bad metaphor

I’m still working on updates about the spring break trip…meanwhile, though, I went on another trip this weekend to Kearney, Nebraska to watch the sandhill crane migration. I know you’re probably thinking that I must have nothing better to do than constantly go on nature trips, but trust me, I’m plenty busy as is with schoolwork (luckily for me, the shit has not hit the fan yet. It will do so in precisely two weeks from tomorrow). Last semester, I called this nature center to reserve a blind (a wooden structure, kind of like a human sized box, with slits for viewing so that the birds aren’t scared off by human presence). We’d rounded up about nine people that were ready to go on the trip, and going into this week I thought we’d be all set.

The way I phrased that last sentence should be sufficient indication that indeed, we were not all set. Five people dropped out, leaving just me and the ECM pastor and two others. All right, I thought, trying to put a positive spin on it – more leg room in the van. We drove for awhile – it’s a five and a half hour drive up there, going the quicker route. Interestingly enough, the quicker route takes you through Missouri and Iowa. I guess the more direct route encompasses so many of those tiny, pop. 800, speed-trap type towns that it adds an extra hour of trip time.

Eventually, we got to the place we were staying, a Presbyterian church that had graciously offered to put us up without charge that night. The janitor of the church let us in and was (we thought) very helpful, even offering us directions to the nature center. Despite being very helpful, he seemed a little, well, not exactly creepy, but slightly…off. Maybe it was the way he looked – he was probably late forties with a wiry, muscular build, dirty blond hair and extremely pale eyes, and he had this habit of staring you in the eye. I try to be really conscious about how someone’s appearance affects how I perceive them, but sometimes I can’t help it. Anyway, he turns to us and says in a raspy, Nebraska-accented voice, “and one more thing. They say the place is haunted.”

I almost laughed out loud – the guy and the dialogue was straight out of any standard cheesy horror film – but I didn’t, and thought, how interesting. Especially since the building itself didn’t fit with the horror film thing – it looked brand spanking new to our group. The janitor, having told us this cheery tidbit, told us to enjoy the cranes and made his merry exit, out into the faintly cow-smelling night air. We decided to explore the church, which was rather slick-looking. Spotless tile floors, polished wood, etc. Evidently this particular parish has a lot of money. We went into the sanctuary and tried to turn on the lights, but couldn’t find the switch. One light was on, the one that lit the glass dome above the altar. Here’s a picture I took of it:

As I was taking pictures, I knelt down and tapped my knee on the foot of a pew. I didn’t hit it very hard, and I don’t know what happened exactly – maybe I hit a blood vessel right on, maybe the ghosts were angry at me for taking pictures or something, but the sucker had me limping for twenty for hours. It still hurts a little now.

We would have an early day, so we went to sleep, in a big gynasium turned conference room that had carpet and slick executive Herman Millers (those partition things that they use for cubicles). This was all totally foreign to us, being used to the campus ministry center back in Lawrence, which is -always- short of money (that’s what you get when your primary outreach population is hippies and activists, I guess). I shut my eyes as soon as I hit the sleeping bag, knowing that I was going to drive the next morning. Twenty minutes later, I felt like I needed to put my arm over my eyes. Ten minutes after that, the inside of my eyelids were red, like when you close your eyes while a flash photo is being taken of you. Annoyed, I looked up and found that the overhead lights had turned on again by themselves. Along with some general creaky foundation noises and old building moaning, with mysterious knocks thrown in for kicks. Our pastor also tried to sleep in the sanctuary room, only to wake up and find that the orange dome light had gone off. Surely there are clear, rational explanations for all of this – but when you’ve just been told by some shady looking guy that a place is haunted, which explanation would -you- listen to when you’re sleeping in said haunted place?

After a short night of non-sleep, we got up and drove to the place, getting turned around a few times due to poor navigating (I, for some reason, was given the navigator’s seat). Along the way, we kept seeing signs leading to “Rowe’s Sanctuary and Crane Watching Facility,” which I thought was odd, as the place we were headed was called “Crane Meadows.” I hoped that they were the same place, only different names, eheh? Finally, when we were back on track, I thought to look at the info and address that the nature center had given us. S. Alda Rd. I looked at the directions that creepy janitor had given us. Elm Island. “Oh. Shit.”

I frantically called the nature center, who explained that there was no way we were going to make it in time to get there before sunrise, when the cranes arrive. We stopped by Rowe’s, and they said that all their bird blind tours were full. Ahh! Whilst kicking myself for listening to the janitor and not even bothering to look at the info packet that the center had given us, the Rowe’s people told us about a bridge in Ft. Kearney park that we could watch the cranes from. We wouldn’t be able to get close, but we would be able to at least see them.

We ended up being able to hear the cranes – sandhill cranes are very noisy in large gatherings – and see a few of them fly over. One problem was that other people joined us on the bridge, who didn’t get to go on the tours, and these people were doing things like turning the flash on their cameras (guaranteed to scare any cranes from coming near us) and chatting (double guaranteed). Also, in the middle of our watch, a lovely plane flew overhead. Now I’m sure the pilot didn’t give a whit about the fact that there were four very cold, very disappointed Kansans huddled underneath, wanting to see some sandhill crane action, and possibly he had very important business to attend to. But did he really have to circle the plane for twenty minutes before leaving the area? Did he have to do it there? Seriously.

So the cranes were fairly far away, too far for me to capture any terribly good phoots, but here’s a pretty photo of a sunrise:

If you squint closely, or blow up the image, you may be able to see some dark spots in the sky. Those were the cranes (or possibly killdeer birds, who are also noisy). We did see some white-tailed deer crossing the river, and we heard a wild turkey, which I’d never really had the chance to hear out in the wild before. Then we heard a dog, after which we didn’t hear the turkey any more. Hmm.

Later, after sunrise, we visited the Crane Meadows center (where we had the reservations), and they told us to go drive on a road by huge fields (alfafa? not quite sure), where thousands of cranes flock to eat. So we did end up getting a closer look at them:

Though the trip was kind of a failure (okay, it was definitely a failure), and it was largely my fault (gah, what was I thinking!), I still enjoyed it. We ate at a little local place called Barb’s, which had interesting decor, including a lot of Native American paraphernalia like dreamcatchers and headdresses, along with old signs posted on the tables about Westward expansion and “free land, given to the U.S. government by Indians.” Riiiight. Oh, and this painted saw:

I’m glad that the trip happened. Could have happened a little more smoothly, but that’s how it goes. I met a grad student in English who is doing her thesis on beloved places, and how different spaces become important to people. She is also into tarot, so we’ve agreed to get together and do tarot readings on each other some time. Once I find my tarot cards, that is. I still have cleaning up from spring break to do (both physically, as in my room, and emotionally).

Oh, and I took down my Pope photo. The boy thought that the photo was kind of mean-spirited, but I thought it was a nice symbol of innocence juxtaposed with old age and authority (though I do admit that it’s mildly amusing to see the Pope with a “durr” expression on his face). But I took it down because he is dead, as all eighty news networks never cease to tell me. Expect a photo of Terri Schiavo up next.