The Cranes Are Flying...

Sandhill Crane (Antigone canadensis)

When younger, from observing how things seemed to work, I slowly began imagining that hope was for others. The rich kids seemed on track to receive the outer limits of whatever their dreams may have been, while the working class had to hustle just to dream. The difference between the haves and the have-nots has not changed much, those differences in dream attainability still remain. But, what has changed is my lens of focus. The current state of the world would challenge even the most enlightened of Buddhists, but acknowledging the heft of the world’s problems no longer crushes me as it did in my rough-at-best 20’s. My shift of thought has come not via a change in how hope is disseminated; rather, the aim of my goals is now the altered beast.

I spent most of my 30’s and what has so far been my 40’s realizing that satisfaction comes from achievability. Is it good to hope to become the world’s greatest guitarist, or the world’s most elegant wordsmith? Or does true hope lie in things actually within our reach? My hope never lied in a desire to achieve riches or fame; happiness, or at minimum contentedness, has always been the real dream I was after. Of course a bit of money is necessary if not important, but more times than not money just looks like that old ‘bandaid on a broken knee’ routine. When thinking on profound achievability, I like to remind myself that there is a huge difference between a poor person and person who doesn’t have any money. Something about money not being able to buy happiness? As I write this, sitting on the edge of a mountain stream, blue skies above and a wonderful human by my side, the emotional wallet will barely clamp shut; that said, if dear Blazer keeps falling apart at his current rate, The Ferry and I may quickly fall into a pocketbook with a very clearly visible bottom.

Upper Cave Creek, Herb Martyr Campground, Portal, AZ

So why is hope as a subject riding so high on the lobe these days? In life you get constantly challenged, and The Ferry and I are of no exception. We see the rare Rufous-Backed Robin at Desert National Wildlife Refuge: our alternator nearly strands us five miles up a 4x4 track; we sleep on the edge of a Mexican Duck filled lake while Orion and his canines stand guard above in a pristine veil of night: our radiator springs a leak; we wake early to climb a mountain road still moist with snow and glistening in the morning sunshine to catch Mexican Chickadees singing in the oaks overlooking miles of beautiful nothingness: something funky starts with the transmission. So how does this emotional rollercoaster offer an opportunity to approach hope? Perspective, I guess. In our particular culture we are offered a choice: to see limitless possibility, or to let life’s trundling, overhead dumps take us along on their trundle. Choose your own adventure: hope against despair.

In his book, A House for Mr Biswas, V.S. Naipaul’s main character, Mohun Biswas, had this said about him by his omniscient observer: “... the most difficult part of his day: dressing in the morning, that daily affirmation of faith in oneself, which at times for him was almost like an act of sacrifice”. I think on this quote when I think on the aforementioned choice. The simple act of getting out of bed in the morning when the world seems devoid of grace, when it seems to be socially spiraling further and further away from basic goodness, can be a true test of the will. But, therein lies the choice. Just putting on your pants to face a new day, despite all, hoping...

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Cranes have symbolized many things throughout time and across many cultures. For some Aboriginal Australians the Brolga (Antigone rubicunda) helped light the world; the Blue Crane (Anthropoides paradiseus) in South Africa has long been a symbol of bravery in the eyes of the Zulu and the Xhosa; and throughout Asia cranes are admired, historically, for many things, one of which is hope.

Thousands of Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw, Arizona

Springtime means resurgence, a chance to try it again. Springtime is the Earth getting out of bed and putting its pants on after a long Winter’s slumber. Watching the cranes fly north can move the most jaded of observers by making them think there is something more than wings on the horizon. Something about the cranes mewling cackle-cacophony, their kettling circles against a blue sky, their elegance. Russians, very much wrongly accused of being cold and emotionally distant, are yet another group who understand the power of our gangly friends. Летят журавли (let-yat zhu-ravli, -The Cranes are Flying-), the 1957 Soviet film, truly a masterpiece, uses the leitmotif of flying cranes to keep war-afflicted lovers seeing a future of possible human joy. Unless you are one of those baffling people who enjoy J.J. Abram’s vision of Star Trek, you should watch it.

As The Ferry and I approached the resurging Chihuahuan grasslands surrounding Whitewater Draw, we heard the siren sounds of thousands of Sandhills. A Bendire’s Thrasher (Toxostoma bendirei) welcomed us along the road, as did a Crissal Thrasher (Toxostoma crissale) near the small somehow-free camping area. The sun dipped slowly over the fields and wetlands; a group of East-Coast ladies sat in lawn chairs, picnicking and reminiscing; an old couple deliberated over which duck was which. The Ferry and I eyed a rare Sprague’s Pipit (Anthus spragueii) skulkily feeding at the edge of the mudflat. Waterfowl everywhere and hundreds of Yellow-Headed Blackbirds (Xanthocephalus xanthocephalus—another amazing Latin name for you, Lorenzo!) No matter what people were doing, whether festooned with binoculars or not, everyone was in love with the birds; everyone was alive with a joyful renaissance. The cranes crooned; we walked the berms, taking it all in. Feeling hopeful, despite the hiccups along our journey’s way. Getting dressed for yet another go…

Green Winged Teal (Anas crecca)

Wilson’s Snipe (Gallinago delicata)

Great Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus) Hooting hard above our tent.

Whitewater Draw, hopeful…