How (Not) to Photograph Prairie Dogs – Part 1

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I had it all planned out.  I’d scoped out the site, found the prairie dogs, and located an active burrow close to a road ditch with enough cover to conceal me and my camera.  I’d even built a kind of half-blind – a small piece of garden fencing with tall grasses woven into it – with a space for my lens to poke through.  All I had to do was show up at the dog town in the early morning, crawl into position, set the little photo blind in front of me, and wait for the prairie dog to come out into the beautiful early morning sunshine to pose for a portrait.

…Which is how I came to be lying on my belly in a road ditch yesterday, waiting for the sun to come up.  It was a really beautiful day – light winds, a pleasant temperature, and just enough haze on the horizon to soften the light when the sun finally emerged.  As I lay in the ditch, I was even pleasantly surprised to hear prairie chickens booming near the wetland just to the west of me.  In short, everything was wonderful, and just as the sun started to poke through the haze, the first prairie dog emerged from its burrow in the center of the small town and started barking.  “Won’t be long now,” I thought to myself.

Looking back, I now recognize the barking as more of a kind of mocking laughter.   “Hee Hee Hee Hee!,” it laughed mockingly.  “Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee…”

At the time, not being familiar with the local customs of this particular dog town, I mistakenly assumed that once the first prairie dog started barking, the others would soon emerge and begin doing interesting and photogenic activities.  Instead, the lone prairie dog – from a distance of several hundred yards from my little blind – just continued his lone sardonic monologue for about 20 minutes.

“Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee…!”

Eventually, a few other prairie dogs did pop out of their holes and join in the fun – though none of them were anywhere close enough for good photo opportunities.  All the while, the burrow right in front of me, the one I’d carefully scouted several days earlier, remained sneeringly silent. As the sun continued to climb, inching closer and closer to the point at which the light would be too bright for good photography, the only prairie dogs in sight were the jokesters out in the middle of the town.

A spiteful gang of prairie dogs, maintaining a needlessly long distance from the photographer lying at the edge of the town. (This photo is cropped significantly to allow you to see that these actually ARE prairie dogs, and not just little brown specks.)

A small group of 8 to 10 western meadowlarks was milling around in the town as well, each pausing occasionally from feeding to sing the characteristic meadowlark song.  I consoled myself with the thought that if nothing else, I’d at least get myself a decent photo of a meadowlark as soon as one ventured close enough.  It’s funny… I’ve been listening to western meadowlark songs my whole life, but never fully realized the true spiteful tone of those songs.  Especially from a distance of several hundred yards…

A fuzzy long-distance photo of a contemptuous meadowlark with a jeering prairie dog right behind it.

Just as I was about to give up on the whole adventure, I heard a prairie dog start chipping away at close range.  Unfortunately, it was about 30 yards to my left, and the vegetation along the road ditch/fenceline was blocking my line of sight.  Knowing full well how the little escapade would end, I nevertheless backed slowly out of my position and started army-crawling quietly down the road ditch toward the sound.  When I was close enough to the sound, I started moving very slowly – inch by inch – through the tall grass toward the prairie dog.  I could barely see the prairie dog’s head, a mere 20 feet in front of me, through the vegetation.  About two feet closer, and I’d have a clear view.

At about one and half feet, I heard the following sound – “Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee…YOINK!”

And down it went.

A prairie dog burrow, from which - only moments before - a prairie dog was in plain site, laughing mockingly.

Out of nothing but pure stubbornness, I laid there with my camera trained on the hole for a full 10 minutes.  Nothing.  Finally, I grabbed my camera, stomped back to the truck, and headed back to town to catch my first conference call of the day.

But I’m not giving up.  Oh no – I’ve got a plan.  Now that I’ve fully studied the behavioral pattern of the dog town’s inhabitants, I know JUST what I’m going to do next time.  I’m going to get me some FANTASTIC photos of prairie dogs.  Photos that will KNOCK YOUR SOCKS OFF.  Just you wait.

(“Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee!”)

Time to Go North

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I was fortunate enough to be in a viewing blind along the Platte River last Friday and Saturday nights, watching sandhill cranes coming in to roost.  Both nights had fantastic weather, beautiful sunsets, and excellent opportunities for our guests to see cranes up close.  However – there was a huge difference between the two nights in terms of the number of cranes that came in to roost.  On Friday night, we could probably see around 30,000 birds from the blind I was in.  On Saturday, the number was probably down around 5,000. 

Sandhill cranes at sunset on Friday night. As the sun went down, the numbers of cranes on the river went up. I'm not an expert at estimating numbers, but I'd guess there were at least 30,000 birds within view of the blind. A big contrast to Saturday night - though Saturday night was nothing to sneeze at, with birds landing close to the blind and a fantastic sunset as well.

It looks like this year’s early arrival of cranes on the Platte is leading to an early exit as well.  Normally, the 24th of March (Saturday’s date) sits right at, or shortly after the peak time to see sandhill cranes on the Platte.  Even if some of the early arrivals have started to head north to breed by the 24th, the numbers are still very high in most years.  This year, it was as if someone opened the gates and let them out Saturday morning, and they all rushed north at the same time.  Don’t get me wrong, there are still enough cranes around that driving the roads during the day and watching them come to the river at night are fantastic experiences.  It’s just different than it was during the 2-3 weeks leading up to last Friday.

It was especially interesting to be in the same viewing blind the night before and the night after the big departure that apparently took place during the day on Saturday.  Saturday was one of those days everyone wishes for on a weekend.  The temperature got up into the low 80’s (normal highs are 55 degrees F this time of year) with sunny skies and light winds.  Before heading to the blind, I spent the day working in the garden and playing baseball with my kids in the backyard.  It’s exactly the kind of day I expect cranes to leave and head north – except that it was a week or two before I would typically expect a mass exodus.

However, Friday’s weather was almost identical to Saturday’s weather, so why did they leave Saturday and not Friday?  On both days, we watched as groups of cranes spiraled up into the sky, riding the warm air currents until they were almost out of site.  On Friday, most of them must have come back down to roost on the river on more time, but on Saturday, they apparently got up high, liked what they saw/felt, set their wings, and glided north.  Maybe the high air currents on Saturday were coming from a different direction (south, presumably) than they were on Friday.  Maybe they used Friday as a practice day and the itch was unbearable two days in a row, so they gave in and headed out.

Going north early can be a risky venture for breeding cranes.  The primary role of the Platte River as a spring staging area is to allow cranes to build fat reserves while feeding on waste corn and invertebrates.  Those reserves are important because once they head north they typically have fewer opportunities to feed as they are busily setting up nesting territories, laying eggs, and caring for their young colts.  Heading north early means they are more likely to find breeding areas that are still frozen and inhospitable.  That can lead to additional stress, less food availability, and a greater chance that things will go badly during the nest season.  Waiting a couple weeks gives them some insurance that conditions will be better in the nesting grounds when they arrive. 

So did the cranes that left on Saturday know something?  Did they leave simply because they’d been on the Platte long enough to fill up with food and energy?  Or are they somehow picking up cues that make them feel good about the weather they’re heading into up north?  I don’t have the answers, but I was glad to be an observer when they made their choice. 

I wish them luck.