 "...the cranes come in lines that reach almost a full 180 degrees . . .
. Line after line, wave on wave. . . . They come, and come, and come."
We grab lunch at a diner and then drive on to the cabin,
which is set among cottonwoods a couple hundred yards from the
river. Photographer Sartore and the film crew arrive soon after.
Just down the lane from the cabin, a two-track leads through a band
of trees to a small rise along the river. One large sandbar is
within pitching distance; others dot the main channel.
We all walk here around 4 p.m. to scout the area. Johnsgard says
one of the biggest roosts on the river is about a quarter of a mile
downstream. It hosts twenty to thirty thousand cranes, possibly
more. Since we won’t be in a blind, this is a good vantage point.
If we were closer to the roost, we might spook the birds. Johnsgard
says the presence of an eagle, a human, or other perceived threat
can keep them circling long into the evening.
The TV crew sets up its camera and sound equipment, and asks us
to walk down to a point of land at the base of the hill and then
back along the water. A pair of yellowlegs skitters along the sandy
shoreline, and just downstream, a group of whitetail deer edges
across the water. I count eight, nine. The shapes shift, and I lose
track. Maybe a dozen.
 As Paul Johnsgard describes how sandhill cranes return to their roost
each night, a crew from Nebraska public television films him for a
documentary.
Soon after we get back to the hill the cranes start coming, a
few small groups flying low out of the southwest. Pairs, pairs with
a nearly grown youngster, a few singles. It’s too late now to go
back to the cabin for the warm coat and windpants Johnsgard
insisted I bring. The show is on.
The cranes are noisy, adults with their hollow, rattling call,
youngsters with a higher-pitched version. They veer away when they
spot us, but some stay close enough that we can hear the air
whiffling through their feathers as they pass.
After a prelude of small groups, the full parade starts. We
don’t matter any more; the cranes come in lines that reach almost a
full 180 degrees, perhaps a quarter mile across. Line after line,
wave on wave, half a minute or a minute between them, with more
lines emerging from the distance as far as we can see. They come,
and come, and come. My throat tightens, and I clap my hand over my
mouth. I am lost.
In a gap between flights I try to jot a few notes. My writing is
jerky and erratic. I’m shaking violently. It’s 7 p.m., a little
past sunset. We can’t see the roost, but even a quarter-mile away,
the din swamps our attempts to speak. Suddenly I realize it isn’t
terribly cold out. It’s not windy, and I’ve certainly been in
colder situations without shivering like this. Then I remember what
Heidi Hughes told me.
I take a few deep breaths, and the shaking subsides. I scan the
sandbars across from where we’re standing. Nobody there; we’re too
close. Through the binoculars I see a pale gray feather drop to the
water from the empty sky.
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