Thursday May 7, 2026 David Oslund Palmville Rust Grouse

 

  I took a stroll on a firebreak late one afternoon last week, paying attention to what was around me, similar to what Tallie Habstritt from Roseau does along roadsides, or my friend Arthur, in Sacramento, does carrying his Canon camera and huge telephoto lens, when I looked up and saw, what I thought, was an odd-looking Ruff Grouse ahead of me about fifteen feet. I took an picture of it with my cracked-face cellphone, then just stood still waiting to see what it would do next.

The thing was, this wasn’t just any Ruff Grouse … And no, it wasn’t a Sharptail Grouse or a ringneck pheasant (C’mon, I know the difference.) So I just waited, not moving a muscle, just like I would do having the wind in my favor as I hunted deer. It’s happened several times that they walk straight toward me unsure what I am. This time, however, I was unsure what it was. 

 

On it slowly came, one literal inch at a time, holding its tensed body erect, its odd-colored ruff all fluffed out and waving excitedly from side to side/forward and backward in an exaggerated motion like a cluster of leaves in a strong wind. Its arced tail, tightly fanned out to extreme, bobbed to its every slow, precise, step -- to a point when it stopped its snail-like charge and looked up at me in astonishment as though it finally saw me too. I don't know what was going on in his head, but mine said,

 HE'S ORANGE!

 

 

 No question about it, it is orange!

   We had a staring contest. All 18 of our toes fairly clenched to our soft earth locations, our hearts beating wildly -- well, I could only imagine his was because, obviously, he was all gussied up for love and wearing a large flowing Rust Orange Victorian ball gown with a feathered bustle and ruffled collar which he kept flashing at me as he nervously pecked at the leaf-strewn dirt of the firebreak. 

   This courting behavior rung ominously familiar per my early 'near-fatal' experience with a rooster pheasant titled, Shades of Timothy Treadwell. I instinctively, albeit slowly, looked around for a strong stick should it become necessary to defend myself--again.

    The Rust Grouse's love object wove herself among the upper branches of a popple tree opposite me trying to lure him to her. Standing my ground, stock-still, I watched as he literally inched his way toward me, one one-inch long foot at a time, then the other. . . ever so cautiously . . . then past me just-inches away from my boots. When he determined he was safe, he 'quickly' disappeared in a brush pile presumably to relieve himself of  twenty long minutes of tension; I know I had to. 

   We call this bird a 'David Oslund Palmville Rust Grouse,' as it was David, who after receiving an image I had sent him offered up his own idea of classification. Perfect!

 

   The grouse wasn’t afraid of my approach on foot or on my four-wheeler. On foot, he walked directly toward me, passing within inches of my boots as he passed by, both of us staring at the other. I twisted to my right as he walked by, following him with my camera. 

 

   When I approached on the four-wheeler, then stopped the engine, he came on never slowing down, flipping leaves and dirt up or to either side, his rust-colored ruff busily 'flashing.' Then he crossed the trail in front of me and took a swing of about 25 feet to go around me, then came back onto the trail continuing on his way. .

 

   Hoping to get a better image.