Brainerd, Minn. – My chain saw slicing through bur oak, sawdust flew, blanketing the snow like sprinkles on a frosted cupcake. The tree was about 20 inches in diameter and fell to the frozen ground with a thud. I admired my handiwork for a moment, the huge tree laying in the snow next to its trunk, which stood about 3 feet tall. I had plans for the fallen tree.
I dropped that oak a decade ago, the final step in a roughly 1-acre habitat project I had been working on my land. I had clear-cut the area around the oak. The trees in this location had been so thick that the upper canopy shaded out any new growth. And all the lower limbs on the mature trees had long since died. From ground level, nary a living twig grew, allowing me an unobstructed view for more than 50 yards. Not your ideal habitat for most wildlife.
Now, back to early morning last week, when I pussyfooted in the predawn darkness to a photography blind I had placed a week earlier overlooking the fallen oak, which was now aged and covered in colorful green moss. I had left the stump because grouse prefer drumming from logs that contain some obstruction, such as a stump or root ball. The 10-year-old clear cut surrounding the oak had sprouted into ideal wildlife habitat, an early succession forest consisting of aspen, birch, basswood, ironwood, hazel, and others trees and shrubs.
With my photography gear in place, telephoto lens poking through a port in my blind, I waited and hoped for the arrival of an amorous male ruffed grouse.
The sky was cloudy. Daylight was slow to arrive. I heard the calls of sandhill cranes, trumpeter swans, Canada geese, mallards, wood ducks and various songbirds in the distance, all welcoming the new day.
And then, a grouse appeared. I didn't see him approach his drumming stage. The log was empty one second; the next the bird was in plain sight about 20 feet away. I looked at my phone. It was 6:40 a.m.
The grouse, a gray-phase bird, seemed totally unaware of my presence in the blind. But it was still too dark for good photos, so I simply watched.
Without hesitation, the grouse began a drumming sequence. From a precise location on the log, he leaned back, his spread tail feathers flat against the log. Then be started to beat his wings, slowly at first, then faster and faster until his wings were just a blur.
Male ruffed grouse drum to attract a female, and to warn other males about their territory. The drumming sound is made as the bird strikes the air with its wings vigorously enough to create a brief vacuum, in effect, causing a miniature sonic boom. A drumming sequence may contain as many as 40 or 50 wing beats, and lasts for a mere seven to 10 seconds. On the average, a male ruffed grouse drums about every four minutes.
Sufficient light filled the area, and I shot still images and video. Eventually — at 8:41 a.m. — the grouse left the log and wandered off.
I sat alone in my blind for a few minutes and contemplated what had just taken place. The saga had actually begun 10 years prior, and now I was reaping the benefits of the work. And so were grouse and other wildlife.
To say my efforts were gratifying would be an understatement.
Bill Marchel is an outdoors writer and photographer. He lives near Brainerd. Reach him at bill@billmarchel.com.
