A bitterly cold wind buffets across the ridge as I trek across it toward the viewpoint. Even with two pairs of thermal bottoms under snow pants, three tops under a down jacket, a neck gaiter and a beanie, I am shivering. It is 7 am, and I have arrived just in time to see the sun begin inching above the low sage-covered horizon. That was, of course, my goal: to arrive above the lek as soon as it was light enough to see through a scope, and to film.
Squinting through the blast of the wind I scan the sage before me until I spot it: a florescent strand of pink flagging tied to a tuft of the brush. Sure enough, there on the ground beside it is a spray-painted can lid nailed into the frozen ground. This is the spot where I will set up the camera. It is the same spot we will use on every visit, and the same spot they used in previous years. As a field biologist I understand this need for consistency.
I work quickly. Although I cannot hear the characteristic swishes and pops over the wind, I know that the grouse are already gathering on the clearing below. And so I attach the battery, insert a tape, arrange the camera in it’s “high-tech” weather-proof rubber-made housing, then attach that to the tripod. Then I twist and tilt and zoom, and twist and tilt and zoom in and out a bit more until I have it lined up right. Right edge lined up with the rightmost edge of the lek. Left edge lined up with the one-foot square wooden sign staked out in the center of the lek. Then, when it’s finally right, I press record, state the date and time, lek and side, then close up the camera and leave it to do its thing. Only then do I set up the scope and begin the counts.
I haven’t yet been to this lek early enough to do any counts, but the two I visited the previous morning had 89 and 67 males respectively. Sage Grouse that is. That’s what I’m here for. In central Wyoming. Standing by myself on a cold morning in the middle of seeming nowhere. Watching a throng of male chicken-like birds swish their wings against rough feathers and puff up there vocal sacs again and again to emit a strange but clear pop in the hopes of attracting a few females. A group mating effort, then. At least for attraction. As it turns out, only 1 or 2 males will account for nearly all the copulations. Many will only copulate once or twice. The great majority never copulate at all. Poor suckers are so desperate they’ll copulate with cow-pies.
I know this because I’ve seen it. Just the other morning I sat with Jessica in a camouflaged blind in the middle of Preacher lek, watching the grouse perform up close and personal. Our purpose was to record buttprints. That is, to take photographs of the displayed tail feathers of each of the grouse. These “buttprints” could later be used as unique markers to identify each individual male on later counts, from a further distance. There were, however, only 13 or so individuals that morning, which left plenty of time to capture other interesting photographs. Some nice “booby shots” for example: a perfectly timed capture of the male mid-display with his twin yellow vocal sacs fully inflated and bulging outward. Or some male-male territorial fights, wings extended and dirt flying as they whack each-other. Or the best yet: a frustrated, desperate, or just plain stupid male attempting to copulate with a cow-pie. Surprisingly, I was able to capture many of the later. Three separate times he tried it. He just couldn’t get enough of the dry unresisting mass of bovine excrement.
And who says my jobs aren’t fun? 
