May 3, 2008
I went to a symphony a couple
weeks ago.
They play daily in the warmer
months, but the truth is there’s only one day a year that I really listen to
the full performance. That’s the day of the annual crane count – April 19 this
year.
Organized across the Midwest by
the International Crane Foundation in Baraboo, the crane count is an exercise
in citizen science. Biological laymen like myself get to help chronicle the
comeback of the sandhill crane, this huge and amazing red-capped bird.
Beyond that, it is reason and
license to spend sunrise doing nothing but listening and observing. It is an
invitation to witness the music of morning.
Audience members are to be in
position by 5:30 a.m. That’s not a challenge for me because my reserved seat is
in a counting area in a farm field across the road from our home.
A combination of the lingering
dark, the morning mist and the protection of the woods makes the start an
experience for the ears more than for the eyes.
At 5:38 a.m., the orchestra begins
to tune. The concertmaster bugles from offstage. His raucous, booming staccato
is the alarm call of the first crane to proclaim the morning.
Within minutes, the rest of the
orchestra joins in, creating a rising cacophony of musicians preparing their
instruments. None is yet to be seen. The greatest of all houselights are still
dimmed.
The sections of the orchestra –
all horn players, distributed across the marshy woods – compete with their
individual runs up the scale.
This discordant brass section must
share the stage before long. The wild tom turkey adds a counterpoint to the
melody with his curt “gobble, gobble, gobble.” The cock pheasant provides the
percussion. The great horned owl insists on a mournful solo.
At 5:52 a.m., the mellower French
horns (French Canadian that is) broaden the range with a quick arpeggio from a
small flock of passing geese, accented by the gentle snare of wind on duck
flight feathers.
As the clock ticks past 5:58,
there’s a pause. While this orchestra is well rehearsed, it begins and ends
movements at its own whim, independent of any score.
Six o’clock and the invisible
crane chorus builds to a crescendo, each straining to out-perform the musician
next to him. The pheasant adds a raspy rhythm and the performers begin to come
out from hiding.
At 6:11 a.m. I record one crane
walking and two flying over. Four minutes later, two more cranes fly by and a
blast pierces the air. Not the wakeup point in the Nutcracker Suite, but an
attempt at dinner by a turkey hunter camouflaged out in the field.
I did not have a solo seat to the
morning performance after all.
As the sun lights the scene, the
auditory treat turns to a visual one. At 6:22 I see two sandhills walking and
feeding and count one group of 15 turkeys and another of 12 – with the hunter
hidden in between.
The cranes’ numbers slowly grow as
more and more emerge from the woods for the post-performance brunch. From time
to time they reprise their song to greet a late arrival.
Scanning the field with a spotting
scope confirms seven, then 10, then 16 cranes taking part in the feed.
At 7:10 a.m. something spooks
them. I am frantically counting cranes as 26 birds rise up out of the farm field
to take their final bow and fly from the stage.
Time for me to pack up and leave
this outdoor concert hall and file my review with the International Crane
Foundation. There’s no place for it on the counting form, but my evaluation is
one word: Bravo.
