The Counsel Of The Sandhill Cranes

I've heard it said that we need two compasses in life. The first is a directional compass of sorts, whether a magnetized instrument or ingrained knowledge, to help us avoid getting literally lost. The second is an ethical or self-awareness compass, one that tells us which direction to go when we feel troubled or lost.

Oddly, perhaps, the sandhill cranes have always offered me both.

Let me explain: At the right time of year, I can drive directly north, south, east, or west, and find large gatherings of sandhill cranes. The most extravagant is straight east from my Colorado town, near Kearney, Nebraska, internationally famous for having the largest gathering of cranes in the entire world. Nearly a million cranes descend on fields near the Platte River in spring — an astonishing 80 percent of the planet’s cranes come here on their migration route north. I am forever telling friends that this bucket-item list is truly nonnegotiable; everyone should see this phenomenon before they die. The sheer number of birds — and the resulting volume of their calls, the density in the skies and in the fields — is unmatched.

Less audacious but equally gorgeous are the smaller gatherings of sandhill cranes in the other three directions. If I drive west, for instance, I can find the Yampa Valley Crane Festival near Steamboat Springs, Colorado, particularly at the Carpenter Ranch Preserve, owned by The Nature Conservancy, and well known as a birder’s paradise. North is Yellowstone National Park and the wetlands along the Teton River, where the cranes go to breed in the greater Yellowstone area, and where they begin to flock and gather in September for their flight south. South has all sorts of possibilities: I can go to the Monte Vista Crane Festival in southern Colorado, then continue on farther south to the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico, and continue even farther to the Whitewater Draw Wildlife Area near Douglas, Arizona.

Surely there are other sandhill crane viewing spots — and no doubt crane lovers have their favorites — but these are mine, and I go to them whenever I need clarity and direction for the soul.

Ancientness. I have no doubt that the reason I seek the counsel of the sandhill cranes has something to do with the perspective they offer. Sandhill cranes are among the oldest known bird species, with fossils dating back at least 2 million years, and a crane fossil thought to be a close relative of our modern friends dating back 10 million years was found in Nebraska. They are often referred to as “living dinosaurs,” not only because they are the oldest bird but also because they haven’t changed much over time. As conservationist Aldo Leopold put it in his 1937 essay Marshland Elegy, “When we hear his call, we hear no mere bird. We hear the trumpet in the orchestra of evolution … the symbol of our untamable past.”

Such a long history encourages a broad outlook, of course. Watching them reminds me to keep my short life in perspective, helps me clarify the course or direction I should take at any given fork in the road, helps me understand where my landing spot might be, and helps me know how best to use my “one wild and precious life,” as poet Mary Oliver puts it. Like stargazing, seeing the cranes reminds me of how small my blip in time is, and yet, simultaneously, reminds me to use that blip well.

At a bird blind at the Rowe Audubon Nature Sanctuary outside of Kearney I stand in the cold, waiting for the cranes to cross the pink-orange-sunset sky, sinking down until they land in the Platte River for the evening. I know the sight will be astonishing, but I am always still startled. They come in groups, gliding gracefully above the glowing water, wings outstretched, until they reach out with long legs before settling down in shallow waters.

Their landings look like sweet and soft-moving tornados, group after group circling, then lowering, settling chaotically yet gracefully. As dusk descends, I smell the river even more, dank and cooling, and as the temperature drops, I pull on hat and mittens. I take in the sounds of other birds, too, as well as the whispers of the other birdwatchers, gasping and ooh-ahhhing in awe.

One obvious reason that sandhill cranes are so adored by so many is that they’re just easy to see. These are big and sturdy birds, after all: long-legged, long-necked, with a six- to seven-foot wingspread. From a distance, they look grayish and white, but on closer inspection, variations become evident. The distinctive bright-red foreheads, the pale belly and neck, the nearly white underwings, the slightly darker neck and shoulders. My favorite visual, though, is the reddish-brown feathers, a color created from preening with beaks covered with iron-rich mud, the iron oxidizing and blending with their feathers.

Meanwhile, their famous deep and rich noise fills the air, a concert of rolling trumpets. Their unique vocalizations are the result of a modified windpipe that has been likened to the French horn, coiling into the sternum and creating a lower pitch and deep harmonics. Cranes can be heard more than two miles away; indeed, back home, I often hear them before I see them when they pass over during migrations. At first, I think I’m hearing garbling or purring frogs before my brain registers “cranes,” and I immediately look up and squint, searching for them high in the sky.

I am forever telling friends that seeing that sandhill crane migration is a truly nonnegotiable bucket-list item; everyone should see this phenomenon before they die. The sheer number of birds — and the resulting volume of their calls, the density in the skies and in the fields — is unmatched.

But here in Nebraska, they are easy to see in all their delightful behaviors. As the sun sinks even lower, I watch them at a fairly close distance as they fuss about in the water, flapping their wings and hopping around in the shallow water, finding their mates, and moving from one spot to another for reasons known only to them. They seem chatty and friendly with each other and with the river itself. The group of us gathered in the blind seem friendly in our awed silence, too. The only sound is the click and whir of cameras and the gasps of joy.

I delight, too, in the information that is not immediately visible or auditory. For example, that their name comes from the Sandhills of Nebraska, the prairie-dune region where they have famously gathered for eons, the “sandhills” referring to the sandy terrain they tend to seek out here in Nebraska and elsewhere. Also, that they pair up with a spectacular courtship dance, leaping high in the air with bills skyward and necks arched, and once they’ve charmed one another, they mate for life, around 30 years.

I know, too, that at sunrise, they’ll take off for the nearby pastures, meadows, cornfields, and wetlands, walking several miles a day as they forage. They eat a surprisingly diverse diet, about 90 percent vegetable and 10 percent animal, including a lot of invertebrates, earthworms, snails, and insects. My favorite sliver of knowledge, though, is knowing just how much they move. They can fly up to 400 miles a day, 500 with a good tailwind, and at about 5,000 feet altitude, though they can go up to 20,000 in northern Alaska. While some fly shorter distances, some migrate as many as 10,000 miles. Back and forth they fly, heading north to breed and nest, heading south to winter. Back and forth, each year, for millennia.

How did the magic become mundane? How did the sacredness of my life get taken for granted, assumed?

Those are the questions I ponder when seeing any natural wonder, but the sandhill cranes offer the best counsel of all when my life feels dull or confused. There is, of course, something about their resilience that signals renewal and hope. They have borne witness and they continue on, despite. When I sit in a blind or a field, when I get still and listen, when I watch with or without binoculars, my vision is better, my internal compass sharper. Then, I am able to welcome larger questions:

Have I given my life enough thought, which requires time?

Have I made the right decisions, which requires courage?

To contemplate, to question — these are the frank and beautiful lessons of the cranes.

When my family’s Colorado farm was sold recently and I was grieving, I drove to Kearney to see the cranes. When I’ve had to accept the death of loved ones, I have made my way to the Great Sand Dunes National Park, always with a visit to the cranes along the way. When I have come to a crossroads, I have journeyed across mountain ranges for the counsel of the cranes. In each instance, these trips have helped me achieve clarity and achieve a certain settled-ness of the soul.

Cranes have seen it all, including farm sales, life, death, changing landscapes, changing centuries. As Wendell Berry famously put it, and as we all know, there is peace found in wild things. And the best life advice I know comes from another poet, Jack Gilbert:

…We must have / the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless / furnace of the world. …

Surely, we all encounter those moments when we feel the furnace, when our troubles weigh. A visit to the cranes lifts the weight, turns down the heat, lets the gladness wash over.

The sandhill cranes call me to find peace and acceptance and pay attention to all the possible directions of my life. They even provide the space and inspiration to look for unknown paths forward. After all, there might be directions I have not yet even noticed. Perhaps I can steward a different piece of land, instead of the family ranch. Perhaps I can have a personal ceremony for a dead friend that will be more healing than the one provided by the family. Perhaps I can birth a new idea for my next novel. Perhaps I can discover an as-yet-charted course ahead of me.

We must still ourselves before contemplating motion, land chaotically on the water and quiet ourselves before taking off again — this is what I have come to believe. And always, the cranes seem to ask me: Which direction shall you take on your journey, in the time you have left on this beautiful planet?

Night falls and I leave the blind, blast the heat in my car until I am warmed, and then, on my way to a hotel, pause to park near a bridge that crosses the Platte. I want to stand on it for a moment, so as to be able to see the larger scope of the river in moonlight, with water right below me. I am not far from where the fossil was unearthed, and so the expanse of time seems enormous. So, too, does the depth of the night. I feel restored, having come to see the cranes in my own blink of time, able to put my life in perspective.

I will be back at sunrise, I know, to see the great morning liftoff from this location, when all the cranes take to the air in a cacophonic flurry. Instead of being so close to the river, as I was this evening, in the morning I’ll want this wider panorama, when one can see the sun light up the braided, broad channels of the shallow river. In the meantime, I take a moment to feel the gratitude and peace that have settled within me. I have both my compasses at the ready. Soon I will head west, back home, and I will leave with a better understanding about the directions I have come from, where I’m heading, where I want to land.

Our Favorite Places to See Crane Magic

The largest gathering of sandhill cranes is found in Nebraska, and my favorite place to see them is at Audubon’s Rowe Sanctuary, a 3,000-acre nature sanctuary located along the Platte River in south-central Nebraska. Admission is free. They have events throughout March and April —and this year is special, as they’re celebrating 50 years. rowe.audubon.org

The Monte Vista Crane Festival takes place in southern Colorado in the beautiful San Louis Valley. Their website sports the phrase “where the cranes meet the mountains” for a reason — the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and San Juan Mountains offer unmatched scenery. Travelers might also fit in a trip to the Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve nearby. mvcranefest.org

South of Albuquerque, there’s the amazing Festival of the Cranes at the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge. This New Mexico festival occurs in November or December each year, but good bird viewing can be had most anytime. friendsofbosquedelapache.org/festival

In north-central Colorado, the Yampa Valley Crane Festival will be happening in August in Steamboat Springs, Hayden, and Craig, Colorado. One particularly great viewing area is the Carpenter Ranch, owned by the Nature Conservancy and well known as a birdwatcher’s paradise. There’s always great information at their spectacular Bud Werner Memorial Library. coloradocranes.org

All these festivals typically have guided crane-viewings, expert speakers, films, and family activities — but don’t forget that you can just show up and enjoy the views, too.

From our July 2025 issue.

PHOTOGRAPHY: Courtesy of  Joel Sartore/Photo Ark