Back Cast

I park off the side of the gravel road with the vehicle’s front tires in Montana and the back tires in North Dakota. My location, where the two states shoulder up against one another somewhere in southwestern Bowman County, is marked by a metal sign ventilated by bullet holes and bleeding rust.

Sage grouse in this part of the world have ignored boundaries forever and I’m doing the same this early April morning. With four coworkers hidden in three photo blinds on the North Dakota side of things, the straw I draw sends me here, mentally flipping a coin to decide which direction to head.

My hope, like my coworkers, is to witness something that’s been playing out for eons, before established borders, gravel roads and barbed wire fences. We want to witness one of the grandest mating displays in nature, or at least in this neck of the woods, where the big male sage grouse, some weighing in at 7 pounds, puff up their chests, raise tail feathers into spiky fans, ruffle wings and bob to impress the opposite sex.

Our aim, to photograph, record video or simply view through binoculars these birds during their spring routine, has taken on a bit of urgency as the sage grouse population in North Dakota has for years been heading in the wrong direction. With just two active leks remaining in the state, and little evidence suggesting a comeback, that you-should-have-been-here-yesterday vibe has sort of set in.

It’s 30 degrees, sunrise isn’t for a half hour, but I can already make out the dozen or so pronghorn standing in the sagebrush flat on the Montana side eyeing me, wondering what’s slowly walking in their direction.

From what I’ve read, on those spring mornings when the wind is down, you can hear male sage grouse up to nearly a mile before you see them. The sound they make is sort of a liquid “plopping” — an odd noise in this arid country that looks to be a long time between drinks — emitted by their air sacs.

Unfortunately, a south wind blowing at my back makes it difficult to hear much of anything at a distance. So, I walk, glass the sagebrush flat that seemingly stretches to the horizon and walk some more.

Not long after sunrise, between me and two pronghorn bucks I’ve been watching, I see something white moving through the vegetation.

“Got one,” I text my coworkers sitting in blinds a 20-minute hike from here. There’s little doubt what I’m looking at through binoculars as the white feathers on the bird’s neck and puffed-up chest pop in the day’s new sun, rendering my find unarguable.

Every time the grouse turns and points his spiky, fanned tail feathers in my direction, I hike and cut the distance between us. Finally, at maybe 50 yards, I can make out the “plopping” sound that I’ve long wanted to hear. Through binoculars at this range, it appears as if the bird is dancing at my feet, strutting just for me.

And, in a sense, it is because the big male, driven by photoperiod and the instinctive need to mate, to help perpetuate this centuries-driven ritual, sadly has the entire dance floor to himself.