T’S PREDAWN in the vast ocean of sage and sand that bristles between the Wind River Range and the Owl Creek Mountains. I am ten miles from the nearest farmhouse, and the last gurgle of my ATV motor has long surrendered to the night. The surrounding land is full of quiet life; beyond the nylon tent walls of my blind, pronghorn rest warily and coyotes prowl. Somewhere a rattlesnake slips delicately through the sage roots. But I am tuned and waiting for one singular sound: the crescendo of wing beats that signals the arrival of the first sage grouse. Until then, I revel in the near silence.
