From My Archives: Drumming Ruffed Grouse

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.

Mother's Day 2017

Fran and her other golden eagle -- Nancy. 

Mother’s Day is creeping up on me again.  I saved a little clipping last year that I happened to stumble upon on the internet.  My intension was to blog about it last year, but Mother’s Day slipped by.  Today I can’t find the website, but no matter.  I saved it on my computer.  I love the little clipping.  It may be far from accurate, but it does capture the essence of my mother, Fran (Frances Hamerstrom). 

Here is the little article.  I jotted down a note that it came from ‘The Backcountry Chronicler’.  When I first found it, I tried to figure out who wrote it, but I couldn’t find that either.

Note About Fran Hamerstrom – I had the good fortune of meeting Fran on several occasions. The first time I met her was in 1983 at an eagle breeding facility. I was able to witness her reunion with the eagle “Chrys” after a separation of at least 10 years. They obviously recognized each other.

The last time I saw her was at the 1992 National Falconry Meet in Lamar, Colorado. It was about 10°F and she was standing in the snow wearing sandals at age 82. My friends were amazed, but I knew that she still “skinny dipped” in the pond at her Wisconsin home as long as she could break the ice with an ax.

She broke her hip on a trip to the Amazon jungle at age 87 and died in 1998 at the age of 90. They don’t make ’em like that any more.

Fran did have a golden eagle named Chrys, and she had the rare good fortune to share a nest with Chrys.  Chrys had been rescued as a young chick and raised by someone else.  Chrys came to Fran as an adult.  In early spring Fran realized Chrys was ‘nesty’.  An attempt was made to artificially inseminate Chrys.  The attempt was successful in that Fran and Chrys built a nest in our big farm shed (Fran handed sticks to Chrys and Chrys placed them), Chrys laid her clutch, and promptly began to incubate.  In the wild. an eagle’s mate would have shared incubating duties …. So that fell to Fran.  Every day Fran plopped a hot water bottle on the nest and spent time doing nest duty while Chrys ate, bathed, and got a little exercise.  The eggs never hatched, but Chrys was given foster chicks, I believe red-tailed hawks, and was a doting parent.  At that point Fran’s job was easier.  She supplied Chrys with fresh road kill and let the eagle do the feeding.  

Eventually Chrys was moved to Cornell and, during a different spring, artificial insemination was successful! Fran took pride in that she helped develop the technique.   

I can well imagine Fran and Chrys recognized each other after a long separation. 

And Fran did break her hip on a trip to the Amazon jungle.  She liked to be a little vague that she was in town when it happened.  She slipped on the mud of the Amazon River in Iquitos, Peru.  She didn’t even telephone me for help for over a week.  Finally it sunk in that she wasn’t going to get a hip replacement in Peru.  My brother, Alan, flew to Peru and brought her to me, in Oregon, with the broken hip.  I still wince when I think about seeing the X-ray.  By the time she got her new hip almost a month had passed.  She was tough!

But taking an axe down to the pond for a swim is a little much!  She might have done it once, and I will admit her regular method of bathing during milder weather was a quick dip in their pond; but Fran didn’t like a good chill.  She liked to say she had ‘lizard blood.’  She loved to get warm and thoroughly enjoyed going to hot places after my father died.  He was a good Scandinavian and preferred cooler climates.

Here is a photo from another hot place Fran traveled to after my father’s death.  One of her ‘Gaboons’ (students) ended up as a shiek’s falconer in Dubai, United Arab Emirdates.  Here she is enjoying the shiek’s falcons.