There are moments in life when you realize you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And then there are moments when you’re standing in freezing water, before sunrise, watching a six-foot-tall bird do what can only be described as CrossFit… and you realize you are exactly where you’re supposed to be—just slightly wetter and questioning your judgement.
Welcome to Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge.
We arrive in the dark.
Not “romantic twilight” dark.
No, this is “I can’t see my own hands and I’m trusting Don with my life” dark.
There’s a low rumble in the distance.
At first, it sounds like a polite conversation.
Then a debate.
Then… a union meeting.
That would be the Sandhill Cranes, thousands of them, gathered in the wetland roost like a feathery convention of long-legged philosophers who haven’t had coffee yet.
Don, of course, is calm.
Because Don is always calm.
Don doesn’t arrive at Bosque—Don belongs at Bosque. I’m fairly certain if you checked the refuge map, somewhere between “Wetland Roost” and “Flight Deck,” there’s a label that just says: Don’s Office.
We huddle up for warmth and wisdom.
Camera settings. Wind direction. Light angles.
And then…
The Moment.
Don explains “the tell.”
The subtle pre-flight behavior of a Sandhill Crane.
And here’s where things get interesting.
Because Don doesn’t just tell you…
He becomes the crane.
There’s a stretch.
A head pump.
A bow.
A little bounce.
I’m standing there thinking,
“Is this wildlife instruction… or am I witnessing interpretive dance?”
Either way, I’m locked in.
Now, let’s talk about crane takeoffs.
Because if you’ve never seen one, allow me to paint a picture.
Take the largest person you know.
No names. We’re keeping Thanksgiving peaceful.
Put flippers on them.
Now have them sprint through a foot of water like they just remembered they left the oven on.
That… is a Sandhill Crane taking off.
It is not graceful.
It is not subtle.
It is a full-blown, high-knee, splash-heavy, cardio event.
These birds are essentially Boeing 747s with anxiety.
But here’s the thing…
It works.
Because just when you think,
“There is no way this ends well…”
They lift.
And suddenly…
They’re magnificent.
Now enter their noisy, over-caffeinated cousins:
The Snow Geese.
If Sandhill Cranes are elegant runway models learning to jog…
Snow Geese are a rock concert.
A very loud rock concert.
With no intermission.
You hear them before you see them.
It starts as a distant hiss.
Then a roar.
Then a full-blown airborne riot.
And when they arrive?
Chaos.
Beautiful, synchronized, deafening chaos.
Fun Fact Intermission (because Don would insist):
- Sandhill Cranes:
Mate for life. Courtship involves dancing, bowing, leaping—basically a high school prom with better choreography. - Snow Geese:
Also mate for life… but express it by yelling constantly. At each other. At the sky. At you. - Cranes:
Take off like they’re negotiating with gravity. - Geese:
Take off like gravity insulted their mother.
Back to the show.
The light begins to rise.
And this is where Bosque does something that should honestly require a permit.
It turns on the gold.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The sun hits those cranes and suddenly the red crown ignites like a warning light on a runway.
(And yes—that red crown? Not feathers. Bare skin. Mood-dependent. These birds can literally blush. Which means they’re more emotionally expressive than most people I know.)
They glow.
They lift.
They become something else entirely.
And me?
I’m watching a crane do the “Don Move™” before takeoff…
…and I start laughing.
Right there.
Out loud.
Because now every bird looks like Don.
And I’m pretty sure that’s not how wildlife photography is supposed to work.
But here we are.
Evening rolls in.
And if the morning is a sprint…
The evening is a ballet.
The same birds—those chaotic, water-splashing, runway-stomping comedians—return like they’ve taken a master class in elegance.
Wings out.
Feet down.
Floating.
Like they have a parachute floating.
Not landing…
Arriving.
As if they’ve just been upgraded to first class and want everyone to notice.
The sky catches fire.
The water mirrors it.
And the cranes descend through it like they’ve done this for centuries.
Because they have.
And somewhere in all of it…
There’s Don.
Watching.
Smiling.
Probably about to turn into a crane again.
Why You Go to Bosque
You don’t go for just the birds.
You go for the sound before the light.
The laughter you didn’t expect.
The awkward takeoffs that turn into perfection.
The teacher who doesn’t just explain nature—he becomes part of it.
And the moment when you realize…
Nature has a wicked awesome sense of humor.
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