It was a clear day, but at nearly 12,000 feet, the crisp air steadily permeated my layers, and snow crept into my hiking boots, advancing toward my already-numb toes. I continued climbing up a snow-soaked slope at Guanella Pass in Colorado, leaving postholes as I progressed incrementally toward a level spot from where I could methodically scan my surroundings.
Guanella Pass rises 3,000 feet above the town of Georgetown in north-central Colorado. In late November, the landscape around the pass was already in the grip of winter — gleaming snow blanketed the slopes, icicles hung from gray cliffs, and snow-drenched spruce trees were visible far below. I was looking for ptarmigan, small grouse with an odd common name. Derived from a Scottish Gaelic word, ptarmigan means “croaker” because of the throaty and hoarse vocalizations typically given by ptarmigan. Yet, as I looked at the snowbound mountains surrounding me, I thought the German name “Schneehuhn,” which literally translates as snow chicken, seemed more appropriate.
Most people remained tucked under warm blankets or were enjoying a hot breakfast with family after a Thanksgiving feast the night before. I instead found myself high in the icy Rocky Mountains, worrying about losing a digit while trying to find a pure white bird among snowdrifts. I steadied myself as my lungs eagerly sucked in air to resupply my fatigued calf muscles. Raising my binoculars, I began to scan the slopes, ravines, and distant ridges. Scanning, breathing, scanning, breathing until I suddenly noticed something
