~ By Sumalee ~
We wanted to get out of town and see birds by the thousands: why not Sandhill Cranes? Although S. had seen Sandhill Cranes in their world-famous rendezvous spot along the Platte River in Nebraska, this was before “birding” comprised the syntax of her recreational pursuits.
Thus, V., as chief of operations, planned a week-long trip to Washington State’s Columbia National Wildlife Refuge during the Othello Sandhill Crane Festival in late March, when the Sandhills’ numbers peak. As with all well-laid plans, crap happens. First, COVID required that the festival go “virtual,” in other words, all live events are cancelled and visitors are left to their own self-guided touring. Second, V. busted her leg on the prior well-laid planned birding trip (see previous post). However, having rehabilitated the poor limb to the point of withstanding 50% weight-bearing (officially permitted by orthopedic surgeon), V. wanted to sally forth on the trip and so, we did.
(Brochure compliments of Othello Sandhill Crane Festival, 2021)
Our first stop was at the Old Hotel Art Gallery in Othello, where festival volunteer staff handed out self-guided tour maps that denoted hotspots for crane feeding and roosting. We learned that cranes don’t feed in the refuge itself but rather in the contiguous post-harvested corn fields, where they forage for leftover kernels. The map showed around six grub hotspots, and the overleaf described feeding routines such as mealtimes, breakfast from sunup to 11:30ish, and suppertime from 4:00 to 5:30ish. In between meals, cranes rested in their day roost in Marsh Unit 1 in the Columbia NWR, and from sundown to sunrise in the nighttime roost, which location remains clandestine.
(Brochure compliments of Othello Crane Festival, 2021)
Emboldened by the simplicity of the map, we embarked the next day before sunrise. Yes, we awakened at the very same hour we curse under ordinary circumstances to go to work. As is our wont, we started by taking a tangent, stopping at Royal Lakes overlook where we spotted heart-soaring numbers of waterfowl: thousands of Northern Pintails and Canada Geese and potentially thousands of other undistinguishable waterfowl floating on the distant waters.
After refreshing our souls on the sight of so many happy, fulsome, protected birds, we began to track the crane meal train. V. had jotted down notes about the hotspots and formulated our itinerary which followed the obscure logic of her mind rather than any perceptible order or rationale. Nary a crane appeared at the first hotspot, the "100% guaranteed" spot according to volunteer staff report, but the stop was useful in that we saw firsthand what a post-harvest corn field looked like: brown and yellow razed stalks on dry clumpy dirt. We wondered how much "leftover" corn actually existed on these grounds; we are glad that local farmers have agreed to this arrangement with the refuge, but by all appearances, any generosity involved is of the most stingy of sorts.
As we approached the next site, in the distance off the shoulder of a busy highway, V. spotted some grey humps in the distance, for this is what one looks for when looking for cranes feeding. It requires concentration and good eyesight and a birder's talent for extracting from the gestalt of a landscape or habitat. The cranes' washed-out grey-white bodies barely come to the fore against the similarly washed-out pale yellow and brown landscape, and the broken stalks and harvest detritus conceal the cranes' startling ruby-red foreheads. V.'s instinct was seconded then amply rewarded as one by one, small groups of cranes magically emerged from the skies, leisurely gliding down with their long legs--or "landing gear" as V. puts it--dangling akimbo as they touched down and immediately joined in the grazing. We were grateful for these guests arriving late to the party because it was difficult to follow them once they were feeding on the ground. Soon after the skies emptied, we lost sight of the cranes and proceeded onwards to our next adventure.
Midday signalled it was time to stake out the daytime roost at Marsh Unit 1. Now, the marsh unit was closed to protect the roost, but visitors were permitted to look from the parking lot, fortunately situated on an overlook south of the marsh basin. The overlook grants a magnificent view, at once serene and dramatic, of several marsh ponds and winding inlets nestled below basalt cliffs whose towering columns testified to geologic vivacity eons ago.
Directly below, two large ponds captured our attention as they were teeming with so many waterfowl happily going about their midday business. Large flocks of white-fronted geese consorted in the foreground while groups of Tundra Swan floated in the back. Hundreds of representatives of the usual suspects--Cackling Geese, Shovelers, Green-winged Teal, Pintails--floated to and fro across the happy, friendly waters.
S., always the literalist, trusted the unit map in the parking lot, which indicated that Sandhill Cranes roosted on the east side. Thereto did she look to no avail. Whereas V. entirely ignored the map and scanned the landscape, zooming in on slight grey crescent confetti strewn among the dried grasses toward the north. Enter binoculars: these were our crane friends. Even from the distance of a couple of miles, their scintillating ruby masks dazzled. By now, other visitors had quietly joined in the birdwatching and the lot of us gazed with content on these spiritual creatures. Some of them indulged in grooming while others stepped about sporadically. Most just rested in the company of their fellows, soaking up the sun and breezes.
Then, V. disconcertedly noticed a figure in black with white cap creeping down a path toward the cranes. This person felt entitled to exempt herself from regulations against entering the habitat at this precarious time in the Sandhill Crane lifecycle, where each calorie expended in flight from human disturbance signified the deprivation of energy from the long, arduous, and statistically dangerous migration ahead and precisely for which the refuge serves as a temporary sanctuary. We watched with dismay as the figure proceeded down the path closer and closer to the cranes, holding up neither binoculars nor camera. Ostensibly, she was not a birder gone bad nor a narcissistic photographer hoping to get "the shot." Rather, as she held up a cellphone camera, we realized that this person risked distressing the cranes and all that entails merely to take a selfie and boast on instagram and social media that she was there. And of course, as she turned her back and began her retreat, some crane noticed and startled, and then the entire crane-being of the flock startled into flight, their rattle-cries filling the air with distress.
Both of us felt demoralized but we quickly got back to birding because that's what matters while it can. We walked through more of the refuge open to exploration and visited some of the area lakes, happening on hilly spots overlooking small, secretive lakes where we dreamed of future camping and picnicking while in the company of the common mergansers and redheads and the ever-hospitable, welcoming scaups we espied below.
Our final foray found us returning to the initial site, the "100% spot" belied, directly adjacent to a hot, dusty, and forlorn steer farm. Nothing except the unfortunate cows made an appearance. However, V. looked in the opposite direction toward another field and there she espied some grey humps--as it so happens, quite a few. This would be our closest and most numerous spotting, as groups dropped from the sky to join in the hardscrabble meal.
Because we yearned to discover the nighttime roost, we decided to wait until the meal was over, purportedly at 6:00 pm or shortly thereafter during dusk. Initially, with each slight movement of a crane, V. readied her 5 lb. monster 200-500 mm lens for the takeoff shot. But an hour passed, and after a several dozen false starts, her biceps succumbed to fatigue. An hour slipped into two hours. All crane movements became subject to our conjurings and suppositions--was standing stock-still preparation for takeoff? Were the cranes waiting for a sign from a leader? Would a leader lift off and invite a train of her fellows? Did the wing-waving fisticuffs that broke out here and there between two cranes indicate restlessness and an imminent departure? (On the contrary, we would learn later that this flapping of wings and short hops toward each other constituted the renown Sandhill Crane dance). After two hours plus, we finally gave up and left, looking over our shoulder as we drove away just in case. V. never got her liftoff shot and their nighttime roost remained secret, but as the closing event of our great pursuit, we returned home happy and content with hours we spent in the company of Sandhill Cranes, nonetheless.
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