THE CONDOR 
A Bi-Monthly Magazine of 
Western Ornithology 
Volume XXIV July-August, 1922 Number 4 
[Issued July 29, 1922] 
WITH THE WILLOW PTARMIGAN 
By GRACE A. HILL 
WITH FOUR PHOTOS 
HE EGGS of the Willow Ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus) in the vicinity of 
T Nome hatch about the first of July. On the fifth of July, 1915, my 
father, James F. Hill, and I made a trip ‘‘mushing’’ over the tundra north 
of Nome to where Boulder Creek joins the Synuk. At this time we saw several 
broods of the downy yellow-and-brown fledglings of these Ptarmigan. 
When we came upon the first brood the mother feigned a broken wing and 
the young hid in the tundra grass. My father caught one of the little balls of 
down which posed patiently in his hands while I took several photographs of it. 
Shortly afterwards, as we approached a small clump of willows, we saw a 
female Ptarmigan struggling in the grass as though from a mortal wound. I had 
never seen a bird in more evident distress and could not at first believe that she 
was feigning. But when I came near, she ran a few feet dragging her right 
wing. I then turned to look for the young, the little grove presenting a likely 
hiding place. 7 
Although the day was overcast, there seemed to be sufficient light to enable 
one to distinguish every detail in the carpet of dead leaves beneath the willows. 
Yet I had not taken two steps, watching carefully, when a young Ptarmigan 
scurried literally from under my foot-fall. Startled, 1 watched intently as I 
took another step ; and again one of the birds just escaped being trod upon. Evi- 
dently I was standing in the midst of the Ptarmigan’s brood, but could not dis- 
tinguish a bird until it moved. My attention focused upon a spot a few feet 
from me. Gradually the outline of a fluffy, unblinking birdling became pricked 
upon my vision. His camouflage against the brown and mottled background of 
faded leaves and twigs was perfect. 
I cast my eye about to find the rest of the brood. Having no success I 
glanced back to the spot of my discovery. The bird was gone. I gave the laurels 
to Nature and quietly crept from the field of action. 
Five weeks later we again visited Boulder Creek. We were told by two 
miners who had spent the summer on the creek, that the Willow Ptarmigan had 
congregated in the creek-bed until there were, they estimated, over four hun- 
dred Ptarmigan in the vicinity of their camp. These men told us how the female 
birds with the more than half grown young trailed up and down the stream look- 
