Essays

Moseying: Exploring the Natural World

Sandhill Cranes make holy Llanero music
December 17, 2003

The sonorous trumpeting of sandhill cranes means winter has come to the Llano Estacado. If you never have heard it, you should. Cranes spend the night in salt playas, standing in shallow water, in groups of hundreds and thousands. "Hie" yourself out to the salt playa south of Midland sometime this winter, and learn the most glorious song of the Llano Estacado! Every Llanero should know the voice of the crane.

The cranes speak of the centuries. Archaic Indians, the Folsom culture, mammoths and dire wolves all heard the cranes. The long strings of cranes at sunset returning to the roost sites in playa lakes come in rhythmic waves, continuing to the very last light and the final escape of the winter sun’s gentle warmth. It seems that each crane calls in turn, their music undulating the length of the curved line, a chant holy and as sonorous as those of medieval Christian monks.

Their aerial momentum is regal: unlabored, dignified, a stately 30 miles per hour. Even on the ground their walk is graceful and unhurried. A Sandhill Crane’s blue-gray color fades into the gray-gold of the prairie. At times I have been a half mile from a hundred feeding on the ground, and have been unaware of their presence, until one brags of a juicy cottonrat just caught, or of finding a tasty root or plump grubworm pupae. In twilight they melt and become invisible as they settle into shallow water. At midday the blue sky swallows a flight. They have the power of the anti-mirage—to remain invisible within visual range.

Cranes demonstrate an intelligent curiosity. When I am behaving out of the work-day norm (chasing Longspurs and Horned Larks in sacaton grass, for example), cranes will circle, or fly low. The cranes’ watchfulness is analytical, drawing upon extensive memory. Their vision is as keen as their voices resounding, encompassing two miles or more. Sandhill Cranes play. A well-fed flock soars for an afternoon’s entertainment, twisting, banking, diving, and sideslipping. At such times it can appear to be a contest; one or two perform a maneuver, then others follow suit. Others overtake the lead cranes, the lead exchanged over and over. I have followed a lone crane who never flew, but kept ahead of me, occasionally stopping as if to say “hurry up! what is keeping you?”

Go south on Fairgrounds Road, all the way to where it dead ends, then turn left and go a mile or so and turn right on the first paved road. A sign will say the town of Midkiff is down that away somewheres, but you are only going a half dozen more miles. On your right will be a large salt playa, with water from the fall rains. Park on the side of the road, and wait until the sun has set. As the sun sets strings of cranes come soaring in and you will hear the glorious trumpeting.

Don't cross the fence -- this is west Texas, you know, and trespassing is poor form. Walk along the road while you are waiting -- you are walking on gyp loess soils, silty soil blown out of the playa. It is extremely alkaline, and the plants that live along the road are only found in gyp soils. In the spring will be gyp puccoon, and spiny perennial nama, and the strange parasitic broomrape that is attached to the lemony blooming bluff daisy, as well as the colorful and variable local species of Indian Paintbrush.

I once got permission to hike on the ranch that borders the lake, and closer to the water I found bizarre plants like pickleweed. On the first rise above the lake I found mariola (which has small amounts of rubber in it!) The small bluffs on the north end of the lake are eroded by wind and water and have strange eroded formations such as tunnels and arches. Salt lakes are bizarre places to visit, and unfortunately few are on public land. You can find salt-mummified animals and insects along their shores. When a rain first falls, the water is not too salty, but as it dries, the water becomes more and more salty, until salt crystals form on anything that ends up in the lake. When the lake first looks dry, it is not. Although the top is hard and crusted, the soil beneath is still saturated, and anything that ventures out gets sucked under.

Up at Shafter Lake, there is supposedly several automobiles from 1916 that had been parked on the lake after a race on the dry bottom. A storm miles away dumped several inches of rain, and the lake filled, and the cars slowly sunk out of sight. Shafter Lake has a salamander the size of a dinosaur. (Not really, but the cowboys at the short-lived town of Shafter Lake made up the story to explain what happened to the cars!) The famous wild white stallion of the Llano Estacado ended its life by jumping into Yellowhouse Salt Lake from a bluff into the "quickmud" of that playa. It had been chased by mesteneros for days, and when the horsecatchers believed they had finally trapped it, it made the conscious decision to die free, never to be caught.

Often there is a freshwater spring at the edge of a salt playa. The Comanche Quanah Parker was supposedly born at Lagunas Sabinas or Cedar Lake, near Seagraves, at such a spring. Sometimes the springs were not visible, and early explorers and Indians knew to dig in the sandy soils at the mouth of arroyos. Within three or four feet the soil would be moist, and if left for a few hours, would slowly fill with water.

In a Lea County history book, the story is told of a well near a playa that had been dug by Indians. It had been covered over with a buffalo hide, and dirt piled over it, effectively hiding it from a casual passerby. The hole was five feet deep and three feet around, and was filled with sweet water. I have found mention of other such hidden water holes in Centralia Draw near Styles, of springs rocked over in the Guadalupe Mountains, and in the Stockton Plateau. I wonder if the Indians hid waterholes only during the times they were chased by soldiers or Texas Rangers, or if they had always done so, as a way to ensure water when crossing the dry stretches of west Texas.

If you listen closely to incantations of the cranes, they tell you those old stories. Their wild cries reach deep into the soul, letting the imagination free. Listen to the cranes, yes, listen to the cranes -- you will never be the same! When you hear the cranes each fall as they return, tears will come to your Llanero eyes. You will be hearing holy voices, voices that reaffirm the bounteous and glorious turn of the seasons with which we are blessed.