Beauty of Earth Blog

“Our ability to perceive quality in nature begins, as in art, with the pretty. It expands through successive stages of the beautiful to values as yet uncaptured by language. The quality of cranes lies, I think, in this higher gamut, as yet beyond the reach of words.”
— Aldo Leopold, “Marshland Elegy,” A Sand County Almanac

March can be a cruel month in these parts. Mild temperatures promising spring can be rudely interrupted by bracing, cold winds bringing heavy, sloppy snow. Since we moved to West Dundee from Chicago, however, March for me has become one of the most exciting, anticipated times of year. It’s when the sandhill cranes fly north over our area on their spring migration.

In our first spring in West Dundee nine years ago, we were puttering around our backyard one day and heard a strange sound. We both stopped to listen. It seemed to come from far away yet was distinctive. Unlike the raucous, assertive calls of geese, this was a haunting, plaintive, urgent sound. Looking up, we saw them: a large flock of sandhill cranes heading northwest, high overhead. The vocalizations of many birds, overlapping with each other, created a chaotic cacophony of sound. Here is another writer’s description:

“ . . . the primeval sound rushed in, halfway between a croak and a song, the music of dry bones rattling.  It surged and fell in a regular rhythm, like waves of water washing against a shore. . . . The sound of the sandhill cranes is like the roaring of the sea in a conch shell; when you have finally heard it, you recognize that you have always known it.  It is like the cry of a loon or the howling of wolves or the warning rattle of a snake, an article in the universal language.”
— Paul Gruchow, “The Nebraska Sandhills: The Flight of Cranes,” The Necessity of Empty Places

Watch this short video to experience what we heard that day and many spring and fall days since.

The sandhill crane migration in spring and fall is one of the most impressive wildlife shows in North America. In mid-February, over 450,00 of these magnificent birds start leaving their wintering grounds in Texas, Mexico, and the southeastern U.S, including Florida, to their breeding sites, which are mostly in the Arctic and subarctic regions. At some stopover locations, especially in the Platte River basin in Nebraska, thousands of them may be seen at one time. Having heard the sound produced by flocks of 100 birds, it’s hard to imagine the din of thousands in one place. I long to witness that awe-inspiring spectacle.

To be situated along one of the continent’s main migratory flyways is one of our greatest joys in living here. This past week, I’ve seen hundreds of cranes passing through, in flocks ranging in size from 20 to over 100 birds. Most of the time they’re flying straight, in an orderly V formation. All of a sudden, the straight lines break up into seemingly random disarray. The group starts circling, rising and rising in a corkscrew motion as they try to catch the thermals (warm air currents) that will enable them to glide at a higher altitude, thereby conserving energy for another long day of flying hundreds of miles. In this brief video you can watch a flock swirling upward to pick up the thermals, the cranes’ complex aerial dance. I have noticed their vocalizations increase when they are catching the thermals – as if they are directing each other’s movements. Then, just as suddenly and mysteriously, they reform into their straight V lines and off they go toward their home for the season.

I have asked myself why the seasonal spectacle of the migrating cranes moves me so. Standing as tall as four feet and with a wingspan of five feet or longer, they are impressive in size. With long, elegant necks; slow, graceful movements and a bright red patch on their foreheads, they are beautiful. When they fly, they are as aerodynamic as nature could make them, with necks stretched out like an arrow and lengthy, slender legs trailing straight behind. I love their eerie calls, an ancient sound heard over this land for millions of years. They also represent a conservation success story. Although two subspecies are endangered because of diminishing habitat, most of the population is growing at a healthy clip, and increasing numbers are breeding in the northern Midwest, including northern Illinois. Our own local breeding pair has raised a brood over the last two years, if not longer.

All of those things make sandhill cranes compelling. For me, it’s even more about what they represent: dramatic reminders of the reassuring rhythm of the changing seasons. As the cranes circle higher and higher to catch the thermals, my heart rises with them. Then I feel better equipped, as they do, to set out once again and move forward with life.

“The Sandhills” by Ted Kooser

The language of cranes
we once were told
is the wind. The wind
is their method,
the 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. 

“Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.”
– William Wordsworth

From a recent walk by the river, I learned a big lesson from a tiny teacher—a sparrow. I had just crossed the pedestrian bridge over the Fox River and heard a song from a single source. With snow covering the ground and the temperatures still quite chilly on most days, it seemed a bit early to hear a bird singing its spring melody. The sound was startling in its solitary beauty. I stood still to try to pinpoint the location of the bird, inching slowly forward to avoid startling the singer. At the end of the bridge I knew it was close by, so I faced that direction and scanned the bank of large evergreen trees screening a backyard from the public sidewalk.

There, right in the middle of the tree closest to me, the bird was on an outer branch. It shone in the midday sun, the only spot of brightness in the dense deep green. I was glad it chose to be so plainly visible, as if to show off its singing abilities. I could see it well enough to identify it as a type of sparrow, one with a light brown chest and that bird family’s small, conical-shaped bill. When it pointed its head upward to sing, I could see small vibrations on its throat. There were no answering calls; I felt as though it was singing just for me.

I watched it intently, studying its plumage as closely as I could. I wanted to be able to identify its species when I could consult a field guide at home. But without the benefit of binoculars, it was a challenge to feel confident of the markings. I was unable to see the top or back of its head and, while I thought the chest was free of striping and had a pointed dark mark near the neck, I couldn’t be certain. I considered trying to memorize the cadence of the song and later look up sparrow songbird recordings. But that’s tough to do as well, and I am not well practiced at identifying sparrows with my ears.

Like gulls, sparrows pose a tough identification challenge to birdwatchers. With few exceptions, they vary little in size and plumage. More than 30 sparrow species are found in North America, all of which come in shades of brown, often with striping on their chest, back and wings. They’re not showy, like warblers or cardinals, and they’re relatively common. I know I am not alone among birders in not having taken the time to sort through their differences.

Anxious to make an identification while the bird’s image and song were still fresh in my memory, I hurried home to pore over my bird guides. Still not sure of the species, I hopped onto the web and randomly listened to songs of sparrow species that may be found in this area. The song of the white throated sparrow came close, but the bird’s markings didn’t match. I felt frustrated, even annoyed.

There are many good reasons to explain our desire to identify the creatures we see in the wild. We can then answer questions like, have I ever seen this before? Was it something special in its rarity? What makes this species unusual or even unique? How does it behave? Is it just passing through on migration or does it live here year-round? All of these pieces of information enrich our outdoor experiences, making the wild creatures we see or hear come alive and seem more familiar in our minds. We come to know their personalities, even to identify with them in some ways.

The more I thought about that little sparrow, however, the more I realized my annoyance at failing to make an identification was misplaced. There it was, sitting there in the sunshine singing its heart out. It may have been singing to attract a mate. It may have been singing for the fun of it. Whatever the reason, it was a special moment, a generous gift offered freely. Next time, I will concern myself less about what, exactly, I am seeing or hearing and relish that moment of pure joy much more.

The Sparrow” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

A little bird, with plumage brown,
Beside my window flutters down.
A moment chirps its little strain,
The taps upon my window-pane.

And chirps again, and hops along,
To call my notice to its song;
But I work on, nor heed its lay
’Til in neglect, it flies away.

So birds of peace and hope and love
Come fluttering earthward from above
To settle on life’s window-sills
And ease our load of earthly ills;

But we, in traffic’s rush and din,
Too deep engaged to let them in,
With deadened heart and sense plod on,
Nor know our loss till they are gone.

Saturday was a perfect day to take a winter walk. After weeks of frigid weather, Steve and I rejoiced to experience temperatures just below freezing. How freeing to wear only one layer of mittens, one pair of socks and no heavy scarf covering our faces. And near-freezing temperatures meant the substantial snow cover was still intact, streaked on this day with blue shadows marking the presence of hazy sunshine. Our destination? A secluded, riverside residential enclave in East Dundee, across the river from our favorite local park. Our neighbor Rob had told us a mature eagle often roosts in a tall tree there in the late afternoon, so we timed our walk accordingly.

As we entered South End Park, we decided to walk through the deep snow, taking advantage of the tramped-down trail some people and deer had been using. Who first marked the trail—the deer or the people—was uncertain, but several piles of fresh scat indicated some deer had walked this path recently. As we got close to the river’s edge, we enjoyed seeing the crisscrossing patterns of tracks across and along the frozen river made by humans on foot and skis and creatures of all sizes. We also reveled in the silence. No manmade sounds were audible, and birds are much less vocal in the winter months. It seemed the world was holding its breath. After living for years in the hubbub of a large city, I continue to relish the sounds of silence.

After crossing the pedestrian bridge and entering East Dundee, we reached the road to the residential area where we hoped to see the roosting eagle. It was fun to explore this hidden neighborhood on foot. With the majority of the homes abutting the river, as one would expect, it’s an odd mixture of small, vintage, one-story cottage-sized dwellings, some of which have been expanded for year-round living; what looks like an abandoned fishing shack with old license plates tacked next to the collapsing front door; and two grand, newly built, imposing homes at the end of the street facing south, where the Fox River widens to impressive dimensions. All of these homes are grouped close together on small lots, to maximize the availability of water views.

The only sounds we heard were the barking and snarling of a large black dog behind a fence and the faint sound of a distant chickadee voicing its namesake call. As we walked I wondered about the wisdom of living right on the river’s banks and squarely on its floodplain. But the views of the river from there are lovely, made extra special by the lack of visible human structures on the opposite shores.  You can almost imagine what this place might have looked like before humans arrived. Even better, the people at the end of the street have a great view of an active bald eagle’s nest on the other side of the river.

Rob, who is often kind enough to report his eagle sightings and as such has become our own personal eagle scout, informed us last summer that there was an occupied nest in town, roughly a mile downriver from our house. Anticipating seeing eagles in the area throughout the year excited me beyond measure. When he told us the nest is visible only from the water, we had more than enough incentive to make a purchase that Steve has been lobbying for ever since we moved to this river town: we bought a used canoe.

Our first two attempts to locate the nest from our new vessel were unsuccessful. We surmised the nest was well hidden from the water by the foliage of surrounding trees, so we pressed Rob for more details on its location. On our third try, as we paddled from the Fox into the creek, we saw it in all its massive glory. It’s situated 50 yards or so inland from a creek near where it empties into the Fox River. As if to welcome us that day, one of the adults was roosting in dignified state on a tree right along the river’s edge as we entered the creek. We assumed that the eagle Rob had seen roosting regularly across the river from the nest location is part of our local eagle pair.

When we finally spotted the roosting tree, the intricate, lacy lines of the tree were not interrupted by a large, dark eagle shape silhouetted against the bright pale-blue sky. We pressed onward, in hopes of seeing an eagle airborne. Scanning the sky looking westward, in the direction of the nest, we still had no sightings. Suddenly, in the narrow gap between two of the houses, we could see the nest. With the leaves off the trees, it’s now plainly visible across the river.

The nesting season for bald eagles in much of the country starts in mid-February, so it’s likely that if our local nest is in use, the adults are already incubating their eggs. We stood still, watching the nest closely for any signs of activity. We saw none, although binoculars might have helped us spy an adult sitting on the nest. Then, without warning, the hushed quiet of this winter’s day was pierced by the nearby peal of an eagle’s gull-like call. Despite our searching, we couldn’t see the bird, but hearing it announce its presence was more than enough. My heart soared.

We heard it call several more times before we turned around and starting to walk toward home. I wondered, what was the eagle communicating? Was it sounding an alarm? Was it a cry for help? Or was it just saying, to anyone who would listen, “I’m here! I’m here!” I was so glad we were there to hear it.

“The Eagle” by Timothy Otis Paine

How the eagle does:
Gathering up his might.
Quitting where he was,
Soars he in the height.
But his aerie home
Is not always grand:
Now on mountain dome,
Now in lowly land.
In a rugged wold,
Be it but apart,
He shall build his hold,
Take his mighty start.
Where he makes his bed,
Where he piles his lair,
Turns his noble head,
’Tis the king that’s there.
Where he heaps his nest,
Where he lies in state,
Where he takes his rest,
There the place is great.