A tale of a chance meeting with strangers, new friends, and a bird that binds us as upland hunters.
By Edgar Castillo
“Is anyone home?”
I lay in my sleeping bag all bundled-up. In fact, all five of us had crawled into our synthetic cocoons. I was already drifting off into sleep. Everyone had been up for twenty-four hours. Myself, over thirty. The wind was picking up. The tent walls were flapping. At first, I thought I was dreaming as I could hear voices outside. Moments later Dan was out of his bag and unzipping the tent. Two strangers entered. Rick an older gentleman in his late sixties, wore an orange knit cap over a billed hat. The other, Trey, a young man in his twenties. Bird hunters no doubt.
It was evident that Wyoming was a collection point for avid bird hunters. The Cowboy State boasts some of the finest sage grouse hunting around, as well as an ample amount of accessible public land to hunt. These two factors lure a lot of out-of-state hunters to the state for a chance to harvest a truly magnificent bird during the 10-day season. This could not be more apparent from everyone in our tent. Rick was from Colorado and had been coming to Wyoming for years. Being retired allowed him to travel throughout the region experiencing a variety of upland bird hunts. Trey was a college student from Texas on an extended hunting trip.
Our ragtag group came from the very heart of the Midwest – Kansas and Missouri. We had traveled close to fourteen hours from Kansas City to Wyoming. Our ensemble consisted of Dan, and his teenage son, Easton, and their mother and daughter duo of bristled-haired Drahts, Macy and Abi. Accompanying us for a second time was Damin, dubbed “The Driver”, a nickname he received during our first visit to Wyoming in 2019. He was again in charge of transportation for his ability to maneuver through and around questionable BLM mountain and high-desert roads. Rounding out our bunch was newcomer, Sam and his young dog Jaeger, Abi’s littermate.
Rick took the lead and began to explain their abrupt visit to our camp, being that we were somewhat “neighbors” and all. We had passed Rick’s truck at three a.m. over twelve hours prior. We learned Trey was camping also but had set up a tent several miles away. They too had only met recently. Strangers, but connected by the land and birds. Right away the conversation shifted to why we were there…to hunt sage grouse of course. Rick asked how we had done that day. I’m not sure if he felt sorry for us for only shooting two birds, as he and Trey spoke of sage grouse merely a couple of hundred feet from our camp or he genuinely wanted to help-out his fellow bird hunters. I opted that he felt somewhat guilty for the untold numbers of grouse they had seen on Wyoming’s opener that day.
We listened to Rick talk about where to find sage grouse and the next thing I knew, he said “Well, what time do you want to hunt in the morning?” I thought to myself, was that an invitation or an order? Dan responded, “Well, we were going to get up at six.”. “Six?! “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.” And that is how plans are made with complete strangers. I drifted off to sleep soon afterwards with visions of spiny-tailed grouse tail feathers swaying in the wind protruding from my bird vest. It’s always good to dream.
Faint noises of stirring hunters were the signal to get up. Our group moved quickly with the precision and quickness of a Marine squad (Sorry to those other branches, I’m a Jarhead.). All three wiry-haired dogs were excited. There was an anticipation in the cool morning air. Shotguns and vests were stowed. Dogs were corralled into their crates and we were off down a dusty dirt road. The truck’s headlights danced off Rick’s dingy white truck camper -a mobile bird-camp. Trey’s youthful enthusiasm was evident, as he waived the caravan forward and three trucks raced down the high desert road.
Forty-five minutes later, the metal wagons halted. It seems once you have bird hunted, routines become ingrained. Everyone donned bird vests, shells dumped into pockets, and shotguns unsheathed. No words muttered.
Rick and Trey were standing by their trucks looking toward a crooked break in the landscape as far as the eye could see. Trey explained he had seen a couple of sage grouse near the area and the place would be a good place to start. He pointed to the earthen crack and said the birds would likely be on top of the edges or down in the break. For his youth, Trey was very well educated and experienced. With a B.S. in Wildlife & Fisheries Sciences, a M.S. in Range and Wildlife Management, and soon a PhD, Trey had firsthand field experiences researching and trapping sage grouse in Wyoming. He assisted with relocating sage grouse to North Dakota and helped monitor populations. Hearing Trey rattle off names of mountains, nearby points of interest, and roads, he sounded more like a local than a visiting bird hunting tourist.
The dogs were getting antsy. We were too. We wanted to hunt. I walked over to Trey and Rick and shook their hands to thank both for allowing us to accompany them to one of their spots. “Oh, we’re not going with you. We are going to watch.”, Rick said. I was instantly perplexed. Strangers offering up honey-holes. Only in the uplands. I began to see a pattern. I returned from my thoughts only to notice the guys were already twenty-five yards ahead of me. I waived to Rick and Trey.
I opted to stay on the edge of the cracked formation. The sands through the hourglass did not wait long, as a mere hundred yards of walking, shouts of “Grouse!” pierced the air. Strong winds carried unrecognizable words of excitement. Sage grouse hoisted up in celebration. Grins barely seen from across the way, but obviously apparent. Shots rang out like the popping of balloons. Giant winged birds erupted from down in the break and along the opposite edge. Suddenly a greyish blur took flight in front of me. Two shots. Two misses.
I glanced back. Rick and Trey were still standing by the trucks…watching the action play out. Why would they miss out on such opportunities? They didn’t owe us anything. Our conversation the night before was brief. As I walked, I asked myself what was our connection? The shooting continued. More birds fell from the blue sky, others glided safely away. Vests were being filled. Though maneuvering through the sagebrush was easy, my ankle injury from earlier in the year was starting to ache. More birds were taking flight below and on the opposite side. Getting across would be a task. I turned to see blurry figures standing on the road. Still watching. The shapeless wind howled out on the open sage sea as it hit me as I turned to make my way back.
My return trek to the trucks was not without any reward. The same path provided two sage grouse waddling a mere ten feet in front of me. The over-under found one target, while the other high-tailed it out of there with a couple of strong flaps from the bird’s giant wings. The sage grouse sailed out of sight morphing into the pale sagebrush.
When I arrived at the trucks, I produced my feathery quarry. Rick took the grouse and hypothesized the bird was from this year’s hatch. Its size more akin to a hen pheasant or prairie chicken. Smaller than the bombers normally associated with sage grouse. As Rick and Trey talked, I returned to my thoughts as to why they did not hunt with us. They had watched our group hunt for over an hour. They could’ve easily have left or showed us a different spot not as productive as this one. In the distance, orange figures appeared to be getting closer. Forty-five minutes later the guys arrived, each recounting their hits and misses. Each grouse taken from their vests displayed as trophies from the land that birthed them.
Morning turned to into hours later in the day. Our journey continued. There had been more stops along the way. Most were short hunts based on Trey’s direction. Each produced, birds. By late afternoon, the fleet of trucks were back on the road headed yet to another destination provided by our camp neighbors. Trey was in the lead, adjusting his speed for signs of movement from the sagebrush or on the road, to deciphering the landscape. I should’ve jumped in his truck to pick his brain. To learn. Dust flew, only to settle as we slowed to a snail’s pace. Minutes later, Trey was standing alongside his truck staring at the open road in front. Curiosity couldn’t keep us from getting out of the truck. I came up on Trey who was talking to Rick, arms were extended. Movement in the ditch caught my eye. Taking their time, were about three sage grouse out for an evening stroll. The birds looked like young, gray-colored turkey poults. The ditch was being used as a travel corridor.
Rick came over and suggested we walk out into the sage in a wide arc so the dogs could get the wind in their faces. Road hunting may not be glamorous, but instead of just walking up on the birds and ground sluicing them, we attempted to make it as sporting as possible.
I opted to stay with Trey and Rick. Dan, Easton, Damin, and Sam quietly slipped on their vests and loaded shotguns on the go. A trio of Deutsch–Drahthaars took to the sage like slow-moving black blurs against a faded green backdrop. They went about a hundred yards then arced to the right to get the dogs nose into the wind. Minutes later they had closed the gap between them and the ditch. The grouse had moved. Afterwards, Easton would describe the small trench as a dirt highway full of sage grouse tracks. “It’s going to get real in a couple of seconds.”, I said to Rick. Outstretched wings took to the air as darkened silhouettes came into view against the hazy sky. Barrels swung, and shots fired…birds fall flightless, and dogs raced in for the retrieve. I shared in their joy silently.
Sam was the first to approach from his walk back to the trucks, a large lifeless bird hung from his hand. The sage grouse was at least twice as big anything we had shot thus far. Again, my thoughts returned to “Why?” Rick and Trey congratulated him, and the tailgate stories began automatically as if on cue. A ritual amongst bird hunters everywhere that is ingrained the instant they pick up a shotgun.
Trey began an impromptu course on aging sage grouse as we gathered around and listened. Words drifted off into the slight breeze, my attention focused on the sea of sagebrush. So fragile the habitat, that the green plant is intertwined with governmental feuds and policymakers arguing the future of the bird. Throw in hunting during times of re-evaluation and you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Yes, it is true that hunting is by far the largest funding mechanism for wildlife, and the economic benefits help in conservation.
Hunting boosts the economy and in-turn brings in more funds for the continued sustainment of helping in restoring and protecting crucial habitat. Our group’s stop at the local Loaf ‘N Jug in Rawlins for fuel, groceries, and supplies will add dollars to the state’s economy. The hunting licenses and daily trout permits we purchased will go directly towards conservation. Local and out-of-state hunters contribute in so many ways that add fuel to Wyoming’s austerity. The state’s healthy population of sage grouse in turn brings in traveling wingshooters for a chance to hunt the iconic gamebird.
There is no question sage grouse are in trouble. The iconic bird of the west once numbered in the millions. It is speculated their range extended from Texas to southern Canada and from California to the eastern border of Colorado. Now there are an estimated 400,000. The sage grouse’s range dwindled down to a fraction of what it once was. However, Wyoming continues to maintain a stronghold for sage grouse.
Wildlife biologists continue to talk about sage grouse numbers and the yearly loss of habitat across core states. One thing in agreement is that there is no reason at the time to discontinue hunting of sage grouse in those areas where the bird flourishes and numbers are strong and there is minimal impact. Implemented are shortened seasons and certain areas closed to hunting, all to protect the sage grouse. However, what I do envision coming is an argument, and how that will play out is unknown.
I return to the moment as Rick talks about going after the birds that escaped and flew to the other side of the road. The others agree and start walking out into the sage. They sailed to the bottom of a series of sage hills. Trey points to a stretch of sagebrush that is indistinguishable from the rest of the cover we’d been hunting. This land is a mystery to me. There are murmurs within our group that we do not understand sage grouse habitat nor hunting the bird. Put us in the middle of Kansas pheasant, quail, and prairie chicken country and we can distinguish “birdy” cover. Out here in the Wyoming sage flats, we are like fish out of water. It all appears the same to us. However, Trey does his best to identify the small traits of the land known to hold sage grouse otherwise overlooked by us. We start connecting the dots and those places overlooked in the past by us, now appear “birdy”.
I pull on my vest and stuff shells into pockets. My over-under broke open, resting on my shoulder as if I were a human mantle. I walk out slightly into the sage and bend slightly to touch the top of a sage stalk. I gently pull off a piece of sage leaf and crush it into small flakes. I bring it to my nose and inhale. Aroma therapy at its finest. I had become used to the pungent sage odor. Its fragrance omnipresent when we first arrived. As the days passed by, the smell had disappeared from my senses. I had forgotten about its existence. I think being out here amongst the sage, it helps me understand how crucial the ecosystem is for not only the sage grouse, but a wide range of other living organisms.
The sun is slowly moving towards the horizon causing long shadows in the high desert. The sky a brilliant color of orange. I turn to watch camp visitors who have become friends, walking out into what appears an endless sea, and then I observe the quartet of sage grouse on the tailgate. Puffs of white sage grouse feathers sail across my path…and it starts to click – though we are strangers in an ocean of rolling delicate green shrubs, there has been a symbiotic relationship formed between three components. We are ever so linked amongst the sage, the grouse, and those that hunt the winged buffalo of the Wyoming landscape. The sage grouse will survive. And so, will those that hunt them.
https://wyomingwildlife.org/protecting-wyomings-greater-sage-grouse/
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