I am chin-deep in American Lotus. As I paddle into the marsh, huge round leaves brush against me and my kayak. My destination is a small, bird-laden island I usually view from a distant shore. I ease into shallow water at the island's edge, and the wind escorts me into the lives of birds. They seem to welcome me when I am in my kayak, and I often have close encounters on the water. This trip is no different; I will soon be face to face with incarnate wildness.
As I slip into the first bed of reeds on the island, I notice movement in the shadows. I sit and watch. My gaze is met by eyes peering out at me from the vegetation. A Sora steps out to grab an insect. She darts in and out of the foliage and quickly vanishes.
Just past the Sora, I look through dense cattails and see young Wood Ducks resting on the water, watching me with a mix of curiosity and concern. They see me passing by but do not take flight the way their parents would. A family of Pied-billed Grebes is foraging on the water’s surface near the Wood Ducks. The colorful young beg for food despite being surrounded by lush aquatic vegetation.
I look over the green oasis and notice a large group of Mute Swans swimming toward me. I maneuver my kayak into lotus leaves, where I am hidden from view. The swans swim up to me, rest, and preen in a protected inlet.
I turn to my left to scan a long, narrow bed of reeds and notice a Sandhill Crane standing 100 yards away. He is foraging in the marsh. I quickly lose sight of him and am unsure what to do. I do not want to scare him off, but I would like to get a closer look. I decided to ease out into open water and paddle toward him.
I catch a glimpse of his red head in the reeds and realize he has been coming toward me. We are now 50 yards apart. I decide to stop paddling and let the wind carry me. I put my paddle down and slowly drift toward the crane, eventually coming to rest in the reeds.
I sit still, hoping the crane will reappear. A ghostly gray silhouette slips through the marsh. He is now 20 yards away. He steps up on higher ground, looks at me, and starts preening. I am surprised that he is so close and so calm.
He preens for a few minutes and then casually walks in my direction. He is now standing tall, 10 yards away. He looks at me, folds his long legs, and sits down. All I can see is his head. He looks out across the marsh and becomes still.
His bill starts drooping as he slowly blinks, slips his soft white outer eyelid up over his eyes, and goes to sleep. As he relaxes, his bill opens slightly. I imagine he's dreaming of roan colts gamboling through shallow water, frogs and tubers, blue skies, and the sound of wind in the cattails, all primordial pleasures coursing through ancient synapses.
The close proximity of a seemingly tame, wild crane blurs boundaries in my mind and dissolves me into a wholeness that knows no bounds. A wholeness cradled by a swirling marsh wind that ruffles feathers and caresses my skin. My thoughts, empathy, and desire merge with the crane.
Two million years of evolution have shaped Sandhill Cranes into a wildness lost in time, but they are now hard-pressed by civilization and are co-mingling with concrete, lithium, and steel.
Unlike most species of cranes that are severely threatened by our activities, Sandhill Cranes are slowly adapting to us. They nest in the suburbs of Chicago and are at home in residential yards in Florida. The intelligence that helped them survive for two million years is now being applied to coexisting with humans.
Surveys of crane populations highlight their ability to adapt to us. There were 14,000 Sandhill Cranes in the Midwest in 1979, and there are now between 65,000 and 95,000. The recovery has accelerated in the last decade, when the number of Sandhill Cranes more than doubled. Wisconsin is the epicenter for cranes in the Midwest, thanks to visionary conservationists who have advocated for cranes for decades.
The International Crane Foundation (ICF) in Baraboo, Wisconsin, is a worldwide leader in crane conservation. The ICF campus is a remarkable place to visit. You can see all of the world's crane species in their beautiful outdoor aviary. You can also sit in an outdoor amphitheater overlooking a small wetland and watch a pair of Whooping Cranes go about their lives. I love to observe their synchronized movements. They walk side by side with the same posture, gate, and behavior. They are remarkably in tune with each other.
Seeing all of the world’s crane species in one place is a surreal experience. Displays tell their stories. Stories of habitat loss and shrinking numbers. For cranes to thrive in the Anthropocene, they must learn to adapt to a less wild planet, and we must learn to share space with them. We are wiping out wildness even as we are governed by our own wild paleolithic instincts. The same instincts that draw us to nature make us vulnerable to manipulation by modern technology. Teams of clever people are busy creating apps and food designed to harness our ancient instincts. We live much of our lives tethered to a slot machine. As a result, we have become an indoor species. Americans spend 93% of their time indoors and 13 hours per day looking at screens.
We have been coerced into an indoor existence. Sunshine, blue sky, bird song, and the feel of the wind call us outdoors. The elemental beauty of nature is ready to embrace us.
We must first recognize that our willpower is not up to the challenge of resisting a culture focused on consuming at all costs. Spending time in nature and slowing down our thoughts are the first steps. This allows us to create space between our thoughts and actions to pause and reflect before acting. This makes us less reactive and more in control of our lives, more in tune with being present and cultivating our capacity for connection. Meditation, exercise, therapy, close relationships, and service to others are all part of the mix of activities that can reduce the grip of consumerism in our lives and help us share our gifts.
We all have the potential to inhabit our full creative power and a new story where we take the advice of Emerson and embrace “the power to swell the moment from the resources of our own heart until it supersedes the sun & moon & solar system in its expanding immensity.” We can come to rest amidst the clever puppet masters with equanimity and grace. We can settle into a like-minded community that supports our efforts to cut the ties that bind us so we can live above the fray like high-flying cranes migrating through the heavens.
The language of cranes
we once were told
is the wind. The wind
is their method,
their current, the translated story
of life, they write across the sky.
Millions of years
they have blown here
on ancestral longing,
their wings of wide arrival,
necks long, legs stretched out
above strands of earth
where they arrive
with the shine of water,
stories, interminable
language of exchanges
descended from the sky
and then they stand,
earth made only of crane
from bank to bank of the river
as far as you can see
the ancient story made new.
Sandhills by Linda Hogan
This is one of your best essays in my estimation. The sandhill cranes are sacred to some of the Pawnees, at least the Kitkahakee band to which I am related by marriage and some upbringing to. The cranes were often migrants in the Pawnee ancestral homes in Nebraska.
But cranes were also sacred in the temple I spent time in Korea at. In the Main Hall if you looked carefully into a corner of the high vaulted ceiling, you could see two wooden cranes suspended by wire from a timber up there.
At my Seōn pang in Oregon, I have another two suspended at the entrance. Very auspicious birds.
Wonderful essay Bill and such an amazing variety of encounters with different bird species. I like the idea of using a kayak as well. Sort of meeting the birds on the water at their level. Sandhill Cranes seem otherworldly in some strange way - I cannot quite figure it out.
Sad but hopeful with your point: "We have been coerced into an indoor existence. Sunshine, blue sky, bird song, and the feel of the wind call us outdoors. The elemental beauty of nature is ready to embrace us."
It's all I think about while sitting at my cubicle farm Monday - Friday: how long until the days grow longer and I can hike after work in the sunshine? There are the weekends, but, it is not nearly enough.