Jon and I have been here before—heavy legs and burning lungs. We’ve circled this peak, crossing boulder field after boulder field. It’s taken nearly four hours to complete the circuit around this 12,000-foot Uinta peak. I’m drained. Ida’s standard Lab trot has surrendered to a nearby amble.

But then I see it—for most, it would be easy to miss. The rotating tail, the slight uptick in pace. I know Ida smells birds. I hail the setter, Hawk, who’s been running full tilt since the tailgate dropped.

We climb another 75 yards, and I see Hawk snap, freeze, and crouch into danger-close mode. As we close on him, I can make out birds sunning on this alpine shelf.

Six years ago, I convinced Jon to join me for the first hunt of his life—climbing the highest mountains in Colorado in search of ptarmigan. It was a monumental ask. I knew those hunts would be extremely difficult. Maybe I downplayed that, or maybe Jon’s inexperience favored me—he readily agreed.

On that trip, we spent days climbing peaks and burning up dogs outrunning afternoon thunderstorms. And we never saw a bird.

That’s the exact opposite of how most mentors approach hunting with friends. The general thought is to provide an environment with early success so that those new to the pursuit are hooked. But I’ve been bothered by this idea of “success” in hunting. I want to believe that success lies in the act itself, not in the heft of the game bag. And Jon is a casualty of this theory.

But this is the way White-tailed Ptarmigan hunting goes in the lower 48. The same things that draw me to the pursuit are likely the things that deter others: they live in the highest of places in thin air; it takes physical torture to get there; density of bird populations is unknown and unreported; they are where they are with little explanation; and bag limits are low even when they’re found.

Jon has stuck with it—despite all my bias and his desire to shoot a first bird.

I’ve always believed there’s an element of fortune in ptarmigan hunting. The mountains take tolls in pounds of flesh. Luck is needed to intersect birds in these massive wildernesses before being spent, even with the aid of long-running dogs.

On Jon’s third attempt at high-elevation ptarmigan, we’re back to climbing ever higher across boulder fields, hoping we’ve trained enough to sustain a long enough hunt for the upland gods to smile upon us. This peak lacks some of the elevation of our previous ventures, but it’s guarded by talus that extends hundreds of yards. Luckily, we’re not hunting summits, so we skirt around the base and let the setter do the heavy lifting.

Hawk is holding steady on these birds, and I try to position Jon for the best opportunity at the coming flush as I keep Ida at heel. When I release her, the four birds I initially saw multiply into the biggest ptarmigan flush we’ve ever seen—sixteen birds take wing. I snap a shot too quickly, then lock in for the second. I hear Jon’s salvo while I mark my downed bird.

Even when everything aligns, there are still unforeseen hitches. I was expecting retreat from the setter, but these birds snagged the prevailing wind and flew toward us. The spinning shots were challenging, and Jon wasn’t able to connect. But it’s a big group of birds, so we decide to follow the flush.

We put the wind at our backs and begin trekking around the nearest spine.

Just as we round the point where I imagine Hawk locked in, we’re met with two people uphill of us with cameras—apparently photographing the dogs… us… actually, I’m not sure what the hell they’re doing. We’re remote—so remote that we’ve only seen a handful of people the last few days, and nobody on the same mountain. When we started this climb, we were the only vehicle at the trailhead. How in the hell did these two people happen to stumble into the middle of our hunt in this massive national forest?

It doesn’t really matter. I look at Jon, shrug, and tell him to break open the shotgun.

I can see the dogs now believe these two guests have joined our hunting party. Honestly, they have to be right in the midst of our birds. I start walking uphill toward our new “friends.” When the sun hits the right angle, I can see it’s an older couple. The man is farther uphill, and Hawk has begun hunting for him.

When I get within conversing distance of the woman, I ask, “Did you see the birds?”

“No.”

At that moment, Ida—who is back at heel—springs forward and flushes a bird five feet from the woman’s left foot. She raises her hands triumphantly and starts shouting, “Life List! Life List!” Ida continues to flush ptarmigan in front of her.

Uphill, I see Hawk leaning into a point for the guy. I shout up to him, “Stay close to that dog—he’ll show you where the birds are!” He’s snapping pictures; birds flush; Hawk repositions. More birds. More pics.

I learn from the woman that they’ve been on this mountain for two days, crawling across boulder fields trying to cross off White-tailed Ptarmigan from their Life List. Without the dogs finding these birds for us—and for them—they might still be on that mountain, crawling across endless talus.

I pull the bird from my vest and offer it to the woman. I tell her, “You’re never going to get closer than this.” She gives a short, disappointed “Awwww” accompanied by an unhappy face, but extends her hand. I place the bird in it, and her demeanor changes instantly. “It’s still warm!”

We share a few additional words. Of course, we get the standard, “Do you eat them or just shoot them for fun?” (It’s annoying this is still part of the narrative of hunting.)

I tell Jon the hunt’s over, and we leave the shotguns open across our shoulders, hiking an hour downhill to the trailhead.

We just gave up Jon’s best chance at a first ptarmigan. We opted to let this couple complete their photo session and round out their Life Lists. And we’ll likely talk about them and this hunt in the years to come far more than if they hadn’t been part of it.

When we get to the truck, I quickly clean my bird and pluck two white tail feathers to leave with a note on the birders’ car.

It would be interesting to hear them tell the story of this day.

We had every right to continue hunting—but at what cost?

I have full faith that the bird-hunting gods will reward our decision tenfold.

A few days later, we return to the mountains, where Jon finally checks off his own Life List. But this story will always be less about birds in hand and more about our encounter with two birders in the bush.

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