I have my head down, methodically weaving my way slowly back and forth across the lek, scanning the ground for poop. My eyes slide over the pile of long dry white droppings, then move on, hoping for something fresher, greener. I find a solitary dropping, long and grainy like those compressed pellets you feed to pet rabbits. This one is a dark not-quite-moist brown-green with a small tip of minty white, and not five inches away is the black gooey glob of a fresh cecal cast. Bingo.
I tear the perforated seal off the top of the whirl-pack, pull the tabs apart and pop open the small clear bag. Carefully I scoop the poop inside, curl the top of the whirl-pack down dry-bag style, and fold the yellow wire-laced tabs. I label it in Sharpie, estimate the location and fill in the datasheet, then I move on, scanning again.
I’m turning to weave back across the lek after reaching the staked end when I see them. Feathers. Lots and lots of feathers. Black and white feathers, black and brown feathers, tail feathers and down feathers and body feathers. Sage grouse feathers. Including, I soon discover, some clumps. A grouse kill.
My mind jumps back to the previous summer, to the mixed coniferous forests of Eldorado County. It jumps back to Dixie, to the day Sheila and I hiked in, telemetry antennae and receiver in hand, to find our favorite Spotted Owl and capture her to remove her telemetry transmitter. Once again I see the pile of feathers at the base of the snag, the skull camouflaged and eye-less within, the federal band glimmering amid the ruins of Dixie. Once again I hear Sheila’s cries of “No!” and “Why?” and know how what in one instance might bring curiosity and interest can in another cause sorrow and disenchantment instead. It’s different, when you know the animal.
I didn’t know this grouse. He was from Conant Creek North, a lek we counted but didn’t monitor down to the individual. So in this case, I frowned but was intrigued more than I was sad. Especially when I saw the droppings and the tracks scattered around the area. Dog droppings. Coyote. Then I saw the hole and I knew. Definitely coyote.
And now I’m smiling, because I’m picturing Chuck Palanuck’s Rant Casey, animal fishing. Young and bold and perhaps a bit crazy as well, he’s sticking his bare arms and legs deep inside just such a den, eager for the thrill and the adrenaline of getting bit. Hungry for the rabid bite of a coyote.
I’m betting these grouse aren’t as thrilled as Rant would have been. Not nearly as thrilled as the coyote must be, with this fabulous estate he’s acquired, ripe with plenty of food for the taking just at his doorstep. Nonetheless, Conant Creek North just got a bit more interesting.
