The wind howls from the West. Chinook, we call it. Snoweater. Down on the plains the temperatures will rise, the snow will melt, and some will wear shorts even though it is only late March. Bloody cold up here, where nothing grows to block the wind’s path. It’s been a long winter as usual, and the end is not near, but the mountains called, and we went. Labouring up the steep slope at 9,000′ of elevation I have the occasional thought of a soft couch and a steaming cup of coffee.
Preoccupied with my own thoughts, I hardly notice the change in the dog. But something is up. The wind is doing 50 miles per hour from the back, but the dog’s focus is in front. I look up and around but see nothing. A band of ewes generally hangs out here, they like the open patches that the wind creates. Then, a movement. Something stirs, and it’s white. Another one, then five, six, ten. Ptarmigan. Beautifully camouflaged they rummage in the snow-covered grass. I take some photos. With the help of the zoom on the computer screen I’ll later count twenty-seven in this covey. Hardy little beast, surviving winter up here. I’m sorry I have to spook them, but my ridge lies beyond. They scurry around nervously before flushing to the left and sailing over a cliff.
A full year and three seasons later I’m heading up the same ridge. It’s not been a good year. A nasty little virus has the world in pandemonium; and on top of that I developed a condition that doesn’t seem to want to go away. CT scans, surgery, MRI’s and maybe more surgery, I’m sick of it in more than one way. A few days of feeling OK, a spell of decent weather, and a forecast with a lot of snow in a few days has me up well before dawn, and climbing while the sun is still hiding. The snow is not too deep, and the trail has not seen too much of the thaw/freeze cycle that turns most into a sheet of ice later in the year.
After an hour of steady climbing, with daylight started, I hear voices below. I’m not the only one here. Not even on a weekday is mountain solitude guaranteed these days. My plan requires that I am the first. It only takes one hiker to chase the birds off the front face to parts unknown. Soon enough we come to the little grassy plateau underneath where I found the ptarmigan. Time to uncase the side-by-side and slip in a couple of shells. A few ewes and two lambs look at us with wide eyes. A three year old ram takes the opportunity to get a good sniff, neck stretched out, horns turned. It is the rut after all.
The young dog (almost four years old) behaves admirably. He only needs a few whispered encouragements to stay close to me and not give chase. He’s turning into a good buddy, though some of his habits still need work. We know little of his history, other than that he was born in a First-Nation’s community 200 miles North of Yellowknife. His early life may not have been easy.
We climb past the sheep, and come to where two-dozen-and-then-some birds were feeding last time. I scan around for white blobs on white/brown speckled substrate. Failing to see any, I work the binoculars, and look for pitch-black beaks and eyes. Nothing. I check the dog. No sign of agitation. Slowly we work our way up, and find lots of ptarmigan droppings, but none of their creators.
We take a break on the other side of the ridge, to glass for sheep, without luck. Before us lies a deep canyon-like valley that flattens out into treeless alpine tundra as it gains in elevation. Only the odd section is free of snow. Immediately below us lies terrain not dissimilar from that holding all the sign on the other side, but despite our search we turn up no birds and no sign. As I turn to work my way back up to the ridge, muscles protest. Three months of reduced activity, antibiotics and hospital stays are making themselves known. It’s fine, it has been a good morning.
Back at the ridge, hunkering low because of the wind, I feed the dog some treats and water, and devour my lunch. I peak over, back down the way we came, and find four hikers resting in and around the ptarmigan slope. The sheep are gone. So much for hunting that area again on the way down. Suddenly there is movement on the ridge, higher up, towards the peak. A ram appears, and looks down on us. He walks away at first but then changes his mind. He turns, follows the ridge down, and walks on over, crossing not 40 yards below us. It would have been a long shot with the longbow, but not impossible. As it is, season closed over a month ago, and I take pictures and relish being so close to a good-looking, mature ram.
Mid-afternoon we are back at the truck, with no birds to show for, but full of impressions, and new information for the next time the itch to chase birds in the alpine become unbearable.