The call of 750,000 sandhill cranes

On Nebraska and its unlikely crane migration—and the ranchers being drawn in

I’m sitting in the breakfast area of the Best Western Plus in Grand Island, Nebraska. I’m in the dark. The couple next to me are eating their waffles by the glow of their cell phones.

The lights went out about 30 minutes ago—it’s dark in here because it’s a white-out outside, and the sun isn’t yet up. All the roads are closed. There’s no going anywhere. Twelve hours ago, I was sitting in a bird blind in 70º, watching 5,000 sandhill cranes on the Platte River.

There’s something about Nebraska that swings so wildly from light to dark, from blindness to seeing. I know—I know—that’s pretty heavy-handed, but I think I can make the case in a few words: cranes, cornfields, and Jesus.