(Continued from previous post)
It started innocently enough, with family groups of threes, or by eights and tens, winging along the river flats. We were within a half hour of sunset, and the gentle calls wafted to the blind from which 32 of us were watching. It was a tranquil, peaceful late afternoon on the North Platte.
The gregarious birds were gathering for the night; long, lazy V’s headed upriver to the prime roosting areas. As the sun sank lower and lower, the V’s began to have 75 or 150 individuals in them. Soon multiple large V’s converged overhead, and with the increasing number of birds in the sky, the decibels followed suit. Their deep rolling trumpet and rattling filled the air in waves, as layer upon layer added themselves to the sunset. Black specks filled the air in the distance, and large black foreground forms were silhouetted against the fading orange sky. I gave up shooting photos from my little two-square-foot window and just drank in the spectacle. The only thing I had in my memory banks for remote comparison was bat flights out of huge caverns. They just kept coming… and coming… and coming.
The river was running too deep for nearby sandbars to serve as landing spots, so I’ll save that piece for another year, next time doing the sunRISE spectacle. Watching hundreds of thousands of birds wake up, get up, and fly up, is its own type of spiritual experience. But, for tonight, I was filled up. Watching something of this magnitude reminds me that I’m a tiny part of a panorama much bigger than anything imaginable. I felt small, inconspicuous, humble.
And I want to go to Africa and see the great migrations of ungulates.