 Mountains out of Sandhills Despite being prominent members of our local birdscape there are still a number of birds with which I have a startling lack of personal knowledge. One such bird is the Sandhill Crane. It is not a rare bird; hardly a May or June day goes by when I am not stopped in my tracks by the Sandhill Crane’s blasting call. I am sure pterodactyls must have possessed the same type of vocal cords. Although the Sandhills’ are quite common, I have only a transitory relationship with these giants among birds. Mostly as they pass by overhead, or stand by the shoreline of some remote marsh or pond. Oddly, I’ve spent more time with the elusive American Bittern. One spring I lived next to a creek with an extensive riparian edge. It was home to at least one pair of Bitterns and I could watch from the concealment of the cabin windows as the birds hunted for food and interacted with each other. I even watched their fledged young take first steps through the reed canary grass. Those secretive birds marched about their world in a manner that could not be studied in any other fashion. But, until the last few days, I’ve had no such luck with Sandhill Cranes. Now, I’m ‘on the ground’ with Sandhill Cranes, and have gleaned tidbits of intimate information not learned in any bird book. It is our recent spate of bad weather that sets the stage for my walk with Cranes. During April, the Sandhill Crane is typically heard as a disembodied voice passing over the high ridge in front of the house. Sometimes it is glimpsed briefly flying over the east pasture. But this spring, the lakes and ponds that should be thawed by now, are holding onto their ice. Shorebirds and waterfowl are now congregating in small puddles waiting for larger bodies to turn liquid. Sandhill Cranes are also feeling the effects of the late chill. Three days ago I took up my usual dawn position and it immediately became apparent that several Sandhill Cranes spent the night in the east pasture pond. In a strategy to stay safe, the Cranes stand, and fall asleep, in a bit of open water about twenty feet away from the nearest shoreline. I imagine this allows the birds to awaken if they hear the splash of water signaling an approaching animal. Coyotes routinely patrol the edges of the small pond and I’m sure they wouldn’t hesitate to approach a Crane; whether they would actually attack I don’t know. So there they stand throughout the night, in frigid water almost up to their bellies. I imagine they are safe, but one can’t help think, they are probably very uncomfortable. This morning, the first in many days to feature a dazzling sunrise, I saw the Cranes stand as before. Today, they numbered four, hunched closely together, heads folded out of sight on shoulders, and standing on one leg. Wherever Cranes stand in a golden mist, I am transported to an Oriental realm. The four Cranes were completely immobile as Geese clamored, and the ducks squabbled churning the water with ripples and streaks of glinting platinum and gold. None of the attendant commotion appeared to disturb the sleeping giants. I propped my elbow on the arm of the plastic chair and gazed at the Cranes in wonder. Their huddled bodies appeared to be head-less and neck-less. The tail-end took on new import; it became the new head of a strange otherworldly bird teleported in from another planet. Suddenly a particularly rowdy interaction broke out between two Mallards and broke my meditation. I couldn’t hear the sound from my position but with all the water spraying, and chasing going on, there must have been loud quacking. Finally one of the Cranes stirred, probably the light sleeper of the group. It extended its neck, looked around, and then lowered its second leg. Seeing no immediate threat the crane tucked its head and neck into profile with its body and once more seemed to sleep. But there is sleep and then there is sleep. Unlike the other three Cranes, the recently disturbed bird now stood on two legs. Actually, most of its weight was on one leg while the other leg was crooked, not supporting weight but still in the water. I deduced that the drooped leg was a sign of the depth of sleep - much as a humans’ rapid eye movement suggests certain levels of brain activity in the sleeper. With this in mind I watched the crane’s leg. Minutes went by. As long as that leg was lowered I believed the Crane was not really in deep sleep. About four minutes later the leg retracted in a movement so smooth I felt it was not a conscious act. The Crane was now in deep sleep. I picked up my chair and left the pasture. Finally, for the first time in all my years around Sandhill Cranes, I had shared an intimate moment. To e-mail Tom CLICK HERE To look at previous column CLICK HERE |
