OUTDOORS COLUMN: Just to see them fly

It happened around 9 a.m. The risen sun burned brightly in the clear sky, showering the salt marsh and all vestiges of outlying “civilization” with an unobstructed yellow-gold aura. Appropriate, I thought. Big productions merit big spotlights.

The temperature hovered in the mid 20s, the mercury reluctant to rise despite the absence of cloud cover and appreciable wind chill. I paced to stay warm, my gloved hand wrapped around the compact binoculars inside my vest pocket. It had been awhile since I’d heard the encouraging words from one of the Operation Migration volunteers.

“They’re up,” she said. “Flying. They’re coming.”

I took note of the modest crowd gathered at the flyover site. They’re just as cold as me, I thought, and just as excited. I’m not crazy. This is so right. This is where I’m meant to be at this moment in time. Perhaps a hundred pairs of eyes scanned the northern horizon in eager anticipation.

I never heard the engine of the “flock leader,” the tiny ultralight aircraft leading them “home” for the winter. I didn’t see them, either, not at first.

Then, a hush followed by an almost-whispered “Here they come.”

There. Above the line of trees in the distance, from the north, just as expected. The plane first, then the birds, tiny specks holding formation off the left wing tip. Barely visible.

The binoculars, dummy! You know, in your pocket?

Yes. There they are. All five of them. Half of the divided flock, the “class” of 2010. They’re flying right above me. They’re breathtaking, majestic. And so very, very fragile.

The ultralight pilot (endearing himself to me immensely at that moment) banked the diminutive “trike” and executed a slow turn, looping his feathered charges around in a wide circle above the onlookers on the ground. I lost all sense of the people around me, constantly following the birds with my glasses until they were out of sight, winging unerringly toward the nearby National Wildlife Refuge that will be their winter home until they return to Wisconsin in the spring, this time on their own, no man-made contraption to guide them.

Was it worth it? My journey to and from St. Marks, Fla., was well over 200 miles. I awoke at two a.m. and was on the road by three. Besides, there was no etched-in-stone assurance they’d fly this morning. I’d carefully monitored their progress for several weeks, each previous anticipated sighting fruitless, frustrating.

But this was my last chance. No more flyovers this year. I simply had to be there. Not many people, I fear, will remotely understand, but there was no other choice. It is how I am wired. For me it was important, even vital in its way.

It was important for many selfish reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I am a birdwatcher who had a glaringly empty space on his life list. It was important because I am inexorably drawn to people who, without question or complaint, wholly dedicate themselves to a worthy cause. Primarily, though, it was important because these birds are what they are. They are whooping cranes, a species that, after decades of precarious struggle, is only now beginning to make positive strides away from the brink of extinction. Time was, before committed human intervention, their numbers dipped into the twenties.

For me and those with whom I was gathered this frigid morning the experience was more than a mere bird sighting. It was a rare, moving thing, something to be treasured. It brought home an encouraging conjecture. If we can somehow save the whooping crane, then might we not also save…?

Maybe. Just maybe.

December 15, 2010, St. Marks, Fla. – Some kindred spirits and I (many for, no doubt, the first time) withstood unseasonable cold, sleeplessness and the looming specter of repeated disappointment for a brief five-minute glimpse of a handful of young migrating whooping cranes. In so doing, we saw so much more. We were eyewitnesses to a genuine ray of hope.

Worth it?

Oh, my, yes.

Every shivering moment.