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Tucson Audubon Society
Quest for the Snowcock
by Karen McBride
Article first appeared in the October 2004 Vermilion Flycatcher
newsletter
(to receive the award-winning Vermilion Flycatcher newsletter, join
the Friends of Tucson Audubon)
After searching unsuccessfully for the Mountain Quail in western Yosemite for four long days (we did hear them), my non-birding spouse, Jim, was about ready to go back home. Now I think he’s ready to have me committed!
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I suggested that we go east through Nevada and stop off at Elko. Was that subtle, or what? You’ve probably heard that there’s a special bird to chase in the Ruby Mountains south of Elko. It’s a large, introduced game bird called the Himalayan Snowcock. For many birders, it has taken several trips to see a Snowcock because of its high mountain/remote habitat, the unpredictable weather, and the strenuous climb it takes to avoid the cost of the 4-day horseback trip alternative. With all of our backpacking experience, I figured that we could do it on our own.
So, in the early morning we loaded up our packs with food and clothes for two nights, then added my scope on top of that. Oh, my! I had forgotten about THOSE muscles. We drove 37 miles south of Elko to the end of the Lamoille Canyon road. The first two miles up to Island Lake were easy, even though the well-graded trail begins above 8,000 feet. The next 600 feet weren’t so easy as we climbed the rocky, brushy slope above the lake and searched for a flat spot to pitch our tent above 10,000 feet. From studying all the reports of sightings, I knew which direction to aim the entrance of the tent…toward the cirque at the right-hand side of Thomas Peak.
There were several Snowcock alarm calls when we arrived, so I knew the birds were there, but even though I peered through the light rain with my scope from inside the tent for four hours (while fighting off swarms of mosquitoes), I did not see them. I was entertained, however, watching Black Rosy-Finches, American Pipits, Mountain Bluebirds, Clark’s Nutcrackers, Rock Wrens and a large, impressive mountain goat. Later in the afternoon it rained in earnest and there were no more calls from the Snowcocks.
We cooked our Mountain House dinner inside the tent, put on wool hats and wool socks, and snuggled into our down sleeping bags. There was extremely close lightening, thunder, and eventually hail. We will remember that night as the worst one we have ever spent in the mountains, and we have spent many! Thoughts filled our heads of our tent being ripped from its stakes, flattened, tumbled, and blown over the escarpment with us inside. We lay there wide-eyed as the heavy rain and violent wind battered us throughout the night. From time to time, the cadence changed to hail, but the thunder never let up and the wind continued to howl. The temperature dropped into the high 30s. Amazingly, the tent stakes held. Needless to say, we were all alone in the upper basin.
I started from an exhausted sleep at 5:30 the next morning to the eerie elk-like bugling of Himalayan Snowcocks! The piercing calls echoed around the cirque and floated down from the clouds. The wind was calmer and I could tell that the birds were calling from the top of the ridge, lost in a fog bank, but I got dressed and bundled up in the tent entrance with binoculars and scope aimed at the ridge. The wind in my face was icy and my hands quit working as I waited. About 6:30, I was able to see the top of the ridge and the upper cirque more clearly. There were many flight and contact calls going on and I’m sure at least ten Snowcocks were communicating, but I couldn’t find them. Finally two birds flew down from the ridge onto a rocky slope below as I watched them through my binoculars. They spread their wings to land, showing white patches, and making loud kukking and wheeking noises throughout the flight. Eventually another bird joined them from the ridge top, also calling all the way down.
Thunder again. Oh, no. Even though I wanted to stay and watch longer through my scope, the rain began again. Heavy clouds blanketed the whole cirque and we were losing visibility. We quickly took down the tent, packed up all the muddy, wet gear, and picked our way down the slippery slope, arriving back at the car about 8:30 a.m. A hot breakfast on the way back to town brought my fingers back to life, and over a steaming cup of coffee, we reflected on the truly memorable night of August 22, 2004.
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This page was updated on 02/21/06