Essays

Moseying: Exploring the Natural World

Sandhill cranes, again
February 16, 2005

“There is an almost albino burrowing owl out at the tank farm!” reported members of the Midland Naturalists (Midnats.) Deborah and I had to go see, and sure enough, there he was. At first, with just his head poking out a prairie dog hole, he just looked like a hunk of caliche. He has a whitish head and chest, but his back is a little darker. After we had sat and watched for ten minutes, he came out of the hole to bluff a nearby prairie dog. He lifted his wings open and pirouetted like a ballet dancer. The prairie dog kept feeding, slowly drifting toward him. The owl bowed his head, seeming to pick something off the ground and returned to his hole.

As it was only 5.30 p.m. on a wonderfully sunny weekend afternoon, Deborah and I did not want to go home. “Let’s go see the cranes – JoAnn Merritt of the Midnats called Friday and said they were coming in to Salt Lake, finally.” We went south on Fairgrounds Road, all the way to where it dead ends, then turned left and went a mile or so and turned right on the first paved road. A sign says the town of Midkiff is down that a-way somewheres, but we were only going a half dozen more miles. There, on the right, is a large salt playa, full of water from the fall rains. Earlier in the winter, the Midnats had puzzled over the location of the winter roost – they had not been coming to Salt Lake.

As we drove south on the final stretch of road forty-five cranes matched our speed of forty-five miles an hour. The big birds did not even seem to be laboring at all – just a steady slow flapping. We were surprised, for usually the cranes wait until the sun has set to come in to the playa. We parked on the side of the road. During our showy winter sunsets, “strings” of cranes come soaring in, silhouetted against the oranges, reds, pinks, and purples of the clouds, gloriously trumpeting.

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, gathering in groups of hundreds and thousands. Learn the most glorious song of the Llano Estacado! Every Llanero should know the voice of the crane. For us, watching the cranes is a celebration we purposely join several times a winter. Every winter I urge every audience member of every presentation of the Sibley Nature Center to see the cranes. I believe it is a sight that should be witnessed by every resident of the region.

Watching the cranes binds us to our home bioregion – we become more enmeshed within the “soul” of our home. The cranes speak to our souls, enriching us, filling us up with awe. The cranes speak of the centuries. Archaic Indians, the Folsom culture, mammoths and dire wolves all heard the cranes. 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, and dignified. 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 workday 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?”
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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.