Sandhill Cranes Fly Without a Map
BASICALLY, THESE LONG-NECKED BIRDS ARE A BUNCH OF TOUGH COOKIES
Art by Tara Teslow
When driving across the country, you learn that certain areas are more “exciting” than others. Nebraska was beginning to be the worst part of the nine-hour-drive planned for that day. Tired, I pulled into a hotel lot only to find it packed with cars from all over the country. The spot to be! But why?
As stated on the VisitNebraska website, “People regard Nebraska as a place you cross on the way to a more interesting place. About a million sandhill cranes disagree.” Every March through April, thousands of sandhill cranes (Grus canadensis) use Nebraska’s mud plains and agricultural fields as a stopover spot on their long migration—the longest migration route of any crane. Every year, juvenile sandhill cranes follow their parents to learn the generational migration route. Kinda reminded me of my mom teaching me to make her homemade salad dressing recipe. This migration is also the most dangerous time of year for the cranes due to power lines, roads, collisions, shootings . . . basically, these long-necked birds are a bunch of tough cookies. Birders from around the world flock to see. Lucky for me, I happened to be at the right place at the right time. I set my alarm for 5 a.m., crawled out of bed, and drove to the mudflats as the hot Nebraska sun peeked over the fields. The sound of thousands of cranes feasting upon river flats filled the air. A group of a hundred or so took flight, passing above the enthusiastic birders. Not every day you get to see the largest migration of sandhill cranes. I like birders. Wouldn’t consider myself one, but they're an awesomely warm bunch.
This was April 2022. My Subaru was filled to the brim with all my personal belongings. I’ve packed various bags, trunks, and suitcases for conservation work countless times now, but this one felt different. I was headed out west, for another field job and, later on, to start a master’s degree. Full transparency, this was a very vulnerable time in my life, with a lot of changes happening simultaneously. Sorta felt like a sandhill crane. Flying on my own journey.
Up Next: Council, Idaho. In Idaho, I was living in a tiny cabin heated by a definitely-not-up-to-code open flame. I got used to the sound of ponderosa pines, Abert's squirrels, and my roommate snoring. Small mammals, brown bears, hot springs, elk herds, foraging, and snowy mountain passes filled each day. An hour from the closest town, wi-fi was a stroll away through the woods. What felt like an inconvenience quickly turned to a pleasure. It always takes time to settle in after moving to a new area. New places also bring unplanned experiences. I survived my first (and hopefully only) microburst. I made best friends with my roommate. I met my partner in the last place you would ever think to find a connection. Over the course of my life, I’ve learned that I tend to move a little too quickly, which is why I confide so much in the outdoors. Mother Nature constantly grabs me, reminding me that things grow, seasons change, life begins, life ends . . . and all of it is ingrained in a system. Kinda like how sandhill cranes fly without a map.
Today, I’m writing this from a coffee shop in Fort Collins, Colorado. I guess you could call it my “final destination” of this year's migration. Colorado, so far, has been a lovely place to explore this world and all there is to learn. I feel a deep gratitude for the many woods and creatures that have allowed me into their world. Maybe next summer I’ll make a trip back to Nebraska, to see the mudflats, and the world's largest migration of sandhill cranes. And who knows where I’ll be then, flying on my own journey.