Written By: Seth Owens. Grand Forks, ND
I’m often frustrated by that prehistoric, instinctual, fight-or-flight response that all humans have in the 21st century. Not because it was crucial to our ancient ancestors, who were constantly at risk of being preyed upon by a big animal with pointy teeth, but because of the sinking pit in our stomach that we feel when anxious or excited. Here I was, walking through a sea of swishing sagebrush, feeling like I was about to vomit, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the excited apprehension or the 2:00 a.m. gas station breakfast burrito.
The prairies look different before daybreak. That gnarled old fencepost that you keyed your location on melts into the inky pool of darkness that exists just outside of your flashlight’s glow. In between GPS checks and sweeps of my headlamp, I did find my fencepost. I also found my camouflage belly-blind about 10 yards west of it. I kneeled down into the layer of prairie dust, slung my pack from my shoulders, and quietly set up my camera gear.
The first whispers of dawn dusted the clouds in shades of rose and amber contrasting the endless prairie sky. Time feels slower at daybreak, each second must pass through a drop of pine pitch to pass into eternity. I took every moment, watching the rising sun breathe life into the land. The sun splashed its color onto the summit of an opposing butte, and the signal fire was lit for the morning’s show to begin.
A resounding explosion reverberated off the distant valley walls, and several male sage grouse thundered over the sagebrush prairie, landing within a stone’s throw of the front of my blind. Their winged descent sent dust billowing below them. Sparing no time for socialization, these goliath grouse quickly began the morning’s displays.
I’ve heard the machine-gun foot fire of sharp-tailed grouse, and I’ve encountered the resonating booms and hoots of greater prairie-chicken, but nothing could have prepared me for the churning and popping sounds of the greater sage-grouse. Tail feathers shook, stretched, and stood tall, and a dark star haloed their impressive stature. Their feathered chests billowed and expanded, like a giant prairie thunderhead. At maximum capacity, no lightning was emitted, but two large yellow air sacs thrust forward and exploded with sound.
Swish-wala-WOOMP
Swish-wala-WOOMP
After each chest shot sound across the prairie landscape, each male momentarily rested. A nearby bird, finishing up his first round of displays, paused, and stood still. He gasped in air, the same way you or I would gasp to hold our breath as we sunk underwater. With each desperate inhalation, his chest swelled, and yellow air sacs began to sink lower. He puffed his chest forward, strutted a few steps closer, and repeated his display.
Swish-wala-WOOMP
Swish-wala-WOOMP
This symphony of several avian timpani drummers continued through the morning, only interrupted periodically by possible threats, which were often me coughing or sneezing. About an hour and a half after full sunrise, the displays began to slow. The steady drumbeat that set the cadence at dawn was ending. The fervor was replaced by hunger as the males began picking stems, leaves, and seeds from the ground instead of constantly throwing their air-filled chests. The prairie’s winged mercenary, a massive golden eagle, soared overhead, slowly descending on monstrous wings. The fearful tension in the remaining grouse finally snapped, and the heavy birds erupted from the sagebrush, once more thundering across the open plains. One by one, they dropped into the taller vegetation of an adjacent field. It was incredible how this colossal grouse disappeared into the grass, not to return to their lekking grounds until tomorrow morning.
That golden eagle, frustrated with his lack of breakfast, lazily floated on the morning’s breeze in search of less vigilant prey. As if in sync, my stomach let out an annoyed grumble, convincing me that it was time to make tracks. It took mere moments to pack up my blind and my camera gear and to sling my backpack, containing my whole life for the week, onto my back, and I walked back to my vehicle. A rumble reminded me of my hunger. I snatched the granola bar from my waist pocket and snacked with a smile as I recalled the morning’s show.
The churn of that ever-reliable Honda engine escorted me from my two-track path through the prairie to a gravel county road and eventually onto the asphalt, where bumpy and noisy sounds were replaced by the whine of rubber on pavement.
“A real breakfast would be good,” I told myself as I opened my second granola bar of the morning. I headed to the nearest cafe with an SD card full of photos to share and a brain full of memories that I get to keep with me for the rest of my life.
