Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/68594
dog could easily kill 50 birds a day, and daily bags of 100 or more were not uncommon. Little wonder, then, that the quantities of prairie chickens shipped to market were measured not in dozens, or even thousands, but in tons. T But as the tallgrass prairie was transformed into the Corn Belt, it all came crashing down. In Iowa, the very heart of the chicken's original range, the population peaked in the 1870s-'80s, and by 1919 the hunting season was closed, never to re-open. In 1932 the author of Birds of Minnesota, Thomas Roberts, would write: "The story of the treatment that the Prairie Chicken received and is still receiving at the hands of white men . . . is a sad and pitiful one only exceeded, perhaps, among American birds by that of the Passenger Pigeon." oday, a sportsman who wants to hunt greater prairie chickens has three destinations to choose from: the Flint Hills of Kansas, the Sandhills of Nebraska and the grasslands of central South Dakota. In addition, there are limited, residents-only seasons in southeastern North Dakota and west-central Minnesota. Several other states have chickens, notably Wisconsin, where the birds of the Buena Vista Grasslands in the central part of the state have been described as "the most intensively managed grouse in North America." This is where the world's foremost authorities on the bird, Frederick and Frances Hamerstrom, conducted their groundbreaking research – research that began under the direction of Aldo Leopold – and where they famously distilled the prairie chicken's needs to five words: good grass and wide horizons. Such simple, commonplace, everyday words – and such increasingly rare and precious commodities in 21st century America. There are encouraging signs, however. Prairie chicken consciousness – the awareness of the bird, its history and its unique ecological niche – is at an all-time high. Taking a page from the ecotourism handbook, a number of communities have begun organizing prairie chicken festivals around the opportunity to view the bird's spring courtship display – a display so impressively amazing that Native Americans patterned their own ceremonial dances after it. "Booming," it's called, and believe me when I tell you you've never seen, or heard, anything like it. Starting long before dawn, the prairie chicken cocks assemble on their booming Save the Last Dance is a breathtaking tribute to the grassland grouse of North America: prairie chickens, sharptails and sage grouse. Author Noppadol Paothong, a staff photographer for the Missouri Department of Conservation, devoted ten years to chronicling the birds' mating rituals and habitats. The hardcover, 204-page book features 130 stunning photographs, three of which appear in this article. The book is available from Sporting Classics for $45 plus $7 s&h. Call (800) 849-1004 or visit www.sportingclassics.com. SAVE THE LAST DANCE S POR T IN G CL A SSI C S 111 grounds and for the next couple hours dance their fool heads off. They inflate their neck sacs until they resemble ripe fruit, engorge their eyebrows to suggest exotic coral formations, erect their horn-like pinnae (long feathers that normally lie flat) and generally bling themselves out in aggressive contrast to the restrained, Savile Row elegance that is their usual style. They splay their primary flight feathers, too, and thrust their fanned tails skyward. They bow, they strut, they puff themselves up; they rush interlopers as if they were tiny bulls and engage in flapping clashes that result in little more than ruffled feathers. And the sounds they make! An eerie three-note call, often rendered Old mul-DOON, is their primary vocalization, but they also utter a bewildering variety of clucks, hoots, cackles and weird squalling cries that seem more appropriate to the jungle than to the prairie. They even supply their own percussion section, stamping their feet in a rat-a-tat snare that inspired the sobriquet, "drummer of love." It's an enthralling and unforgettable show. And if you think it I can't get any wilder, just wait until the hens show up. That's when things really get crazy – as in sailors on shore leave crazy. don't hunt chickens every year, but there's no bird I hunt more often in my imagination, or return to more often in memory. If any days of my life are truly hallowed, they're the ones that Andy Cook, Bill Shattuck and I spent following our dogs – Willie, Heike, Emmylou – over those billowing South Dakota prairies. Scalded by the wind, punished by the sun . . . Wrote Dion Henderson in Algonquin: "Grandsir was very careful that I did not find out too much about chickens, because he said that if I established any kind of personal relationship with them, I would not be satisfied with lesser birds afterward . . . I thought he was fooling then, but he wasn't." If you're already a prairie chicken hunter, you're nodding your head in agreement. If you're not, well, don't say you weren't warned.