From the Field: Sage Grouse, a Bird of Juxtapositions

Other than their landscape, things are rarely cut and dry when pursuing these native grouse

The wind picks up and a few heavy drops of rain plink against the camper roof. A distant rumble of thunder reminds me of the voluntary isolation and inherent vulnerability of taking shelter in a tall metal can in an exposed and open sea of sagebrush. The lightning flickers as the storm pushes closer to our camp. One thing I’ve learned as a westerner is that drastic changes in temperature are almost always accompanied by atmospheric turbulence. 

To be fair, we sought out this weather transition on purpose. Tonight, summer will loosen its grip on the landscape. The symphony of crickets will chirp their swansong. With luck, the rattlesnakes will retreat until spring. A sweltering sagebrush flat can be a dangerous and unforgiving place for a hunting dog.

The greater sage grouse–our targeted species on this adventure–is a bird of juxtapositions. It’s both earthy and elegant, a drab camouflage back paired with a chest, tail and underbelly adorned in the sleek, black-and-white refinements of a tuxedo.

On a whim, they can stand out as the most obvious feature of the homogenous landscape or remain hidden in plain sight. The prehistoric bird is both comically curious and brazen at certain times, while equally cautious and un-killable precisely when it suits them. 

You can’t predict which version of the bird you’ll meet when you venture out in the sage with a shotgun, and I’ve accepted over the years that therein lies both the challenge and appeal in hunting them. 

The dogs are now unsettled by the thunder, which has grown louder as the storm creeps in closer from the south. Earlier this evening, almost a half hour before dark, we spotted a large cock sage grouse casually cruising the gravel road that bisected the large swaths of rock and the high country bouquet of native plantlife. 

He’d be an easy target for a road hunter, aware of but mostly unbothered by the movement of our vehicle encroaching on his evening roosting spot. I like to think his indifference to the vehicle was a product of genetic programming–a behavior imprinted on his DNA from a hundred thousand generations of sage grouse that learned not to fear but instead give a respectable berth to herds of bison that once shared their habitat. 

At this moment it seems nothing short of dishonorable to betray the remnants of their ancient symbiotic relationship with a roadside ambush while so much history unfolds from the windshield.

Yet I understand the strong desire to hold and admire one up close. For certain, you cannot fully appreciate their true size and heft in situ. The seemingly endless expanse of sagebrush creates an optical illusion that, perhaps ironically, minimizes the massive footprint left by North America’s largest grouse. 

The storm pushes through, leaving behind an unobscured view of the Milky Way above and retreating lightning to the east. My mildly anxious musings on whether my camper mattress and four nearly worn truck tires would insulate us from a strike were for naught. The dogs–always tuned into and reflecting my behavior–finally settle down and sleep as I slip outside to take in the view. Simultaneous stars and lightning, yet another juxtaposition afloat here on the sage sea. 

“I’m aware of the hypocrisy in killing a bird to fully appreciate it, but for the sage grouse alone I know of no other way.”

I’m aware of the hypocrisy in killing a bird to fully appreciate it, but for the sage grouse alone I know of no other way. Its large black beak is curved and dimpled like a beloved old hammer. The chain mail of thick and purposefully broken feather shafts protects his neck and breast. Jet black feathers with striking white tips adorn the base of his large pointed tail fan, giving it a mesmerizing three dimensional appearance of stars in the night sky. Not too dissimilar from the striking view above me left behind by the evening storm. 

The next morning is clear and cold. I finish my coffee and relinquish my comfortable spot in front of the camper furnace to collar up Stellar, my three year old shorthair. He’s rested and ready, feeding off our collective energy and enthusiasm for the hunt. I turn him loose from camp, a half mile downwind of where we left the large male sage grouse last evening. With any luck, we’ll find him in the vicinity of his roost, compliant and preoccupied by the windy cold front that took the place of yesterday’s summer. 

Stellar stretches to 400 yards, only the flickering of white hair among his ticked back half visible among the sage and conveying his location ahead on the horizon. How does he know where to go when everything appears the same? I remind myself of the visual bias of my species and default to the experienced bird dog out ahead of me. What looks the same in every direction probably doesn’t smell that way. 

We’re near the zone where I hope to find the bird. I feel myself tensing the grip on the stock of the shotgun as Stellar pushes hard out in front. It’s premature, I know, and probably unfair to a dog that has proven countless times he’ll do the right and honest thing when the time comes. I watch as he takes a confident line to the east, a strong wind driving scent in from his right. Any moment now he’ll breathe in one molecule of sage grouse and his world will grind to an instantaneous halt. Generations of selective breeding guiding his body will switch from relentless running pursuit to damn near petrification in one tick of a synapse. 

My cheek is exposed and cold, and as I wipe away the tear coaxed from my right eye by the wind with the back of my glove, Stellar makes game on the bluff above me. Despite his earnest intentions, it’s too late. The sage sea is not our home turf, and it shows. 

The large male bird erupts from 10 yards downwind, the white of his breast and wings like a beacon illuminating the green and brown of his mystery hideout below. In an instant, his massive wings catch the lift provided by the stout southerly wind and he’s gone. Both of us watch as he leaves the country unscathed. For all we know, he might still be flying.

Some days the birds win, and with sage grouse, it’s far more often than not. Stellar covered 27 miles to my 7 over the next three hours, and this mishandled morning encounter was the best look these native birds would give us in spite of a Herculean effort in pursuit. Killing one is not a spoil of the meritocracy, otherwise we would have filled both tags today. 

We arrive back at the truck, tenderfooted and hungry but still glowing and peaceful. My face is flushed and I put on another cup of coffee while Stellar curls up in front of the furnace vent. 

Despite my strong desire to hold one, today we’ll have to settle for admiring the majestic sage grouse from afar. Recollecting the day over the rejuvenating plumes of steam and caffeine, I’d call it equal parts heartbreaking and rewarding. I turn to Stellar and smile at the thought of yet another juxtaposition in sage grouse country. That certainly seems to be the theme around here.