The Sounds of Yesterday

Sandhill cranes are in the hourglass moving north in search of breeding grounds. The stop in central Nebraska along the Platte River Valley is short, but packed with adventure.

Avoiding prying eyes seems to be this majestic bird's primary duty.

You can only get so close. I took most of my best photographs with a 600 4.0 mated to a 1.4x -- too loose in most cases. There are ethics to consider. Stalking the birds is not an option. So for hours I sat in the company car, windows rolled down, two bodies and a video camera in the passenger seat.

I think the trick is to arrive slowly and don't wait to roll down the window when you come upon an opportunity. Compared to the effort I go to when hunting deer, this leather-equipped rolling blind was a pleasure. Still, some of the thrill of the chase was lost the moment I realized I was searching for features without leaving the car, eliminating all chance of a refreshing angles.

As a kid I knew nothing of our wealth. I simply thought cranes were everywhere. It wouldn't have killed me to pick up a field guide, yet I thought it might have then.

I explored. I was ignorant to the expert's views of the natural world, yet drenched in that rare feeling of discovering something for the first time.

As a teen, I took to the river with childhood friends -- mostly drinking buddies. We took two canoes and decided to live with the cranes. We had no plans, knew not where we were and didn't care. We would name the bends and be the first to step foot on sandbars, claiming all found treasure as our own.

When we came upon a bridge we'd send the man with the shorter straw down the road in search of peanut butter crackers, chick 'o sticks, fluids or a handout. I doubt I had twenty bucks in my pocket for the week-long trip.

We froze. We had sleeping bags and waterproof matches. We shared sandbars with coyotes as the cranes roosted in the shallows of the river. We were afraid of many things -- any loud thump in the night sent shivers down my spine. And we were amazed by the gray ghosts and their constant chatter -- thoughts of harming them never crossed our minds.

In the dark of night, long after our night lights -- modest fires -- had dimmed, any noise would send the flock straight up. The sound of hundreds of giant winged-bodies exploding to the air at once was deafening.

We lay in our sand pits circled around the fire huddled in mummy sleeping bags with only our eyes and noses exposed. One or two birds would panic and the rest would follow. A whitetail innocently passing, a vixen and her kit following the scent of pan-fried catfish, a loud fart; almost anything disturbed them. Still, they chose our neighborhood. We had planted our flag.

I relayed this story to friends recently. They were both appalled by our trespasses. These were sacred birds -- although one admitted to have tasted what he called "the tenderloin of the sky."

And while I pledge to never intentionally stress any animal or kill anything I won't eat, trips spent coexisting with the cranes, predators and prey are the pillars of my adoration for the Sandhill crane.

I spent sixteen hours in a blind at the Rowe Sanctuary. I wore camo and perched myself on a wooden stool in front of difficult tripods in a four-foot high box.

I cherished the opportunity despite being claustrophobic. Six portholes faced the river. As the sun began to set the cranes came in, landing gear down, to soak there feet for the night.

I felt young again. I felt alive. The tedium of staying one step ahead of communications, bills and life numbs that feeling. Tuesday night I breathed fresh air, tasted the chill and knew that I was in a very special place at the perfect moment. And although I know now that I am only walking where others have been, I felt as if I was on an adventure, seeking treasures of digital moments.