Twenty-eight years is a long time to do anything, but that is how long I’ve been writing this column. As long as that might seem, I’ve been paying attention to nature (and specifically birds) for even longer. Some of my oldest childhood memories are of sitting down at this time of year and starting the process of making Christmas presents for my grandmother, uncles and aunts. Every year the exact nature of the presents would change, but the theme always revolved around birds.
As a young child, I might make something as simple as a box of wooden matches decorated with felt, fancy piping and old Christmas cards cut and trimmed to fit on the top of the matchbox. As I grew older, I shifted to painting and I would often take a box of ordinary glass Christmas ornaments and decorate them with paintings of my favorite winter birds. Whatever I did, birds played a featured role.
Then I moved on to college and my interest in birds turned into a true passion. I took an ornithology class at the University of Massachusetts Amherst that opened up an entire new world to me. I also secured myself a part-time job with the U.S. Forest Service and this further immersed me in the world of scientific exploration. I read “A Sand County Almanac” for the first time and began to think about things in a whole new way. But there is one indelible memory I have of that time and it’s power sits in strange contrast to the actual banality of the setting.
I was in the offices of the Northeast Forest Experiment Station at the south end of Holdsworth Hall. I was preparing for a day afield and for some reason I was sent to the equipment room. This was the first time that I had ever been allowed to enter this particular nook in the offices and when I turned on the lights I found myself gaping in awe at the room’s contents. A long, deep room lay in front of me and it was lined with shelves that held one astounding item after another. Among them was a small cassette tape with a label that simply said “grouse chick.” As luck would have it, there was also an old tape recorder sitting on the same shelf. I couldn’t resist.
The tape clicked into place and when I pressed the play button I heard the oddest sound. Five notes repeated over and over. The first ascending, the next three holding steady, and the last descending back to where the first began. Some technical magician had actually modified the cassette so that the tape played in a loop, which meant that it never needed to be rewound. I instantly understood that this was a distress call that was meant to provoke a response from a female grouse out in the forest. I listened to the calls a few more times and then I removed the tape from the recorder and reverently placed everything back where I found it.
I worked for the Forest Service for many years and the majority of my time was spent exploring the forests of the Presott Peninsula. This was another magical place because of its highly restricted access. Members of the Forest Service were allowed onto the peninsula because it served as a site for long-term research projects. As a result, the forests were extremely quiet. You never heard an engine of a vehicle other than the one you were driving. Hours and hours spent in the quiet of the forest allowed you to see and hear things that were amazing.
Among the many species that were observed was the ruffed grouse (Bonasa umbellus). Only once in the greatest of whiles was a grouse ever seen, but it was easier to hear male grouse performing their “drumming” display. An adult male would climb on top of a log resting on the forest floor and then begin his performance. Standing as tall and “proud” as possible, the male would snap his wings through the air to make loud thumping noises. The performance would start with a slow beat that gradually increased in speed and volume. Then, the noise would just putter out. Imagine the sound made by a chainsaw engine that refused to start and you’ve got the basic idea.
There were also a few special occasions when I actually crossed paths with a female grouse and her chicks. The mother would make a quick alarm call and the little family would appear to explode off the ground in every direction possible. Then the mother would put on a distraction display that I can definitely describe as unnerving. All sorts of squealing and meowing sounds would emanate from what was actually a rather small creature, but it was amazing how effective it was. You couldn’t help but pay attention to the female, while the chicks all melted into the forest.
And now, unbelievably, I find that I have run out of room when there is still so much story to tell. So, I think the obvious solution to this problem is to continue it next week. I’ll add in a few more details about the life history of the ruffed grouse, but then I will go on to describe the most astounding and surprising interaction with one of these birds that I have ever experienced. At this moment I feel that I could write 15 columns on this bird, but I’ll have to condense it all into just one more. So many stories, so little room.
Bill Danielson has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 28 years. He has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service, the Nature Conservancy and the Massachusetts State Parks and he currently teaches high school biology and physics. For more information visit his website at www.speakingofnature.com, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.