Sandhill cranes show their ability to adapt to change

“The ultimate value in these marshes is wildness, and the crane is wildness incarnate. But all conservation of wildness is self-defeating, for to cherish we must see ... and when enough have seen, there is no wilderness left to cherish.”

This quotation from Aldo Leopold's classic “A Sand County Almanac” does not paint a pretty picture. He's basically saying that as wild marshes disappear, so will sandhill cranes. Today, sandhill cranes are doing quite well. Before we get to their history with humans, let's review some of the basics.

Greater sandhill cranes (Grus canadensis) are four to five feet tall with a very long neck and legs. They are generally gray in color with a red forehead. Sometimes similarly shaped great blue herons and great egrets are mistakenly called cranes. The egret is easy to separate from the crane thanks to its all white color.

The dark-colored great blue heron can be a bit more difficult to distinguish from a crane. When in flight, both egrets and herons fly with necks folded into a compressed “S.” Cranes fly with their necks outstretched.

The other obvious characteristic that separates cranes from herons and egrets is their marvelous call. Herons and egrets are essentially hoarse squawkers.

One of the reasons Aldo Leopold wrote that “the crane is wildness incarnate” is no doubt because of their calls. Let's return to “A Sand County Almanac” for this poetic description of the cranes' timeless vocalizations: “Now comes a baying of some sweet-throated hound, soon the clamor of a responding pack. Then a far clear blast of hunting horns, out of the sky into the fog.”

It is not so much the sweetness but the design of the throat that explains the crane's ability to trumpet and bugle. Their elongated trachea, a yard or more in length, coils around their breastbone. Think of it as the ornithological equivalent of a trombone slide.

When a flock of sandhills is migrating overhead (which they'll be doing this fall), their haunting cries are often heard long before squinting eyes can make out the birds. Is it any wonder that the word “crane” has its origin in the Indo-European kar meaning “to cry out.”

Cry out is exactly what I did some years ago while riding in a friend's car just a short distance from Stillman Nature Center. I was looking out the window at a relatively new berm, the kind you see edging young subdivisions in our area.

I like to scan and see what kind of trees were planted, if they're being watered, and the like. As I was looking, darned if I didn't see a crane. I quickly urged my companion to turn around so I could make sure. Yep, there it was walking along a suburban berm as if that was what cranes do these days.

Now, I knew cranes have been nesting in the neighborhood, so to speak, but it was still a bit jarring to see one in this newly created landscape. Wasn't this crane contradicting Aldo Leopold?

During Leopold's life (1887-1948), the sandhill crane disappeared as a breeding bird from Illinois (1890), Iowa (1905), and Ohio (1926). The primary causes of the bird's decline were agricultural expansion, hunting, and drainage of wetlands.

Let's take a closer look at Wisconsin, where “A Sand County Almanac” is set. This was also the state where I saw my first sandhill while visiting Crex Meadows Wildlife Area in 1975.

This refuge is a combination of extensive sandy plains and large marshes. Beginning in the mid-19th century, settlers attempted to farm this land. By 1890, large-scale drainage projects had drastically reduced the number of wetlands.

In 1912, the Crex Carpet Company bought 23,000 acres and set up work “camps” to harvest the grasses in the area, The company went bankrupt in 1933, but the “Crex” name remained.

Besides these grass rug makers, most of the farmers, and the cranes, now that I think of it, had abandoned the Crex area as well. During the 1930s, there were only about 25 breeding pairs of cranes to be found anywhere in Wisconsin.

In 1946, the state bought 12,000 acres of the old Crex land and within a year began constructing dikes to regulate the water flow in the area. Currently, there are more than 20 miles of dikes along with a system of well-maintained roads, observation areas, and so on.

Such an intensely managed area does not seem to fit Leopold's vision of wilderness, yet the cranes have been nesting here for decades. Crex Meadows serves as a model of what was happening elsewhere during the 20th century.

Across the Midwest, many of the marginal farmlands were abandoned, wetlands were protected, and hunting was prohibited. As a result, nesting cranes returned to Illinois (1979), Ohio (1987), and Iowa (1992).

The other reason I mention the Dairy State is because the 1979 Illinois crane nest was just over the border from Wisconsin. This illustrates how the sandhills are expanding their range.

Interestingly, the cranes' nests are not limited to untamed marshes. Nowadays, their nests can be found in smaller wetlands and even hay meadows. Cranes are regularly seen feeding in cornfields, golf courses, and even suburban bird feeders. Besides wild berries and insects, today's cranes are quite fond of wheat, barley, sorghum and corn, not exactly native rarities.

Not being too picky about where you nest and what you eat helps explain why sandhills are the most abundant species of crane in the world. In fact, several states now allow sandhill cranes to be hunted.

All of which brings me back to our suburbs. The cranes I'm seeing striding across mowed lawns and busy roads are hardly icons of “wildness incarnate.” On the other hand, they are symbolic of a species that has survived by adapting to change.

By the way, this species earned its name because, during migration, many congregate along the Platte River near Nebraska's Sandhills. That name seems a bit dated. So I'm wondering, what should we rename our neighborhood birds? The community cranes? How about the cul-de-sac cranes?

I've got it. Sodhill cranes.

Mark Spreyer is executive director of the Stillman Nature Center in Barrington. Email him at stillnc@wildblue.net.