The slowly rising sun is starting to paint the surrounding Chupadera Mountains in a shade of pink, and cumulus clouds fill the pale-blue New Mexico sky. The outline of a vast swamp comes into view, along with the white and gray bodies of about 25,000 snow geese, sandÂhill cranes and an assortment of ducks.
Quickly, the birds' calm chattering rises to an earsplitting decibel. Wings are flapping, necks are straining. The air is saturated with an avian jazz performance of out-of-tune trumpets and saxophones.
The giant flock suddenly lifts off in a thunderous cloud of squawks and flaps. Circling once above our heads, the swarming birds temporarily blot out the sun before flying away.
''It's so intense, and then it dissipates,'' says John Vradenburg, a senior wildlife biologist. ''It's almost like watching smoke come off the horizon. But sometimes the best way to experience it is to just close your eyes and hear it.''
FBI surveillance
FBI agent and amateur ornithologist Keith Arndt, 48, documents the spectacle with his telephoto-equipped camera. This is his second visit to Bosque del Apache, a wildlife refuge that straddles the Rio Grande Valley about 80 miles south of Albuquerque. It's one of the premier locations in North America for watching and photographing wild birds.
''This is among my top two or three experiences of all times,'' Arndt says. ''It's like race cars taking off.''
Every November through February, Socorro County, population 18,000, swells with tourists to a staggering 160,000 when migrating snow geese and sandhill cranes come to winter on the refuge's fertile grounds. By early March, the show moves on to the arctic tundra, where the birds breed during the summer months.
Today, 44,000 snow geese - snow-white birds with black wing tips - crowd the refuge, along with 47,000 ducks and 14,000 sandhill cranes, among the world's tallest birds at up to 5 feet in height. Three bald eagles occasionally circle above the flocks, prompting angry squeaks and nervous flutters among the marsh's abundant feathered visitors.
The last time I had seen such a mass of wild animals was on an African safari a couple of years ago. I was thrilled to be able to relive that awe-inspiring experience.
The 57,000-acre Bosque del Apache, established in the late 1930s, is just a few miles north of billionaire Ted Turner's Armendaris Ranch. The refuge contains a system of low dikes that create extensive water impoundments, providing an ideal winter habitat for a variety of birds.
Bird tourism
I observe the daily spectacles from near the shoreline of the marshes or on one of several viewing platforms. On this late December day I am mainly alone, since many visitors flock to the area during the Festival of Cranes in November.
Once the geese and sandÂhill cranes have left the swamps, they descend like a hailstorm on neighboring fields of corn and alfalfa. Here they socialize and feed side by side until sunset, covering the ground like a down blanket.
Suddenly the flocks erupt in an explosion of wings. A stalking coyote is looking for an easy meal. The cranes lament the disruption with loud, rattling calls of kar-r-r-o-o-o. The snow geese perform something reminiscent of a John Coltrane honk-and-squeak performance.
After circling for a few minutes, the birds eventually settle down again, like snowflakes falling on a field.
Elaborate dance
Sitting near the pastures, I see mated crane pairs engaged in unison calling. These birds, monogamous for life, emit an extended series of notes while stretching their necks and red- banded heads skyward. At other times, individuals perform an elaborate dance of bows, arches, jumps and even stick throwing.
Bosque del Apache offers a safe haven for these migrating species. Cultivated fields provide food for the wintering birds and other wildlife and help keep them away from neighboring commercial agricultural fields. Still, the loss or degradation of wetlands poses a threat to the bird populations.
At dusk, the noisy flocks return to the marshes, arriving with arched wings and stretched-out feet to the safety of the water. Driving away, we can hear the honks and trumpeting of the birds long after we've lost sight of the marsh in our rear-view mirror.
Nadja Brandt/Bloomberg News
Every November through February, Socorro County goes from 18,000 in population to 160,000 when migrating birds, including sandhill cranes, come to winter.
