Most years Dale puts together a new digital program. His programs are full of sequences of photos
showing events in nature we have watched.
Getting all those photos is the reason I have so much time to field
sketch. But I photograph too; and, in
this instance, I was photographing rather than sketching. The only sketch in this blog post was done
after my first grouse drumming experience.
Describing sounds in nature is often a challenge. Chickadees are kind enough to sing something
easy to put into words – “chickadee’.
Killdeer too – “killdeer.” Some
birds have sounds we can relate to. A
bittern pumping sounds rather like a far off sledge hammer; I used to say a
marsh wren sounds like a treadle sewing machine, but who has heard one of those
recently? A ruffed grouse drums/sounds like an old tractor first starting up: Whoomph . . . . . . . . . whoomph . . . . . .
. . whoomph . . . . . .whoomph . . . . whoomph . . . whoomph . . whoomph
..whoomh . whoomph . whomphwhomphwhomphphphphph! A slow start, gradually gaining in speed and
finally a blur of sound. Each whoomph
is made by the beat of the male grouse’s wings. But you probably haven’t listened to an old
tractor either? You’ll have to use your
imagination.
I grew up hearing drumming every spring, down in the woods,
not far from the family farmhouse. Drumming
refers to the courtship display of the male ruffed grouse. A lone ruffed grouse picks a fallen log in
the woods and drums day after day during the spring, working hard to attract a
mate. Grouse are hunted in Wisconsin and
so are spooky. Only once did I actually
get to watch a grouse drumming. That
grouse had chosen to drum on a log that was reasonably close to the dirt road
just north of the house. In late
afternoon Dale and I parked our van in place and walked back to the house. At bedtime we returned to the van, crawled
into our sleeping bag, and looked forward to first light and watching the
ruffed grouse.
We were soon asleep … and soon awakened -- “whoomp . . . . .
. whoomph . . ”. It must be the wee
hours of morning! Pale light filled the
van. Dale carefully crawled out of the
cozy sleeping bag, put on warm cloths and got into the front seat of the van to
photograph. Only then did he look at his
watch – something close to midnight. Moonlight
was playing tricks with us.
He returned to our sleeping bag and tried to sleep. Hard to sleep when we kept hearing the
drumming about 100 yards away ... and we so desperately wanted to watch him
drum -- patience! Wait for dawn! We did and we were well rewarded. I smile as I remember that later that day we
had the pleasure of taking a friend of my parents back to our same parking spot. He was 80 years old and had traveled the world
photographing hummingbirds, but had never had the pleasure of watching a ruffed
grouse drum.
Now we fast forward to a little over a year ago. For the third time I’ve found a ruffed grouse
drumming in a protected area – no hunting.
Such a difference. Each time I find
a grouse drumming in a protected area they are far more approachable.
It starts with hearing that tell-tale “Whoomph . . . . . . .
. . whoomph . . . . . . . . whoomph . . . . . .whoomph . . . . whoomph . . .
whoomph . . whoomph ..whoomh . whoomph . whomphwhomphwhomphphphphph! “ My heart races and I immediatly think, “Where
is he?” Friends had mentioned where he
might be, but he wasn’t. I need to
carefully ease into the woods: listening, watching. It is difficult to judge just how far away
the whoomphs are coming from. One
hundred yards? Five hundred yards? I quietly pick my way up slope following a
game trail. He is close.
There he is! Ruffed
grouse display by themselves, unlike some species of grouse which gather on a
lek. This one faces east on a long
downed log and well sheltered by overhanging branches. He stands relaxed. Aware.
I freeze and watch. I barely
breath.
He drums! I’m so
close and he is so buried in branches.
Every so slowly I ease down and half lie on the slope. From my odd position and have a much clearer
view.
Slowly the grouse’s tail drops down and presses on the back
side of the log, his wings flare a little and droop,
The first ‘whoomphs’ are slow,
They come faster and faster,
and erupt into a blur.
I hunker in my odd position for half an hour. The sunlight slips behind the nearby ridge,
coolness comes to the woods. Eventually
my grouse wanders off. Far off I hear
another grouse drum but to go find him I’d have to go deeper into a tangle of
woods. Probably not a good idea. I’m in bear country.
