Essays

Moseying: Exploring the Natural World

Do you have a personal story of prairie chickens?
August 16, 2006

The staff of the Sibley Nature Center has been researching the Internet and the Frances Williams Ornithological Library for stories of people interacting with Lesser Prairie Chickens. We have not found any, so if you have a story, please send it to bwilliams@sibleynaturecenter.org. What follows is a story we made up, utilizing the American Indian genre of “coyote stories.” We do not know if prairie chickens would truly act as they do in the story (but we do know that prairie chickens have gotten onto pickup trucks while people are in them!)

Aataki sprawled on his belly in the Blue Dunes (southeast of modern Muleshoe, Texas.) He had spread a trade blanket from New Mexico over his body for warmth. Only twelve years old, the young Comanche had left his uncle’s camp long before daylight. During the afternoon of the day before, Aataki had found a pool of water near a cottonwood and had noticed hundreds of big bird tracks, which told him that prairie chickens came to the water. This fall had been rainy, so the pool of water would last for a long time – maybe even all winter. When he arrived the eastern sky was still dark. He settled into a comfortable position behind a clump of little bluestem grass just beginning to turn russet. He could see his breath in the starlight. As he waited, he heard a coyote yelp twice, but then he could only hear the grass stalks rustling faintly from the gentle southeast wind.

He hoped to be able to successfully hunt the prairie chickens, so his widowed mother would not have to depend on her brother’s generosity. A month before his father had died during a raid against the Texan (John Chisum) that had brought cattle to the river of the painted rocks. As the oldest boy of her three children it was his responsibility to help.

His uncle’s band, who were mostly members of the extended family of his wife, were waiting in the Blue Dunes for a wagon train of Comancheros from San Miguel, New Mexico. When the Comancheros arrived, his uncle would tell them that this year’s trading would occur at Canon de Rescate, not Canon de los lenguas as originally planned. The Comancheros would have to leave Running Water Draw (the route to Los Lenguas) and go south to Blackwater Draw, which led to the meeting place. In the region around Los Lenguas the buffalo had suffered from a new disease (thousands had died), so the Comanches refused to use the valley. His uncle believed the Texans’ cattle that the Comanches had stolen and that the Comancheros later traded to the Union soldiers at Fort Bascom had brought the disease.

After the eastern sky began to lighten, he heard a prairie chicken make a questioning and curious cluck. He peered around the little bluestem, but saw nothing. Another prairie chicken answered the first, from a different direction. Then another clucked, from yet another direction. None were visible. Another clucked, behind him. He remained motionless, but his heart sank – the birds came to the water from all directions, to make sure no predators lay in wait. The one behind him clucked again, closer, and again, even closer. The third cluck was different in tone, and louder, and the others fell silent.

There was no chance for him to nock an arrow, turn and shoot. When prairie chickens are disturbed, they explode into flight. All he could do was to remain motionless. If he did not move, maybe the bird would decide he was inanimate and continue on its way. It clucked again, almost under its breath, right at his feet. He heard feathers rustle – in his imagination he saw it open its wings. It flapped, as if to try to startle him into movement.

His head rested on crossed arms, his right eye pressed against flesh. His left eye was open. The bird came into view, a foot from him. It cocked its head to the right, then to the left, staring at his face. If he blinked, it would panic, he believed. It flapped again, and its wings dragged in the sand on the upflap, flipping some of the sand at his face.

Luckily, none of the sand landed in his eye. He kept staring at it, even when it took another step toward him and flapped again. He could feel the movement of air from its wings on his face, and this time a particle of sand did land on his eye. But Aataki did not flinch, did not blink. The sand grain tickled his eye and he desperately wanted to move, but he forced himself not to give in to the urge.

The bird turned and stepped to the crest of the dune and peered toward the waterhole. Aataki blinked once, but the sand grain did not move. It vocalized again, but this time the sound was a low hum. The bird’s air sac barely inflated and deflated as it made the sound. He could hear answering hums, which sounded as if the other birds were nearer the water. Before he could blink again, the prairie chicken turned around again and looked back at him and flapped again.

Another bird appeared next to the first. It walked out of sight, above his head, in the direction of the little bluestem clump. He heard it flutter up, and imagined it was catching a grasshopper (an aataki). He hated his childhood name – he wanted a warrior’s name, not the name given to a hyperactive child. The sound of the second bird’s beak crunching on its prey was overly loud. The sand grain in his eye felt huge, but the first bird was still looking in his direction.

The second bird must have circled the little bluestem clump, for suddenly he felt it land on his back. It must not have liked the feeling of the rough churro wool of the blanket, for it shifted its feet, and then seemed to run in place on its back, like the male prairie chickens do when gathering in the spring to show for the females. The second bird then jumped up and down twice (as the male birds also do in the spring.) After the second jump, it stopped, and Aataki felt its feet pointing the direction opposite to where his face was directed.

The first bird turned back to face the water, and again flapped while standing, flapping again and again, like it was exercising its wings. Aataki blinked and blinked, hoping the bird on his back would not see his eyelids move. The sand grain slid down to the bottom of his eye, which began to water, but when it did, the sand grain no longer scratched the eyeball.

Both birds suddenly flew. Aataki waited for several long seconds, and then lifted his head to be able to see down at the water. A coyote, noisily lapping water, was the only creature visible.

Related photo essay: Lesser Prairie Chicken