I have always suspected that Jo was a closet bird watcher. She has not purchased a spotting scope, nor does she own a single article of clothing in a camouflage pattern. But there are the telltale bits of evidence everywhere: the Peterson Field Guide to Western Birds, the monthly trips to Western Seed and Feed in Lafayette for the fifty pound bags of sunflower seed, and the proliferation of bird feeders of all sizes and types that adorn our old cottonwood tree. So I was not surprised when Jo feigned a breezy, almost indifferent response when I suggested a trip to Nebraska to see the Sandhill Cranes.

Of course, Kearney Nebraska would typically be cause for indifference to a traveler of Jo's caliber. Kearny is located roughly at the geographic center of the United States equidistant from Boston and San Francisco. It is a quiet outcropping of civilization on US 30 in a sea of corn and soybean fields. Kearney was wildly popular in the first half of the 19th century as homesteaders seeking land in the west streamed in and out on the Oregon and Mormon trails. Fort Kearny is the remaining monument to this migration that peaked in the years before the Civil War. It is filled with details about the settlers and cavalry troops stationed here with intimate and detailed descriptions of the buildings they built and the way they lived their lives in this prairie. Surprisingly, there is no mention of the Native American population that was a part of this community. The buildings, along with the Native Americans, have long since vanished. Interstate 80 is now the way most people arrive, primarily long haul truckers and bird watchers.

The interstate follows the Platte River through most of Nebraska from Omaha until it dips into Colorado at the panhandle. Around Kearney, the river widens out from the constrained energy that it has in Colorado and disperses into many shallow, gentle streams braided among islands populated with tall grasses and groves of cottonwoods. The river spreads out as far as three miles south of the interstate and forms the perfect resting area for the Sandhill Cranes on their yearly migration from Texas into Canada and Alaska. Current research indicates that this migration has been occurring for millions of years, placing the Sandhill Cranes among the most ancient birds known. From mid-March until mid-April, around 500,000 birds or 90% of the total population of Sandhill Cranes arrive here. During the day, the birds forage in surrounding corn, soybean, and wheat fields. At night, tens of thousands of birds congregate in the Platte's protected shallows, free from predators. Along with the migrating cranes comes the much more recent migration of bird watchers.

Now that most of the West has been settled, Kearney has found two ways to attract visitors: the annual Crane Watch and the Great Platte River Road Archway Monument. The Archway Monument is an enclosed building that stretches over Interstate 80 just east of the Kearny exit. Large yellow signs on either side of the interstate warn visitors: "Monument Ahead. No Stopping. No Parking at Any Time." Jo was later told by almost every local Kearney resident that the monument was really a great thing to see. In fact, President Clinton had visited and said "…I have never seen anything like this…". Jo pondered if President Clinton paid the $7.50 admission fee, and if so, how he managed to avoid a fine for stopping.

Nevertheless, Jo found Kearney to be a very friendly place. Sometimes, without even asking, folks would do their best to help her out with directions to the best bird watching and monument sites. A special occurrence, in this case a sighting of the especially rare Whooping Crane, would send a ruffle of excitement throughout the visitor’s centers and wildlife sanctuaries. But as Jo was to learn, most of these fine, upstanding bird watchers with safari jackets and spotting scopes were nothing more than posers. The truly dedicated bird watcher is one who is willing to forgo personal comfort for the best sightings available.

What none of our eager tour guides seemed to know was that the Lillian Annette Rowe Sanctuary, run by the Audubon Society, provided overnight blinds for viewing the cranes at very close range. The Audubon folks have built three small blinds very close to the overnight roosting sights of the cranes on the shallows of the Platte River. The sanctuary feels it is very important not to disturb the cranes during the evening, so crane watchers are not allowed out of the blind from five o'clock in the evening until the birds leave the following morning, usually around eight o'clock. Birdwatchers are not allowed out of the blind during that time, for any reason, period. Jo thought that this would make for a memorable evening.

While we were waiting, a Nebraska game warden arrived with three dead cranes, victims of an accident with some power lines. Cranes are wary of humans and keep well away from farm equipment, automobiles, and birdwatchers with big lenses. They usually avoid natural and man-made obstructions, but when spooked by predator or bird watcher, they may run into these obstacles out of fright. The cranes are large birds with silvery gray plumage and long black legs. The beaks are long and black, seemingly prehistoric as a result of nasal vents that extend all of the way through the beak. At the top of the head is a patch of small bright red feathers that these birds use to attract their mates. Although only a few hours old, the patch had faded on the dead birds and was now only a remnant of the brilliant red we had seen on the birds in the field.

Bub showed up in full camouflage and a well used SUV to take us out to our blind. Next to Bub, we felt just a bit out of place in our Gore-Tex mountain parkas with matching pants emblazoned with EMS and North Face trademarks (solid colors, no camo). We loaded our equipment and headed out to the river, about a half-mile away. It turns out Bub is a serious photographer. His recommendation was to use a 600mm telephoto lens with a 1.4x teleconverter, giving an effective 840mm focal length. We let Bub know that we had only a 400mm f2.8 for the evening. He immediately offered to let us borrow his teleconverter for the evening if we were “Canon” folk. Jo let him know that we were unfortunately “Nikon” folk. Once again, Jo was impressed with the lack of pretense to be found in rural Nebraska.

There are three blinds situated adjacent to the flats near the river. It turned out that we were the only party spending the night on the river that night and we had our choice. Bub recommended the middle one, which seemed to be situated nearest to the river. This one was surrounded by cottonwoods leaning precariously over the blind thanks to the work of beavers. The blind was constructed of plywood, about four feet tall, eight feet long, and six feet wide. It faced the river with three viewing ports located on the front and one on each side and had a large entry door on the rear facing away from the river. The viewing ports were about ten inches tall and eighteen inches wide and each was equipped with a hinged door. The floor of the blind was earth covered with straw. Bub left us with a covered bucket, a few small wooden benches, and strict instructions not to leave the blind until the cranes left the next morning. He wished us luck and drove off.

After a careful survey of the blind, we decided to check out the bucket. It contained two plastic trash bags, a one-liter plastic bottle labeled "waste only", a small flashlight with a red filter, and a plastic bag containing toilet paper. Bub had explained to us that the cranes are insensitive to red light, white lights of any sort were not allowed in the blind. As the sun began to go down and we saw the cranes beginning to arrive, we moved all of our equipment into the blind and set up our photo equipment. As the sky filled with the colors of the setting sun and hundreds of sandhill cranes, we found that the batteries in the flashlight were dead.

The wind came from the northwest that evening. Bub had warned us that the cranes might stay on the north side of the river to get some protection from the wind. As he predicted, large numbers of cranes began arriving on the north shore of the river, beyond our line of sight. They came in small groups at first but the numbers slowly grew. Soon there were thousands, coming in at all altitudes from every direction. Those high in the sky drafted each other in the "V" formation, while those close in landed individually, parachuting with wings outspread and legs extended. As more and more birds arrived, the landing area filled up and the newest arrivals gradually moved toward us. Eventually the cranes were landing in the river directly in front of us about one hundred yards away. It was difficult to see how another crane would land in the masses that were already on the ground, but they continued to land, somehow missing each other. The space in front of us was thick with landing cranes and high above we could see more of the V shaped flanks of birds coming from all directions.

As the number of new arrivals tailed off, the light grew too dim even for 800-speed film. By this time, we were surrounded by an incomprehensible number of cranes. They spread out to the north further than we could see and formed an indistinguishable mass of gray. Only the nearby birds and those we viewed with binoculars could be differentiated from the flock. As they settled in for the night, they made so much noise that was difficult for us to talk in a normal conversational voice.

Jo settled in for the night as well, with a sip of a good red Zinfandel, cheese, and chocolate with raspberries. We put the cameras away, zipped the sleeping bags together, and settled in for a fitful nights rest, only to be awakened on more than one occasion by fifty thousand cranes upset with an unwelcome beaver or a noisy freight train.

The alarm went off at five in the morning in the cold and very quiet darkness of morning. At first, we could not see or hear the cranes, but as the sun warmed the river the cranes became active. They began flapping their wings and hopping on the sandbars in the river. As sunset broke, one or two began to fly off. The numbers slowly increased for over an hour until the sky was once again filled with cranes. This time, the cranes were all at low altitudes and seemed likely to crash into each other as they went in all directions. Hundreds of cranes flew directly over our blind at low altitude, squawking and barking to each other as if to warn others in the tight formation to stay away. Finally there were just two cranes left. They danced with each other to entertain us until Bub showed up to take us back to our car.

After fifteen hours in a four-foot high box we were cold and stiff. Jo inquired at the sanctuary office if there was a good place for breakfast in Kearney. "Well, this is rural Nebraska, you know. Perkins or maybe Country Kitchen - they have a good buffet." Desperate for strong coffee, Jo tried the espresso stand across from the university in Kearney, but they didn't open until eleven o'clock on Sundays. We got onto Interstate 80 and headed to North Platte for breakfast.

Our final stop was at Cabela's in Sidney, Nebraska. This is possibly the largest sporting goods store in the United States and a well-known mail order house. For some of Jo's co-workers, it is a yearly pilgrimage to visit this store in preparation for the hunting season. Jo showed some passing interest in a high-power spotting scope, but lost interest when she saw the $450 price tag. The endless racks of all types of clothing in camouflage pattern caught her eye, and she disappeared into the forest of random green and brown patterns. For a moment, I thought that Jo was about to come out of the closet to become a confirmed and camouflaged bird watcher. She emerged a few minutes later with a pair of green and brown camouflaged boxer shorts. She looked at the sales person and me and asked: “What kind of bird would a person watch for in these?” Neither the exceptionally helpful and friendly store employees nor I could answer that question.