March 20 ON THE PATH to the crane pen, the jasmine is in bloom. Its cheery yellow trumpet flowers, cascading on vines tangled high in trees and shrubsp e e k through the flatwoods. It’s grey and cloudy and cool here, as has been the story for severaweeks. Itis a penetrating bone-chilling cold. The sand gnats, however, are biting, so I am reassured that I am still warm-blooded.

The cranes are grouped in the pen when we arrive. Their buddies, fifteen immature White Ibis, forage close by. They are changing clothes, from the mottled dark brown of their youth to the sleek white plumage that will mark them as breeding adults. On the cranes themselves, there is noticeably less cinnamon. Only the head and upper neck show traces. The birds appear stately in carriage now, and they are more uniform in size than they were a few weeks ago.

Looking for all the world like backstreet bullies, four cranes stalk one other. Two more join in the mob mentality, dictating retreat, and the other crane obligingly backs up, stride-forstride. The crane tango continues for a few more steps, then the dance tune changes and they are a unit again.

Earlier in the week, in the salt marsh just outside the open pen, the young cranes continue to learn how to be wild. They will migrate on their own for the first time. Photo by Christine Barnes, The Northfield News A dark cloud layer broods over the salt marsh. Beneath its shadows, the great white birds duck and bob and crane and duck some more. Wings spread, they hop and dance, inciting others to do the same. A lone Clapper cacks in the marsh. A few cranes saunter onto the oyster bar, and begin a contorted ritual. They curve their necks into all sorts of tangles and endlessly preen their feathers. On one leg, they balance without challenge.

All cranes but one are now on the oyster bar. A crow flies over enroute to its evening roost, and all white crane heads cock skyward and freeze. The last crane, perhaps one with a lower ‘rank’, now goes at dusk to feed. A second one follows. Others continue to contort and preen. At last, all are resting quietly in anticipation of nightfall.

No soft spring breeze yet tempts them. No primordial pull, beyond our understanding, yet beckons them northward to the wild.

March 24

A cloudy, uneventful day, until now. It is early evening. On the way to the crane pen in the Operation Migration tracking van, a phone call: there are only two cranes to be seen in the ‘live-cam’ which is fixed on the pen. Are they just out in the salt marsh, chowing down in anticipation of their pending migration? Or could some have left? Brooke Pennypacker, ultralight pilot and experienced crane handler, and I, drive the van to the access roads and walk the half-mile through the sodden flatwoods to the blind at the edge of the salt marsh. Not a word is spoken. Our strides are longer and more purposeful than usual, as if their intensity will make the discovery of the truth less of a shock.

Eight Whooping Cranes of the Class of 2009 are gone! This, on a cool, cloudy day with no guiding winds and no thermals rising to aid them on their journey north. We stare at the two remaining cranes and contemplate the whys and wherefores – but who really knows?

March 25

This evening we head to the blind in a moderate spring thunderstorm. The access roads are washed out, so we use the Kabota four-wheeler to get to the flatwoods path to the blind. We are soaked to the bone. The view from the blind is a challenge: the rain is driving hard and the salt marsh is miserable and deserted. In the pen, the two remaining cranes stand close together.

The winds come up and whip the grasses into a rolling frenzy as the storm moves on through. The rain stops, and the salt marsh eases into the most extraordinary light show ever: the contrasts of the winter’s golden grasses, the redorange of the new growth on the Needlerushes, the dense blue of the Gulf bay waters in the distance, the electric white of the tall, lonely cranes – and then, a golden line on the far trees at the edge of the marsh as the setting sun emerges from the storm clouds. As if that weren’t enough for our wondering eyes, a rainbow appears just beyond the middle of the pen. It begins as a wide pillar, and gradually grows higher and higher, until just the barest arc is perceptible. Surely this is a good omen.

It is true that these cranes evoke high emotion among their followers, both those who work directly with them, and those who follow them from afar. This is indeed one of the rarest of all the birds in the wild. It is the epitome of the underdog, and needs all the supporters it can get. Its beauty is surpassed by few; its behaviors endearing. When the final two leave, and it won’t be long before they do, the commencement of the Class of 2009 will be complete.