As I approached the dirt road I held my breath in anticipation. During the last few weeks, a sandhill crane has been seen at Maxwell Farm in Cape Elizabeth — I hoped it would still be there.
A posted sign stated vehicles were prohibited but walking traffic was not — as long as people stayed out of the fields and away from the pond. Apparently the road through the farmland is a popular destination for dog walkers, joggers and horseback riders. I was happy to obey the rules so as to be able to enjoy the land and possibly see the crane.
People had reported seeing the crane in the cornfields to the left of the road — before and after the corn was cut. The bird had been feeding on the leftover corn on the ground.
Stopping a short way down the road, I trained my binoculars on the cornfield and saw the crane instantly, hunched over and sifting its beak among the soil. It was surrounded by herring gulls and American crows, and at first, in this posture, did not seem much bigger than the gulls. Its coloration was muted compared to the gulls’ stark white chests and slate-gray backs; in fact, without the aid of binoculars, I was hard-pressed to spot it, so well did it blend into its surroundings.
However, this impression changed when, alerted to something I could not see or hear, the crane straightened and stretched its long neck to its nearly four-foot height. Its red crown was startling, set off by the white face and chin; and suddenly its plumage seemed to shimmer into a gorgeous silver-blue hue. Small patches of deep chestnut showed on its wings, further highlighting the lighter colors.
The transformation was nothing short of amazing.
As I watched the crane, I enjoyed a little spot of heaven. The crisp, cold air was heavy with the scent of newly-disturbed earth and fallen leaves. The lowing of cows punctuated the silence at intervals; the occasional cawing of crows and the distant barking of a dog drifted over the fields. The sky was an early evening pale blue lit by the hidden sun, as clouds had begun to gather in the west. A huge flock of robins passed high overhead; higher still, a plane’s contrail stretched across the sky, and a sickle moon gleamed brightly with the approaching dusk.
I was thrilled to see the crane; although there have been many sightings of sandhills in Maine for the last several years, it just never worked out for me to go see them. I had last seen these amazing, almost prehistoric-looking birds in Florida, at the Myakka River State Park. The Sunshine State hosts year-round breeding cranes as well as wintering populations, as do a few other Gulf Coast states and Georgia. The bulk of wintering populations is centered around Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, and Mexico.
Their largest breeding range extends from Alaska through most of Canada to the Great Lakes region, and down into Michigan and the Dakotas. However, sandhill cranes have not historically been listed as breeding in Maine, yet that seems to be exactly what they are doing: this past August, as well as in years past, adults have been observed with juveniles in tow. According to one source of mine there may be as many as eight breeding pairs of sandhill cranes in this state.
Sandhill cranes are devoted mates and parents; pair bonds are sealed and strengthened by elaborate courtship dances. Mated pairs remain together year after year, taking care of their young for 9-10 months until they have their next brood. They are also long-lived, and may reach up to 20 years of age — although seven years is the average, according to “The Birds of North America” species account.
As I watched the lone sandhill crane in the cut cornfield, I remembered a passage I had read in Aldo Leopold’s “A Sand County Almanac.” Leopold describes the arrival of a large wintering flock of cranes to a marsh:
“High horns, low horns, silence, and finally a pandemonium of trumpets, rattles, croaks, and cries… at last a glint of sun reveals the approach of a great echelon of birds. On motionless wings they emerge from the lifting mists, sweep a final arc of sky, and settle in clangorous descending spirals to their feeding grounds. A new day has begun on the crane marsh.”
The poetry of Leopold’s words, written almost 50 years ago, is fitting for this regal and sometimes mystically-imbued and symbolically portrayed creature, which is among the oldest of living birds. Perhaps this is part of their appeal; they’ve persisted despite all the changes that have occurred throughout the life of the species.
May they continue to grace our skies and lands with their presence.