Lodi festival celebrates the arrival of Sandhill cranes

When we hear his call, we hear no mere bird. We hear the trumpet in the orchestra of evolution. He is the symbol of our untameable past. - Aldo Leopold, “Marshland ?Elegy”

We hear them before we see them, the rolling-R trilling sounds from a mile away. Then they fly into view, long necks straight out, broad gray wings stretching impossibly wide, crimson-crowned heads like embers in the gathering dusk.

After a day out feeding, the Sandhill cranes are returning to roost in a flooded field near Lodi in California’s Central Valley, exuberantly calling to their mates and to their young.

Unlike geese, cranes don’t typically fly in big flocks. They stick to family groups and descend three or five at a time from the darkening sky. With a wingspan of more than 6 feet, the greater Sandhill crane is one of the world’s largest flying birds.

During Lodi’s annual Sandhill Crane Festival, I join a group of about 30 people on a sunset birdwatching tour to observe these elegant behemoths coasting toward the shallow water, meeting their reflections as they land.

Accompanied by squawking migratory geese who seem like groupies, the cranes seek wetland areas to spend the night in 4 to 6 inches of water, where the slosh of an approaching coyote or other predator creates an aquatic alarm, giving the birds time to flee.

I’d heard about cranes but hadn’t seen them up close. After I learned about the Lodi Crane Festival, I signed up for a couple of tours led by knowledgeable naturalists to discover more about these majestic birds.

When Aldo Leopold wrote about cranes in his 1937 book “Marshland Elegy,” these magnificent birds were on the decline, and some populations appeared destined for extinction. Cranes suffered from habitat loss, power line electrocution, poisoning and hunting.

Marksmen called the greater Sandhill cranes, which stand 4 to 5 feet tall and weigh 10-14 pounds, “flying rib-eye.” Only five breeding pairs remained in California.

Eighty years later, with an assist from the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, crane populations have rebounded dramatically, though habitat loss and hunting continue to imperil these graceful birds.

“There are at least 40,000 Sandhill cranes that winter in California,” says Gary Ivey, research associate for the International Crane Foundation.

Known for their ecstatic mating dances, lifelong pair bonding and epic migrations, cranes have long been revered by humans. During migrations, cranes typically soar about a mile high, but when necessary to fly over mountains, they can travel more than 16,000 feet (three miles) above the Earth’s surface.

In an average migratory day, cranes fly 200 miles, but daily distances of 500 miles have been recorded. Perhaps because the birds are so large, groups of them aren’t called “flocks” - they’re “herds.” And the young are called “colts.”

In his elegiac book “The Birds of Heaven,” Peter Matthiessen notes that throughout cranes’ ranges, from Asia to Europe to North America, the birds represent “longevity and good fortune, harmony and fidelity.” And some believe cranes, with their heavenly flights, transport the souls of the dead.

At the Woodbridge Ecological Reserve near Lodi, our Fish & Wildlife guide Mamie Starr tells us that farmers, a group that used to try to cull cranes because they eat grain, are now working with preservation groups.

“We have lots of cooperation from farmers,” she says, noting that winters are typically fallow times for grain growers so some are willing to flood their fields to support cranes.

Cranes have been coming here for thousands of years, says Kathy Kellogg, a volunteer and former interpretive aid with California Fish & Game.

But the number of acres of wetlands in California has shrunk from 440,000 to 40,000 as walnut orchards and grapevines have proliferated, and housing tracts consume ever more land. Similar issues confront cranes throughout the West.

“This is one of the few places that Sandhill cranes can come,” Kellogg says. “If we don’t cooperate with them, they will have nowhere else to go. They’d be homeless.”

As darkness envelops the reserve, the cranes quiet down, standing erect as stars appear in the blackening sky. Less than a mile away, cars zip by on Highway 5, their drivers unaware of the wild spectacle nearby.

Cranes ‘very animated’

The next morning I rise well before dawn. Our tour meets at Hutchins Street Square in Lodi, the site of the crane festival. An enthusiastic bird watcher gets out of his car, spreads his arms wide and announces: “It’s crane season!”

During the 10-minute ride to Woodbridge Road, Paul Tebbel, a volunteer for the preservation group Save Our Sandhill Cranes, says he’s drawn to cranes because “they’re very animated. There is dancing and aggression, … always something going on.”

At this early hour, when there’s little background noise, we can hear distinct crane calls, the males louder than the females. The trumpeting of unison calls, when mated pairs sing out together, rolls across the plain.

An adult crane’s trachea is coiled and would reach 4 feet long if stretched out, giving the birds the ability to make a deeply resonant vibrating sound that can be heard over great distances.

The fiery red patch atop their heads, Tebbel says, is not composed of feathers but of crimson skin. Cranes use this patch to communicate happiness, excitement or anger. “They put their heads down, take aim and send a message. It’s as if he’s saying, ‘All right hon, let’s get ’em.’ ”

Steam rises from the marsh as the sun emerges and the cranes wake up. “It’s loudest just before sunrise,” Tebbel says. Ducks and geese take off before the cranes, who “like to sleep in.”

A few cranes start hopping around, the juveniles especially energetic, almost like junior high school kids practicing their steps before their first dance.

Cranes dance for all sorts of reasons, especially as a prelude to mating in late spring or early summer. They hop, bend, strut and pirouette, and flush their scarlet head patches.

“Sandhill cranes love to dance with their mates or with others,” Tebbel says. “They don’t need much of an excuse. They just love dancing.”

And they’re off!

When one member of a crane family is ready for liftoff, she stretches her neck in the direction she wants to fly. Soon the other members of the family lean so far in the same direction that their long necks are almost parallel to the ground. Then, with a signal we can’t detect, they take off.

Later that morning, we visit Staten Island, a 9,200-acre reserve about 20 miles west of Lodi managed by The Nature Conservancy to provide habitat for migratory birds.

Thousands of geese fly in, joining hundreds of cranes. Several cranes fly right over our heads, giving us a sense of these birds’ grand size.

The tour is over, but no one wants to leave. “You guys are now officially craniacs,” Tebbel says.

That afternoon at the festival, we peruse the paintings and photos for sale, learn how to make origami cranes and hear talks about these birds, which have endured for 10 million years.

A festival highlight is a slideshow by photographer Lon Yarbrough. He calls cranes “a gift of nature” and says they “add a chorus to the valley.” To appreciate cranes, Yarbrough says, “all you have to do is show up.”

Michael Shapiro is the author of “A Sense of Place” and writes for National Geographic Traveler, Islands and the Washington Post, michaelshapiro.net.