Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge protects 10,000 acres of bogs, wetlands, and freshwater marsh that was once the northern extension of Lake Cayuga, one of the deepest of the Finger Lakes in New York. Here in the Ontario Lowlands, surrounded by open skies over a glaciated landscape, we waited for the April 8, 2024, total eclipse with about 1,000 birders, sky watchers, and friends of the refuge.
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| The Montezuma Marshes |
We arrived early at sun rise and took some time to explore. We hiked a few trails, stopped in at the Visitors Center a few times (my young grandson loved it), and climbed into the observation towers. An eagles nest with a nestling peeking over the edge forced the closing of one popular trail, but we watched an adult eagle dip and dive into the marsh to collect sticks which he carried back to the nest. Every time the adult eagle flew over the marsh all manner of ducks would launch into the air; Northern Shovelers, Cinnamon Teal, Pintails, Black Ducks, Mallards. The refuge is home to over 300 species of birds including Sandhill Cranes which I really wanted to see. I didn't have to wait long!
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| GBH Rookery Sculpture |
The best place to see Sandhill Cranes is at Montezuma Marsh NWR and as the crowd of birders grew larger and larger on the observation deck and on the towers, the birds arrived to the thrill of everyone. This species, one of the oldest living species of birds, has been around for 2.5 million years and now that habitat improvements and conservation efforts have made it possible for us to see them again in such large numbers, I can't help but remember Aldo Leopold's "Marshland Elegy" essay of the 1940s when he was sure we'd never see them again. At that time, Sandhill Cranes were headed towards extinction.
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| Trail to an observation area |
Thanks to early and rapid enforcement of national and state hunting bans and immense wetland restorations across the Upper Mid-West in the 1930s, numbers of these birds have been steadily increasing such that their range is now expanding further east to places that saw their decline and disappearance in the Mid-Atlantic a century before Wisconsin's brush with extinction. New York began loosing its once robust population of Sandhills due to the draining of marshes while the Erie Canal was being built in the early 1800s through the early 1900s. But now hundreds of Sandhills either migrate through, stop over for winter, or nest here. It was such a thrill for everyone out that early to see the morning crane routine of dispersing across the vast wetlands, trumpeting and "holding the wind" as they dropped into pools to feed.
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| Frosty thistle |
It was cold but as the sun rose above the marsh everything covered in frost began to glisten and shimmer. We dug our hands in to our pockets and took in the shifting clouds and their shadows. Each time we turned to look back at the parking areas and ring road, the numbers of cars seemed to double. By lunchtime, the refuge had reached capacity and the entrance officially closed. By 1pm everyone was keeping a close eye on the building cloud deck.
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| Cloud deck thickens... |
US Fish and Wildlife rangers came to the center green and led a crowd in stretches and yoga. My favorite scene was of fifty people striking the "Dancing Crane" pose and listening to the birders and families applaud. It was such a nice crowd. The rangers and refuge staff made this such a family-fun event that we couldn't help but smile all day long. We made new friends with birders tail-gating on either side of us. Picnics were spread out. Still, the clouds thickened. By two-o'clock we were only seeing blue patches of sky here and there. As the moon began its passage across the sun, we only captured a very few pictures between fewer and fewer breaks in the grey overcast.
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| Bloodroot |
By the time the total eclipse was due, I looked around at my astrophotographer son who was clearly disappointed. A neighbor began putting his own camera and tracker away. The clouds were as thick as they would get all day. The gloomy sky above us had, however, a complete surprise in store as the moon began its full coverage and though I felt terrible for the sky watchers, I was bowled over by what happened next.
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| Our second glimpse |
All at once every Spring Peeper in the marsh began to sing with such urgency that it was near deafening. Insects buzzed. Swamp Sparrows called the dusk into night. Redwing Blackbird tootled and o-lee-ayed with such force that for a second I had no idea what they were! Great Blue Herons cackled and began to fly to their roosts. Swallows, just back from winter migration swirled overhead in a great vortex, sweeping into their night roosts. Blue Jays scolded and scattered. Toads trilled and nearly drowned out the Peepers. And all the people who had just been laughing and cheering as we had our last glimpse of the moon and sun all went quite. Everything went pitch black, pitch deep black - no sky or earth or stars or any light whatsoever except for the thin slice of flame orange on the horizon that marked the edge of the shadow of the moon. It was totality unlike anything I had ever experienced.
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| Totality |
As the shadow of the moon raced at 1,500 mile per hour along its path, we stood in complete and utter blackness for all of three minutes. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Around me stood about a dozen other birders just a few feet away and I could not see them nor hear them. Everyone held their breath. It was an intense moment of being completely present to the darkness I'd ever felt. And then...
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| Moon shadow races away to the northeast |
...the light returned all at once and I'm not sure who started it but everybody - people included - was trumpeting, cheering, peeping, calling, hollering, singing, buzzing, and even dancing. The Sandhill Cranes on the pool in front of us began to dance and sing their staccato songs while unseen in the cattails and rushes for a mile out, other Sandhill Cranes answered across the expanse. I turned to my neighbor who hadn't even gotten his binoculars up to his eyes before the tears came so hard I thought he'd have to sit down. Then of course I had to cry. Then everybody was crying. I sobbed my way back to the truck where my disappointed son was waiting by his unused camera set up. "Mom, are you okay?" he asked. All I could say was "...the cranes..."
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| Tailgating while the sun still shined |
I know not everyone was happy with the way things turned out, but I feel like our choice of spending the day on the Montezuma Marshes at the refuge provided the most amazing outcome for this birder. The only other time I've ever cried while birding was also at the sight of cranes in 2012 when I visited the Horicon National Wildlife Refuge and came upon the very first nesting pair of endangered Whooping Cranes in the wild in Wisconsin. I stood in the observation tower sobbing my eyes out for almost an hour.
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| American Robin |
I'm really sorry the day did not turn out for family and friends who had their hopes dashed (wherever they were) under clouds. But I came away I think a little humbled by my experience of the extra dark totality and for having witnessed the racing shadow of the moon across the marsh. Add to that the minutes-long cacophony of song and dance and celebration that reduced me to tears and I think I'll remember this day for as long as I live. I was totally awed.
Notes:
All About Birds (Cornell) on Sandhill Cranes. Note the breeding range that now extends in PA and NY where only fifty years ago, there were no Sandhills to be seen in either state. https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Sandhill_Crane/overview
Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge was amazeballs! https://www.fws.gov/refuge/montezuma
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