It was September 2011, while on a business trip to British Columbia, I first learned of an event that would captivate me for the rest of my life. At the end of an exhausting day in Prince Rupert, where I was participating in a Canada-United States Dixon Entrance oil spill exercise, I sat on my hotel bed, zombie-like, methodically clicking through the TV channels for something to watch before turning in for the day. I could find nothing that appealed to me until I stumbled upon a documentary produced by Nebraska Public Media. Entitled Crane Song, it highlighted the story of North America’s Sandhill Crane migration, which includes a month-long stopover in the Platte River Valley in Central Nebraska. I was shocked to learn that over 800,000 Sandhill Cranes come to this area between mid-February and mid-April to add to their fat reserves before continuing on to their breeding grounds in northern Canada, western and northern Alaska, and eastern Siberia.
Even though I had grown up in southeastern Nebraska, I was unaware of this spectacle, which I later learned is considered to be one of the top three wildlife migrations in the world. While the cranes had been coming to the Platte River Valley for an estimated 15,000 years, Rowe Sanctuary, which was highlighted in the documentary, had only been created in 1974. That was the year I moved to Arizona.
Crane Song also told the story of Paul Johnsgard, another Nebraskan, who became entranced when first witnessing the Sandhill Crane migration as a young boy with his father. He went on to become a renowned ornithologist, the world’s leading crane expert, and frequent visitor to Rowe Sanctuary. While I was convinced that my mom and I must travel the next March to see the cranes and take a guided crane tour, I was totally dismissive of the spell that the cranes had allegedly cast onto Mr. Johnsgard.
Having done my homework, on January 4, 2012, the first business day of the new year, I was ready. Not knowing how quickly the 2012 crane tours would be fully booked, at precisely 8:00 a.m. in Nebraska (which was 5:00 a.m. in Alaska), I made my fateful call. It happened to be the Rowe Sanctuary Director who answered the phone. He confirmed that in fact, I was the first person to request a reservation for the upcoming crane season. Since I was coming from so far and the experiences are very different, he recommended I book both an evening and a morning tour.
After flying to Nebraska that March, I first visited my mom, who was eighty-two at the time and still living on the farm where I grew up. On the appointed day, with great anticipation, we hopped into her Jeep Cherokee for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Kearney in central Nebraska. By mid-March, the countryside had mostly emerged from the winter’s snow. During the first part of the drive over the undulating highway, the short stubble from last year’s corn and soybean crops wound around soil-saving terraces. It was still too early for the farmers to plant their crops for the year. We passed the time by checking out the farmsteads, both old and new, and imagining how streams like Antelope Creek received their names.
Passing through Lincoln, we searched the skyline for the iconic four-hundred-foot-tall Nebraska Capitol Building. The tallest building in the state until 1962, the sun glinted off its gold-tiled dome, which is topped by a nineteen-foot-high bronze statue of “The Sower,” a tribute to Nebraska’s agricultural heritage. On the west side of Lincoln, we found the entrance ramp for Interstate 80 (I-80), which would take us the remaining 132 miles of our journey.
Having left the rolling hills behind, we now drove through the classic, broad expanse of flatland, which is part of the Great Plains. There was nary a hill nor a curve in the road to be found. Now our views included idle, wheeled irrigation systems, which during crop season, pull water from the famous Ogalala Aquifer to supplement the area’s natural rainfall.
Having our senses dulled a bit by the monotony of the landscape, we passed the outskirts of Grand Island, a city of approximately 50,000 residents that lies along the Platte River. It was then that we saw our first Sandhill Cranes… not just one or two, but hundreds of them in the cornfields adjacent to the interstate. We were in seventh heaven! We were now excited and fully alert as we drove the last forty miles to Kearney, which proudly proclaims itself as “the Sandhill Crane Capital of the World.”
By mid-afternoon, having checked into our hotel, we backtracked fifteen miles on I-80 to the Rowe Sanctuary sign at the Gibbon Exit. Leaving the interstate, we turned south onto Lowell Road for five miles. After crossing the last of three bridges over the braided Platte River, we once again began seeing cranes in adjacent cornfields. Turning onto Elm Island Road, we had just two miles to go to reach the Iain Nicolson Audubon Center at Rowe Sanctuary. While the distance was short, it ended up taking us over an hour to reach the visitors center. We could not resist pulling off on the side of the gravel road after seeing dozens of cranes just a hundred feet or so away.
Sitting in Mom’s Jeep, which acted as a blind, and gazing out open windows, we saw, for the first time up close, these large and beautiful, ground-dwelling birds. Standing almost four-feet tall on long, thin, black legs with wingspans of six to seven feet, each individual crane, let alone dozens of them, was a wondrous sight to behold. Their small heads, which sit atop a long, elegant neck, include alert, yellow eyes and red skin patches running from the tops of their heads down to the beginnings of their long, straight bills. Their short tails are covered by drooping wing feathers that form “bustles,” which add to their beauty.
While we watched, totally mesmerized, some cranes poked at the ground with their pointed bills searching for something to eat, while others flew short distances, danced, tossed pieces of corn stalks into the air, or chased each other, perhaps defending their territory. At the same time, we could hear their vocalizations as they chattered with each other. We were thrilled!
We arrived at the visitors center in time to discover more about these amazing birds. We learned that the cranes spend the day in the cornfields eating waste grain and picking through cow pies, as well as in wet meadows, where they feast on invertebrates, seeds, and berries in addition to the occasional frog, mouse, and snake. Every evening, they fly to the Platte River to roost overnight. The river’s sandbars, which are covered by a few inches of water, provide the cranes with a place to sleep that is safe from predators.
We also learned that the vast majority of the Platte River, can no longer be used by cranes during their stopover. With seventy percent of the historic flows diverted for other uses, and dams preventing annual floods, much of the river has become choked with trees and shrubs. As a result, the river is forced into a narrower channel, which is too deep and swift for the cranes to use. However, on Rowe Sanctuary, heavy equipment is used to keep the river clear of trees and brush, which provides the cranes with a number of suitable roosting areas.
Following our orientation, we departed the visitors center along with the rest of our group, which numbered thirty guests in all. Walking quietly between our two guides, we could hear crane vocalizations in the distance. The trail, which was adjacent to a cornfield on the left and a row of stately, seemingly ancient, cottonwood trees on the right, came to a wooden fence about one-quarter of a mile from the center. Turning to the right, we followed the fence for a couple hundred feet to the L-shaped wooden blind, known as Jamalee.
Our anticipation continued to build as one of our guides held the door open so we could walk inside. Placing day packs and extra clothing underneath a bench running along the back wall, we each selected one of the twelve-by-twelve-inch windows that were staggered vertically along the front of the blind. With our heads just inside the windows, we had an expansive view both up and down the Platte River. Now, all we had to do was relax, be in the moment, and wait for the show to begin. The time was 6:45 p.m.
Around 7:15 p.m., cranes began flying out of the fields and wet meadows to secondary staging areas close to, but beyond, the trees lining the edge of the river. What began as small rivulets of cranes in the sky soon became a flood, and then a torrent, as wave after wave after wave of cranes appeared in our field of view, flew upriver, and landed just beyond the river. Just as wondrous as seeing the cranes was hearing their vocalizations, which included mated pairs and family groups calling to keep track of each other amidst the first hundreds and then thousands of cranes. In addition, we were delighted to hear the distinctive whistles and squeaks of the juveniles. To further enhance the sounds, as suggested by our guides, we cupped our hands behind our ears as we leaned into the windows.
As the sun dropped closer to the horizon, we were treated to a gorgeous (and classic) red Nebraska sunset, which served to further accentuate the beauty of the evening. At the same time, the cranes began lifting off from their secondary staging area. Now they were flying much lower and in multiple directions. Then, as we held our breath, a single crane landed on a sandbar covered in a few inches of water near the blind. At that point, as if on cue, more and more and more cranes began landing. It was if the sky had opened up and was raining cranes as thousands descended from the sky, literally filling the river around us. Their silhouettes against the sunset, with heads and legs outstretched, was stunning. And the sound… the sound made our hearts ache.
As the cranes glided with outstretched wings out of the sky and down to the river, their long, thin legs dangled underneath their bodies. They looked like little paratroopers. Upon landing, they typically took a few steps forward to slow their momentum and then stopped before taking drinks of water. It was magical. After it was too dark to see the cranes clearly, our guides led us back to the center. Driving back to our hotel, we were in awe of what we had just witnessed. I was catching the fever.
As promised by the center director, viewing the cranes in the morning was a different, but also special experience. This time, we followed our guide in the dark back to Jamalee, where we eagerly, but quietly, peered out the blind windows to see if any cranes might be close. We were not to be disappointed. The dawn revealed thousands of cranes in front of the blind and as far as our eyes could see. The rising sun first cast a red glow across the sky, then highlighted the cranes in beautiful morning light. As the cranes awakened, they vocalized to each other, stretched, drank, and danced. Then, over the course of the next hour, they flew off in mated pairs and family groups to nearby fields and wet meadows. It was stunning as well. After the cranes left the river, we walked back to the visitors center once again in awe of what we had seen.
As a result of our visit, in less than twenty-four hours, I came down with a severe case of “Sandhill Crane fever.” I realized that, just like Paul Johnsgard, the cranes had also cast their spell on me. It was at that moment when I decided the best cure for my fever was to become a volunteer during crane season, beginning the very next year. Having joined the ranks of “Certified Craniacs,” I am happy to report that the remedy worked and witnessing this annual migration continues to make my heart sing.