I have never told this tragic tale before. I was warned not to. It is over twenty years since it happened.

I was stationed on a high peak overlooking a long lake in the Rocky Mountains. I watched for fires and lightning strikes in the forest below me. The only way up to the lookout building was by helicopter.

The landscape near the summit was a desolate rocky, snowy, windswept plateau. Only in late summer did the snow completely melt, then the bare rocky summit was highlighted by patches of moss and the occasional severely stunted evergreen shrub.

The birds that frequently wandered over the rocky moss covered plateau were about the size of a small chicken. The birds were a light mottled grey colour. They were Mountain Ptarmigan which usually walked around in a group, searching for food. They looked like a family of birds. They behaved like a mother and her nearly adult chicks. I would see the flock every day or two meandering along the moss-covered areas of the plateau, searching for seeds or bugs to eat. Sometimes they would walk by the lookout. I would go outside to see how close they would let me approach. They were not very afraid of me but they had a comfort zone. It was a distance boundary I was not allowed to cross. I could come as close as fifteen feet before they would turn and walk away. They seemed to be very calm and curious.

One day when the birds came by I thought about trying to catch one. There was a storage area at the bottom of the lookout tower. I went outside and opened the three foot square door to the lookout ground floor storage area. Inside was a flat dirt floor with some paint cans stored in a corner. First I slowly circled the birds and moved behind them. I was then in a position to drive the birds past the lookout's open door. The birds moved forward toward the open door. I had to startle them a little for this to work. Moving quickly they scurried by the lookout and one went in the open door way. I closed the door to give the bird time to calm down. Using a flashlight I went inside the storage area and caught the bird in the corner of the room.

The Ptarmigan weighed almost nothing. I was surprised at how light it was to hold. It felt like holding a bird skeleton covered with feathers. I gently stroked its head and back feathers trying to calm it. I did not wanting to stress the bird out for too long, so took it outside and let it go on the ground. It scurried away to a safe distance.

The next time the helicopter pilot came to deliver supplies he saw the Ptarmigan flock wandering about on the plateau not far from the helipad, so he knew where the birds were.

One day the pilot was talking on the radio, while he was working in the area. He mentioned the Ptarmigan. He planned to go hunting, and might get himself some birds. I didn't think that was at all sporting, since the birds had very little fear of humans.

One afternoon a helicopter flew to the lookout helipad and landed. There was no delivery scheduled for that day. The helicopter was shut down. The pilot and another man got out. The pilot took out a rifle case from the helicopter. He removed a shotgun from the case. He walked toward the flock of Ptarmigan which weren't far away. It was like shooting ducks in a barrel. The birds had no idea what was happening. The pilot walked up close enough so he had no chance of missing the birds. One by one he shot all the birds. It was a sickening, cowardly act. Not sporting at all. That was it for my birds. In a few seconds they were all dead.