All month I have been on alert listening for the calls of the Sandhill cranes as they continue their migration south. Last year a good number of cranes spent the winter here landing in the neighboring field to find food, and roosting down by the river in the riffles…
 
This year, except for a few sightings and an occasional singular “brring” call by a few, the cranes have been absent. The river is so unnaturally high that it is ripping the shore away in chunks; the torrents of raging water are drowning the riffles where shorebirds once landed to rest or fish. Even the solitary heron has moved on. It is hardly surprising that the Sandhill cranes are not staying overnight even if they pass by overhead.
 
I also suspect that the cranes’ migratory routes have shifted, although as yet I can’t find supporting evidence for my hypothesis in the literature. We do know that one of the consequences of Climate Change is that many migratory birds are shifting their routes or not traveling as far south as they once did. The cranes used to have three distinct flyways that flowed into one great artery the further south they traveled, and conversely fan out with some cranes flying as far as west as the eastern coast of Siberia during the northern spring migration. These days it is hard to predict what may be happening.
 
Although it is almost the end of November I have only seen one good size flock of twenty cranes flying over the house; this group was traveling due west. I have seen a few in very small groups of two, three, and five in number, and I know that my neighbors and I had a couple in their field.
 
Seeing and hearing Sandhill Cranes has to be one of the the greatest joys of living near the river in Abiquiu, and I keenly miss their presence and haunting calls.
 
This year’s trip to the Bosque del Apache assuaged my loneliness. For one whole day I was steeped in wonder and gratitude that such a place even existed (I almost forgot that this refuge is also open to hunting. This “create a refuge and then shoot the animals” is normalized behavior for all state Fish and Game organizations).
 
To have so many cranes and snow geese along with harriers and other raptors, eagles, ducks, herons, sliders, fish, deer visible all at once while listening to crane and geese cacophony put me in state that I call “Natural Grace,” where nothing but the immediate present matters. At one point I met a couple who asked to take my picture. When I asked why they both said in union -"Why, you are so beautiful, you look like you belong here." Evidently, the cranes had transformed me!
 
The day was perfect – absolutely no wind and temperatures that were so mild that I was able to sit on the ground watching cranes/snow geese through my binoculars until the sun finally set, and many groups of cranes and snow geese had taken to the sky. I recorded the birds calling out to each other, and now whenever I listen to my tape I am transported back in time to that wondrous day. I am so grateful to have been there.

We know from fossilized records that the Sandhill Cranes are one of oldest birds in the world, and have been in their present form for 10, 30, or 60 million years (depending on the source). They have apparently maintained a family and community structure that allows them to live together peacefully and migrate by the thousands twice a year. Sandhill Cranes mate for life, and in the spring the adults engage in a complex “dance” with one another. During mating, pairs throw their heads back and unleash a passionate duet—an extended litany of coordinated song. Cranes also dance, run, leap high in the air and otherwise cavort around—not only during mating, but all year long.

In their northern habitat, the female lays two eggs a year in thick protected areas at the edge of reed filled marshes. Before nesting these birds “paint” their gray feathers with dull brown reeds and mud to reduce the possibility of being seen by a predator. Born a couple of days a part, the second chick rarely survives. The fuzzy youngster that does (if it survives the first year – delayed reproduction and survival rates factor into the difficulties inherent in crane conservation and to that we must now add Climate Change) stays with its parents for about three years before reaching sexual maturity and striking out on its own, but even then the adult stays within the parameters of its extended family, and it is these families that comprise the small groups of cranes that we see flying together. During migration, a multitude of these groups travel together. There are no leaders and often it is possible to observe what looks like an unorganized random group or diagonal thread made up of cranes flying above the ground. In every roosting place there are a few cranes that remain awake all night alerting their relatives to would be predators.

I think it’s significant that these very ancient birds have survived so long in their present form. I’ll repeat my original question: Could it be that cranes understand the value of living in community in a way that has become foreign to humans who seem hell bent on embracing the values of competition, power, and control on a global level? Perhaps we could all benefit from watching Sand hill cranes with rapt attention.

​Recently I had an astonishing experience with some Harvester ants. I have been intrigued by the conical, volcanic mounds these ants construct ever since I came to the desert. When I moved into the casita one large mound sat across my driveway. Sometimes I would stop and visit with these very busy little creatures marveling over their industrious nature. Last spring when I planted a juniper not far from their mound I noted that the ants never attempted to bother me. Of course, I was respectful and careful not to disturb them.
 
We have lived here in peace until my recent return to Abiquiu. One day, without my knowledge, someone totally flattened the roof of their house. When I took my little Chihuahuas for a walk Lucy suddenly started screaming like a banshee. Frightened out of my wits I snatched her up and ran back into the house. My poor dog was in agony. Inspecting her foot, I discovered that she had been bitten by an ant. I instantly removed the ant who was curled up as if dead in a ball. Within minutes it was clear that something was very wrong with Lucy because she became ill. I frantically called my vet for assistance… when the Benadryl failed to work my vet told me that Lucy was allergic to this ant’s venom and if bitten again might die. Lucy was sick for days, and although she has recovered to some extent, she still favors the back leg where she was bitten. I continue to carry her out the door and down the driveway where she feels safe enough to go to the bathroom.
 
When I first approached the ant’s squashed house later that first afternoon these once peaceable ants attacked me viciously, but who could blame them? If my house was flattened I would be angry too. After donning my rubber boots I went back to the remains of the mound and asked them for forgiveness… I did this day after day, and by the fourth day the ants although wary, were no longer swarming around my feet, although some of them lined up in front of me as if ready for another unpleasant incident. I kept my daily monologue going until the ants realized that I meant them no harm, and now we are living once again in harmony. Unfortunately, Lucy is still afraid and remains at risk…
 
Naturally, I wanted to know more about these particular ants, especially with regard to our former peaceful co-existence. Researching, the first thing I learned was that  although they are larger than most species and have two of the most formidable weapons known among insects-large, pointed mandibles and most efficient stings-they are not quarrelsome, and fight only in self-defense. They are so peaceably inclined that other species of ants are allowed to come into their clearings and throw up their tiny crescent-shaped mounds of earth.
 
Sometimes the small ants attack and chase the mound-builders that pass by! Apparently Harvester ants carry this peaceful disposition to a point where they permit the common termite and some other species of ants to live with them in the chambers of their nests and to partake of their stored food. This information confirmed what I had learned from living with these creatures. They certainly weren’t out to get us. Poor Lucy was bitten by the ants by mistake in self defense.
 
These ants live throughout the Southwest in large colonies in gravel-covered mounds, each located in a cleared circular space. Beneath the beautiful humps are chambers and galleries that penetrate the earth as far down as ten feet. These chambers and galleries serve as store- rooms, nurseries, and workshops.
 
The ants cannot tolerate the presence of vegetation near their mounds, and the workers clear it away by use of their well-adapted mandibles. Plants probably get in their way and retain moisture after a rain, favoring the growth of destructive fungi. The ants cover the mound to a depth of from one-half to one inch with a layer of coarse particles selected from the surrounding detritus (including bits of turquoise I’ve heard people remark), making the slope steep. They also add soil that has been brought up from below.
 
In many of the mounds like mine the ants go and come through one opening, in others they have two or three such entrances. These gateways are usually located about one-third the way up from the base to the summit of the mound. They commonly face east, southeast or south.
 
At night, or on the approach of a rain-storm, the openings are closed by the workers. During the summer the ants begin to close them shortly before sunset and open them between eight and nine o'clock in the morning.
 
Except for an unbroken layer just beneath the gravelly surface, the whole mound is honeycombed with chambers and galleries. The nest has both sealed and unsealed storerooms filled with seeds.
 
Like many other ants these mound - builders have queens, males, and workers (sterile females). The workers dominate the colony and can number in the thousands. The workers are armed with stingers. The workers also gather seeds of various kinds and carry them into the nest. The hulls are torn off, carried out, and dumped at one side of the clearing, and the plump seeds are stored away in the underground granaries. These storerooms, packed with seeds of various kinds, may be found from an inch or two beneath the gravelly covering down to the lowest chambers, those beneath the frost line.
 
As I watch ‘my’ friends the ants patiently re –building their former home it is impossible not be impressed by these diligent animals who go about living their lives in such a peaceable manner. Perhaps we humans could learn something about generosity of spirit and communal living from our neighbors, the mound builders?
 

I met a man on a rumbling train who had hooks in his hat.
 
A fisherman, I thought with the usual dismay – brutal images of dying fish gasping for air exploded in thin air. Memories of my grandmother who took her eight year old granddaughter fly fishing also flooded my mind (my grandmother was a professional fly fisherwoman). I caught my first fish in the brook – a six inch trout. After landing the desperate creature my grandmother said, “ now we must kill it so the fish does not suffer.” And she looked for a stone.
 
Hit it over the head” she instructed handing me a rock she picked up nearby, and I did.  Tears welled up. It broke my child’s heart to murder such a shimmering rainbowed creature.
 
When we got home that day, my grandmother praised me lavishly for my catch, promptly gutted the fish and fried it in a pan for me to eat. I forgot the anguish I had experienced, basking in my grandmother’s approval. The fish tasted delicious, and to this day I eat fish and other seafood.
 
As a lobsterman’s wife I learned quickly how to cook crustaceans by sticking their heads in boiling water so they would die almost instantly.
 
No fish ever suffered after it was hauled into our boat. I killed each individual myself, enduring ridicule in the process.
 
My grandmother had taught me well.
 
Yet, becoming a fisherwoman never appealed to me.
 
Instead I became a Naturalist…
 
When the man on the train began talking I politely asked him what kinds of fish he caught. “All kinds” he replied with obvious enthusiasm. Inwardly I groaned, quickly changing the subject to the hooks on his hat.
 
Each one was unique, and all were beautiful and when I told him I had a childhood friend who tied flies he took off his hat and gave it to me to inspect. After admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of each lure the man surprised me with his next remark as he replaced the hat on his head.
 
 He exclaimed, “I love to catch fish but I never eat them! I throw each one back. If you look carefully at the hooks you will notice that none of them have a barb.”
 
How had this observation escaped me? Sure enough, each hook was barbless, and I understood that this way the fish could be caught and returned to the sea unharmed. I was suddenly overjoyed to meet the man with the hat. With words of deep appreciation I happily shook his hand, exclaiming how wonderful it was to meet a dedicated fisherman who released his catch!
 We went on to discuss the merits of conservation with regard to freshwater fishing. Suddenly the man  removed his hat again.
 
“I want you to have one of these hooks,” he said quietly handing the hat to me. “We are kindred spirits.”
 
I chose one small perfect fly and carefully wrappd it up in a paper napkin before putting it in my purse. Thanking him.
 
When I got home that night I already knew where the tiny hook would find home. I have a beautiful Norfolk pine and hanging from one branch is a tiny flask that Iren once gave me that I periodically re-fill with our river water. The diminutive bottle is tied to one end of the string and I carefully attached the barbless hook to the other end.
 
Every time I walk by that tree I give thanks for the water that flows from Red Willow River and I remember the man with the hat who loved his fish!
 
But there is more to this story. On my birthday this year Iren and I met someone who had a fish he had recently caught that was still gasping for breath in a plastic bag. I begged him to kill it, offering to do it myself. My offer was rejected and afterwards, Iren, who is a vegetarian, thanked me for trying to save the fish, acknowledging that the experience had been too upsetting for her.
 
Of course, I understood why.
 
Within two weeks of this painful incident I met the man with the hat and now when I pass by my tree I think of Iren, the man, and me. One of us eats fish; the other two do not. But all three of us abhor animal suffering. And that hook has become a symbol of hope. Perhaps there are more us out there than I thought!