Contributed by Dori Edwards, Denver Audubon Communications
I have always wanted to travel by following bird migrations. I don’t remember for exactly how long, but it may have been since watching an enthusiastic Jack Black and Steve Martin travel the country in search of birds in the underrated classic- The Big Year.
But for the last 5 years, birds have guided my life in ways beyond cinema. From a Humboldt Penguin named Monty I befriended during my time at the Santa Barbara Zoo to, in whirlwind style, receiving a job with the Denver Audubon last November and driving three states to pursue my dream of conservation storytelling.
And let me tell you, it has been a dream! One that became even dreamier when I traveled this past weekend to witness the magic that is a Sandhill Crane migration. I was so inspired by the experience that I thought I’d bring you along with me, virtually, whether or not you made the trek yourself.
It started with asking questions- the best time to see them and where- and resoundingly, it was at the Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge in Colorado or along the South Platte River in Kearney, Nebraska. Since the former is much closer to me, that is where we set our destination.
We left on a Friday evening to arrive at a small, roadside lodging in Alamosa, Colorado. The red walls and carpet of the Dunes Motel were a seeming homage to the desert and the unassuming town left space for the mystery of what many call the “Mystic Valley.”
At 5:30 AM the next morning, we awoke, or rather, arose from a sleepless night, our tired eyes evidence of our dedication to the birds. With coffee in hand, we drove down dark, isolated roads, where silhouettes of farm equipment, ranch homes, mountains, and the few early Crane risers were made visible by the light of a glowing moon. A full one, to be exact.
We pulled into the parking lot just as the sun was peeking over the Rockies and hopped out of the car into that dynamic, dawn time when both the lunar and solar bodies are present- purple sky meeting golden horizon. Then, as if they had their own alarm set for precisely two hours later than ours, the Sandhill Cranes began to ascend, like clockwork, to the air.
From just a field over, or from far in the distance, Sandhills flew in all directions towards where we stood. Flock by flock they alighted on fertile earth, cascading in that somehow both graceful and clumsy way they do, as if the ground arrived quicker than they expected.
As much as we saw them, we heard them even more. Whether in flight or on the earth, they called in distinctive, rolling trumpets that can echo for 2.5 miles. Their raucous song is somewhat low, a guttural honk, caused by their long trachea that coils in the chest. A sound that works its way into the beat of listening hearts.
From our feet to the mountain ridge, our view was decorated by ash gray, dinosaurian bodies. Sandhill Cranes are some of the oldest birds found in the fossil record and being surrounded by their sight and sound feels like transcending linearity and being a part of history, of deep time.
We watched as their sharp beaks repeatedly lowered to forage and then pointed to the sky as others arrived. The constant, rhythmic movement was like one large life form, an ashen amoeba.
Then, a wave, like a crowd of enthusiastic sports fans in an arena, started to roll through the amorphous form. Somewhere in the middle, a four feet tall, 7 foot wingspan began to spread, then spin, and bound, a choreography shortly emulated by another near him. And then another near him, and another near him. The rustling rippled and undulated, like mesmerizing, patternless flames. 
As the males began their dance, they again seemed to find the perfect fusion of elegance and goofiness. Soon, the females joined in and the two bowed to one another. Head and neck arched, their body feathers splayed backwards before they then mirrored each other in awkward, beautiful circles and gangly jumps on spindly legs. It was joyous, exuberant, stunning, comedic, and utterly profound.
Sandhill Crane pairs mate for life, which can sometimes mean two decades or more, and it all starts with this dance. This somehow both rhythmic and rhythmless ode to another life. This expressive display of enthusiasm for connection.
I recently listened to a podcast by BirdNote where the interviewee, biologist and writer Wenfei Tong, studies bird dancing rituals and she shared that for them to continue dancing, as we do, there is likely some pull of enjoyment to do it again. Some joy. This is what Sandhill Crane rituals feel like. The sun’s warmth radiated to us all, humans and birds, and as it did, they celebrated its life force and the one before them. The one that they just might spend their whole life with, traveling thousands of miles each Spring and Fall, trumpeting their call across the Central Flyway, and awakening awe in another dance troupe’s eyes and hearts- humans.
I was and still am ecstatic- throughout and all around me was pure aliveness. It resided in the light and the animals and the pulsating wonder of others there to watch with me. Unplanned, unbeknownst to each other, but still together.
For me, and probably for many humans, it is hard to let go. And it is even harder to let go from a joyful experience, as I want to soar in it forever. But this, as we know, is impossible. I find that being with nature, attuning to her rhythms, helps me move away from my worried mind, outside of myself, and into something greater. Into an interconnected web rather than the illusion of isolation. So, I stayed, nothing telling me to go but the freezing fingers I was internally telling to stop their whining.
Until, it happened. Something that was of course entirely possible but I did not want to hope or expect that it would happen for me, one tiny speck of cosmic dust here for just a tiny speck of twenty minutes of time. I did not want to project expectation on the experience, nor the birds. For they do not exist for the purpose of my enjoyment, while that is still exactly what they gift me with- purpose and enjoyment.
So what was it?
I had set my coffee down and focused my camera on the thousands of bodies before me. They laced the bottom of the frame while the ridgeline traced the top. I pressed record, ensuring that glowing red dot was turned on, when the Sandhill susserus became more erratic, robust. Bent, grazing bodies became erect and alert as all their necks rose in unison. From the back of the flock, as if a tidal wave, they took flight, gathering more and more bodies into the air as it fanned towards us. An avalanche of avians just a hundred yards away, moving towards me at 25-35 miles per hour- the speed of Sandhill Cranes.
Save for five individuals, they all ascended and flew over my head, turning as if one current to the right then the left, and then, like a sky serpent, weaving back to the field behind us. As if in the middle of a tornado, I had been wrapped in a wind of wings, a torrent of Sandhill Crane trumpets and like one of my past outdoor education students told me after experiencing a waterfall “I came out forever changed.”
Forever changed like their homes and migratory stops are becoming. Decreasing, exponentially, like and in concurrence with bird populations. “One of the many issues facing declining species, is the poor condition or loss of habitat at some, or all, of the stages of their lifecycle. For migratory birds especially, this can be particularly problematic as they rely on different areas at different life cycle stages,” says Inside Ecology.
Nature gives us so much and I find myself consistently wondering how I can give back. I think, among many things, I will learn from the Sandhill Crane teachers- I will celebrate all the lives of this planet, I will bow to her wonder, I will find joy in the earth, and from this place, I will trumpet my voice, letting it echo across a vast sky whose creatures need theirs amplified. Now more than ever.