The prairie chickens flew in from the west to the booming grounds here, swooping down into the tall grass to stomp their feet and dance. This is where the more flamboyant males of the species like to make a ruckus in an effort to attract females with their steady, low-pitched calls, or booms.
On a recent cold morning, though, only one hen thought the display worth her time. She fluttered about and eventually flew away.
Perhaps more important to this tiny crossroads, population 275, halfway between Des Moines and Kansas City, is that the male birds are attracting human beings to Eagleville, which, like so many old Midwestern towns, is a faded relic of the robust farming community it used to be.
Each spring for the past several years since the rare prairie chickens made an unlikely resurgence here after having disappeared for decades, the local human population has essentially doubled for the four weeks or so of the birds’ elaborate courtship rituals.
More than 300 people — ornithologists and amateurs — have confirmed a spot on a guided tour to see the prairie chickens this year, and the waiting list is long, a guide said. There are only 500 or so prairie chickens in all of Missouri. There were more than 15,000 just 70 years ago. Experts say they might vanish all together in the next 10 years.
“Every one of these small communities looks for a niche, or, ‘How do we bring people back to at least let them know we exist?’” said Randy Arndt, the site manager of the Dunn Ranch in Eagleville, where the viewing of the mating ritual takes place. “It’s kind of ironic for this area, the niche ended up being a prairie chicken, something that had always been here, disappeared, and came back.”
Tourism, which had been practically unheard of here, is now a hot topic. A bed and breakfast is about to open and the few remaining old businesses are feeling the pulse of new life for the first time in decades.
“You can see things in pictures, it’s just not the same,” said Jennifer McComb, an antiques dealer from St. Louis, during a recent viewing. “I cried. It’s the whole prairie thing, and the fact that they’re on the edge of not being. There are birds that I would have died to have seen that are long gone. These, they might not make it. They’re tricky. They’re weird. They’re special.”
The prairie chicken bears only a slight resemblance to the kind of domestic chicken that is most often bred for food. The males have pronounced dark brown and cream stripes on their feathers and visible eyebrows, and orange-colored air sacs that, when deflated, make their characteristic booming sound. Hens are slightly more delicate-looking and plain.
Axel Lischewski, a German pharmaceutical manager who lives outside Frankfurt, wanted to see them before he left a temporary work assignment in Missouri. “I heard about the viewing opportunity and wanted to take the chance,” Mr. Lischewski said. “That’s a beautiful bird.”
The chickens have chosen this spot because it is the largest expanse of unplowed prairie in the region. The chickens need vast grasslands, and their decline is linked to that of the traditional prairie, which continues to vanish as the worldwide demand for food puts pressure on this region for larger harvests.
“This was a popular spot for them we know as late as 1936 but by 1950, they were gone,” said Mr. Arndt, the ranch’s site manager. “Now they’ve come back.”
The Nature Conservancy, a nonprofit organization based in Washington, owns the ranch and offers the tours at no charge.
Birders meet at the ranch before dawn and hide in a small wooden blind with rectangular slats for viewing in the middle of the grassy land. The space can fit 10 people at a time.
Now the annual booming is a boon to the community.
The town square is ghostly, but its one cafe was bustling at lunchtime, and several people who had been on an early birding tour had breakfast at a truck stop restaurant, the Dinner Bell.
Nadine Ball, an education professor from St. Louis, was eating with Ms. McComb, the antiques dealer.
“This feels real,” Ms. Ball said. “I travel so much, I get tired of the homogenized culture. You come to any little town like this, and it’s not canned. Mostly I feel sad, though — sad about the chickens, that there are so few, and because it’s so hard here. Hopefully the eco-tourism will take off.”
Lisa Cracraft is counting on that. The postmaster of nearby Denver, Mo., Ms. Cracraft is putting the finishing touches on her new bed and breakfast, a renovated mansion.
“I think this is a huge opportunity to put us on the map,” she said. “The prairie chickens really gave me the idea to even think about taking a chance on opening a business like this. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have even thought about it.”
