors below the road where I first heard the
drumming. As I watched intently, trying to see around the brush, he came
upright and slowly began to pummel his wings in the air near his flanks and
belly. The first strokes were ineffectual sound makers, but the display
grew in strength, sound and speed. He quickly sounded as if he
had pulled the start cord on a lawn mover. His thumping tapered off
just as quickly. I watched and listened to this demonstration many times
at a distance of 70 to 100 feet away. I paced along the road hoping
to find a spot where the understory thinned so I could get a clearer view, but I
never did. Meanwhile, the other thumpers did their best to attract the
ladies below. I could hear at least two others. Their drumming
reverberated off the walls of the stream channel and the hills around us.
Peering up through the undergrowth was the best
view I got of the bird, but it was not for lack of trying. Before I called
it quits I decided to circle up behind him on the ridge. It appeared to me
the vegetation was thinner behind him. I walked well down the road
and cut into the brush angling up the ridge. I was stealthy. I was sneaky. I was silent...silent as a
human can be anyway, moving through dry leaves and brittle oak branches that
grabbed at the fabric of my coat. I crept up the back side of the
ridge, at one point following a game trail that led me through thick scrub oak
and toward the towering conifers and aspen at the top. As I came to within
50 feet of the earnest drummer, I was still when he was still. I moved
when he drummed. My binoculars were poised and ready. I
searched through the thick underbrush, at times weaving to focus past the nearer
branches. A downy woodpecker picked and poked on a snag behind me.
"Shhhh!" I thought. "I'm trying to see this grouse!" Silence again,
followed by drumming. The grouse allowed 3-5 minutes to pass between each
drum roll. And then, a shockingly loud cracking reverberated behind
me. I froze this time because I was SCARED. Something big was
coming. I realized the game trail I followed up the ridge was probably
being used by the one who had made it. I prayed it wasn't a
moose and her calf. I peered through the gray scrub oak again,
looking for a dark, gangly brown behemoth. Relief! A mule
deer's white flag signaled I was safe. Three square noses appeared among
the branches. I waved a silent warning, hoping the motion of my arm would
discourage them from advancing up the ridge. They stared in disbelief at
the interloper. Nervous ears wagged and furtive glances my way let me
know they would not come closer. And then Huff! With a breathy
snort, the three bounced off in stiff-legged unison. Boing,
boing, boing. More disbelief, ear wagging, and furtive glances over
their shoulders. I thought sure
the ruckus would end the grouse's drumming. Not so. He drummed
again, louder, faster, accelerating. The deer gave another loud huff and I
turned to see their white flags crash through the scrub. That did it. Despite the comforting drumming from other
grouse farther away, my grouse did not drum again. I supposed the
deer crashing through the brush was the woodland equivalent to the fat lady
singing. It was over. I melted back down the ridge so as not to
disturb him in his silence.
To hear the hopeful Tarzans thumping for their
Janes, drive .7 miles past the main entrance to Snow Basin down old Snow Basin
Road. You'll find adequate parking at an unpaved turn out loop on the
left side of the road. Leave your car and listen. If you'd like to
preview the sound on your computer, surf to ruffedgrousesociety.org.
Select the link to Ruffed Grouse facts, and scroll down to the picture
that offers a .wav drumming demonstration. Enjoy!
Kris
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