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The flight of tens of thousands of giant sandhill cranes, a migration that follows the order of a million years of evolution, happens as we go about our March drudgery. As we scowl at the frozen potholes or stare listlessly out the window at a slate stillness, the sandhill cranes arrive in the American midwest. We might not be so miserable every day in March but it can't be denied that the month is arguably the most challenging, as winter has most of us Northern hemisphere-types dreaming of color and life. But out there, in the chilly stillness of Nebraska, a giant, diaphanous cloud reveals itself to be nothing of the sort. This is no single organism, but a formation flight of ten thousand birds. Right behind it…another. They are everywhere overhead, jockeying for a tiny sleeping space on riverine islands, filling the sky with a stereophonic chorus, an ancient calling. It's bedtime on the Platte River.
Last March, I spent a cold few days in Nebraska with fellow photographer and friend Neil Dampier (his very kick-ass website is www.neildampier.com). Although we enjoyed all the charms we didn't even know existed in wintertime Nebraska (Hamm's beer in a can, anyone? A keno lesson at the local bar n' grill?), nothing compared to the real reason we were there. Cranes. No need to delve into wikifacts here , except to say that this migration is huge, important, decidedly American, loud-as-hell, and affirming in a way that only huge nature can be affirming. The stopover in Nebraska is vital for the cranes to bulk up for their trip up to Northern Canada, Alaska and Siberia, where they breed. Something this big has to capture the attention of everyone within earshot or sight of these steroidal-like birds, to make us all look up and ponder their ancestral ways, their reason for being, and maybe our own, right? Right?? Well, not really-at least not according to the front desk girl at the Kearney Quality Inn off I-80. She hadn't noticed them. I believe she said she had never seen one.
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| How can you not notice this over your head??? |
I have to say here and now that this non-thirst for knowledge, of disinterest in her nearly-immediate space was depressing, but we were glad that the lobby wasn't filled with photographers in camo gear and lenses larger than ours. (We had thought the very high price for such a spartan hotel was due to the migration, anticipating a bird nerd riot at check-in, but soon found out it was thanks to a fancy food show in town.)
We entered our mauve room. I immediately went to the window, which faced west, the direction of the Platte, but which overlooked a Mexican restaurant with a half-Irish name: Carlos O'Kelly's. Above, a mob of cranes. Grabbing Neil's binocs, I muttered something that came from nowhere and that Neil rips on me about to this day. I peered up at them, the whole lot of them, huge and packed tightly together and out came these awestruck words: "Total formation." I am not a birder. Really. Or a nerd. I'm telling you.
After a nap to dissolve the 0330 wakeup in Maryland that same morning, we got our gear in order and planned the rest of the day. Since the sandhill cranes were mostly foraging around farm fields in the area at this hour, we decided to provision and then head to a spot near the river about an hour before sunset. We asked the front desk girl about food options (" I don't eat out") and about where I might find a 3-volt battery for some camera equipment ("maybe the Dollar Store?") and bolted.
In town, we headed for the liquor store. It was cold! What else do you expect? We also wanted to ask the college students who worked there where to eat later. After getting some local knowledge, we bought the local beer (the aforementioned Hamm's), and a small bottle of whiskey, because we were basically pretending to be Nat Geo photographers and they probably drink that stuff when they're cold. I got the battery and then we headed west.
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| Sandhill crane over a cornfield. Since it's winter, this leftover corn from last year's harvest is useless to the farmer, and the cranes are welcomed to clear it. |
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| Hamm's for Nat Geo photographer wannabes |
This would take us across I-80 into the sprawling farm fields that lay flush with waste corn , which is non-viable farmed corn from the previous season, prime feed for sandhill cranes. We pulled over almost at the first field we saw, and took a minute to assess the scene. Cranes were in the field , picking at the corn and grooming. Later, we would see the dance they are famous for (seen below).
But for now, we watched them feed and then got to see them takeoff and land. The landings are the best. Some come in gracefully on a downwind, peering below on their base leg and swooping in dramatically for a five-star touchdown. Others, as they say…not so much. The awkward ones are the best. They flare too high, correct, hang a leg down, wobble to and fro, and touch down fast, nearly falling forward like a cartoon version of reality. But most are graceful.
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| The top left crane was awkward, wobbling left and right and generally looking less sure of himself on this approach. Fun to watch! |
They remain skittish of humans, being trophies for hunters in some states (not Nebraska, more on that another time), but a car serves as a blind of sorts, so hanging the camera out the rented Jetta works pretty well. We got a few preliminary shots then made plans to head to the Platte. Fort Kearney State Park has a viewing bridge over the river and that became our go-to spot for sunsets and sunrises the next few days.
My impressions of that first sunset/moonrise: COLD. LOUD. COLD. The cacophony we came for arrived decidedly, as the cranes left whatever field they were in on the other side of the trees and took to the dusky skies. In the distance, tremendous masses of white wings appeared stationary enough for us to mistake them for a MOUNTAIN RANGE (no joke, and we do know that Nebraska is generally paper-flat, so it was that dramatic). These turned out to be another mass of migrating bird, snow geese, seen in the photo below just above the tree line.
As more and more people made their way to the bridge (some with cameras, some with binocs, most from Nebraska, judging from their red jerseys, but not the mass of humanity I had conjured), the air got colder and colder and the full moon rose above the horizon. It was a beautiful sight. My fingers were numb. Tripods luckily held our cameras because frozen fingers don't do that so well-we had underestimated the effects of teen temperatures. But the sounds of the sandhill cranes prevailed, as did the technical satisfaction of composing shots of them silhouetted against sunset and a winter moon.
The hundreds and thousands (!) of cranes maneuvered for a tiny spot to set themselves for the night, massing together, a giant slumber party. These sleeping spots were on the many islands that lay in the river, keeping them safe from predators like coyote. Here the ancient calling would eventually subside to silence as it got dark. Most of the birds landed too far from us to get any great photos, especially in the dying light, but it didn't matter. It was actually better, really. The draw of the camera can be impressive, pulling a photographer away from experiencing in an effort to "get the shot". This kind of experiential event doesn't allow that. The decibel level commands a higher state , a requirement to look around, to look away from the viewfinder, to just stand and be. I know the front desk girl would love it if she tried! Total. Formation.
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| A sandhill crane engages in play; he would throw a wood chip in the air and catch it in his beak |
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| A downhome Nebraska diner we visited several times during the shoot |
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| Nebraskans! |
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| Neil and I on the Platte River after a very early morning photo shoot |
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| Sandhill cranes taking flight, Nebraska |
All crane images and more can be viewed or purchased at www.mapphotographic.com; find the gallery directly here: http://bit.ly/1abdbTf. 50% of the profit from all images will be donated to the National Audobon Society Rowe Sanctuary. The sanctuary is dedicated to the conservation of sandhill cranes, whooping cranes and other migratory birds, and their habitat along the Platte River in south central Nebraska.
