Nebraska: Prairie Grouse

I’ve seen a quarter million Sandhill Cranes massed on the Platte. I’ve watched Club-winged Manakins twitch and click in Ecuadorean forests. And I’ve gasped at Greater Flamingos turning the sky of Provence orange.

But nothing can beat the prairie grouse. No matter how often I get to witness the springtime foolery of Greater Prairie-Chickens and Sharp-tailed Grouse, it moves me and amuses me and brings me into contact with a nature that most of the world’s human population–including many who live within a quick walk of the birds’ dance floors–never even imagine.

Uncharacteristically, the sharp-tails let us down last weekend. A single, rather stolid bird was with the prairie-chickens at the edge of the lek we visited Friday afternoon; and Saturday morning, much smarter than their human observers, the sharp-tails flew in at dawn, stared at each other for an hour, and flew off as the rain started to turn to sleet.

The chickens made up for it.

I was amazed to see birds everywhere as we approached Mitch’s schoolbus blind, feeding in the stubble and the native grassland, perching on the center pivots, flying back and forth in small stiff-winged flocks. As we watched and waited, 80 Greater Prairie-Chickens, perhaps 100, gathered around the lek. Many of them sought shelter from the vicious wind next to and underneath the blind, giving us some astonishingly close views.

It took a while, but eventually the adult males gathered on their booming ground and started to dance.

Every few minutes a hen would fly in and walk, apparently disdainful, through the lek, while the males chased her, booming and strutting. We didn’t see any copulation, but won’t be long now until they are enthused with the divinity of spring.

The wind kept us from fully enjoying the aural portion of the display. We could hear the eerie, low-pitched hooting that is so different from Lesser Prairie-Chicken’s gurgling cackles; but the rapid foot-stomping that is my favorite part of the Greater display remained seen and not heard, no matter how close the dancing males came to us.

As always, I was struck anew by how utterly unbird-like the chickens are when they bow and strut at each other.

We could have spent the rest of the night watching and listening to the dance–especially those of us outfitted with oversized hunting booties. (Yes, that’s a shoe!)

But too soon the chickens decided that it was time for their supper, and like their barnyard brethren, began to pick and peck in the stubble around the bus, stopping for an occasional preen.

And then it was over. The last persistent males left their jealously guarded territories on the lek to join the rest of the flock in the sheltered valleys, and we returned to Mullen for an excellent dinner and a short night.