By LESLIE BISHOP, guest columnist
As I write today, the snow is falling in big fluffy flakes and the only sounds are birds vying for seed at the feeder. Yet, since mid-February, I’ve heard sounds of spring — not continuously, but in starts and stops, little teases on warm days that are silenced by the next unpredictable cold snap. The “peent” of the woodcock, the peeps of chorus frogs, and the trill of the song sparrow are all early signals of the coming of spring. Yet, no sound in February raises my spirits like the distinctive and haunting calls of migrating sandhill cranes as they pass overhead en route to their northern nesting grounds in Minnesota, Michigan and Canada.
I always hear the cranes before I see them. On certain crisp, clear days, the sky seems to be full of these large, ungainly birds, moving in and out of “V” formation and filling the air with trumpeting cacophony. The sound and sight of cranes brings a comforting reassurance that spring really will come again, and I feel buoyed by the promise of their calls.
Last week, an observant friend alerted me to large numbers of sandhill cranes resting in the flooded cornfields in Jackson County near Brownstown. So, I packed my lunch, binoculars, camera and dog, and off we went to find the cranes.
After the tremendous rain storm in early February, the entire area around the East Fork White River was flooded. As we drove, the country road ended in what looked like a lake; the surrounding fields were under water. Hundreds of cranes were congregated on higher ground full of corn stubble. I stopped my car and rolled down the window to watch the drama all around.
[sc:text-divider text-divider-title=”Story continues below gallery” ]Some cranes were flying in for a landing with their gangly legs stretching toward the ground, while others were taking off by flapping their impressive, large wings. Out in the fields, the cranes were busy searching for leftover corn or small invertebrates in the mud. In the midst of all the activity, a pair of cranes would break into their courtship dance with elaborate bowing, neck stretching, wing flapping, and vertical leaping punctuated by loud squawking. The courtship dance that seems comical and entertaining to us bird watchers is actually critical to the success of the cranes’ life cycle.
Sandhill cranes mate for life. For young cranes just reaching reproductive age, the courtship dance is critical for successful mate selection. A good mate is important because crane pairs will share many duties over their lifetime. Both mates will build the nest. Both will feed the chicks. And both will defend their nesting territory from intruders, actively attacking potential nest predators like raccoons, coyotes and ravens. Despite their best efforts only one fledgling usually survives.
In addition, the crane family will stay together through the entire migration cycle, and the young learn the migration route from their parents. For adult cranes already part of a mated pair, the courtship dance reinforces the pair’s bond as they migrate together from their wintering grounds to their nesting grounds.
The large flocks of migrating sandhill cranes we see in the sky are composed of numerous family groups that remain together on the migration route north. Once they reach their nesting area, the family units go their separate ways to establish individual territories in marshes and bogs with standing water. After a summer of tending to a nest and young, the sandhill cranes make the return trip south, flying over southern Indiana during November.
The sandhill crane migration, like that of other birds, poses challenges to conservation. Not only is it important to conserve wetland areas in the north for nesting, but it is also important to protect the resting areas along the migration route as well as the wintering grounds in the south.
Even though sandhill cranes are abundant at this time, climate change poses direct threats. A climate model from Audubon predicts a 58 percent loss of winter range by 2080. The future of sandhill cranes is uncertain, as is the future of most of our migrating birds.
As I pulled away from the flooded fields near Brownstown, glancing at the sandhill cranes in my rearview mirror, I felt a sense of connection to the cycles of nature. I also felt a deep connection to something not only beautiful, but also profoundly hopeful.
Through the cold and darkness, spring will come.
Leslie Bishop is a Brown County resident and retired biology professor from Earlham College. She can be reached through the newspaper at [email protected].
