Volunteering at Rowe Sanctuary During the Sandhill Crane Migration

Editor’s note: This article is part of a series exploring the various facets of the Sandhill Crane Migration in Central Nebraska, the $28 Million annual economic impact that the migration brings, and Audubon’s role in conserving habitat on the Platte River. Each year at Rowe Sanctuary we welcome tens of thousands of visitors through our doors, and this would not be possible without the help of more than 100 dedicated volunteers who welcome guests, lead tours, and much more.

This month we spotlight the personal side of the migration through the eyes and experiences of a Rowe Sanctuary volunteer.  Check back for more articles in the series exploring additional perspectives and facets of this incredible migration.  

There are places you plan to visit, and then there are places that reshape the world you thought you knew. While Edinburgh, San Francisco, and the Grand Canyon are all cool and definitely places to see before you die, the place I’m talking about is a small 3000-acre plot in the middle of farm land along a dirt road.

That place, long known to birders and conservationists, is the Iain Nicolson Audubon Center at Rowe Sanctuary, a quiet stretch of a braided river in central Nebraska.

I had visited several times, and I had come to know several of the staff over the last couple of years, but I had never truly experienced the place. I had photographed the foliage, helped with seed collection, but never really spent time there.

I had no idea just how much it would reshape my sense of community, purpose, and connection to others. The Sandhill cranes were part of it, of course. As a wildlife photographer, you would be out of your mind to pass up the opportunity, but what I found while volunteering at this place went far beyond, or deeper, than either.

Before Rowe Sanctuary, my relationship with wildlife photography had begun to feel… stagnant, even boring. I had lost passion for a pastime in which I used to find joy, something that had saved me during a difficult period of my life.

I knew how to find my subjects. I knew how to frame a shot. I knew how to chase light and wait for behavior. And while there’s comfort in that kind of experience, there’s also a quiet danger: the work can start to feel like repetition instead of discovery.

Volunteering at Rowe Sanctuary changed that in ways I didn’t expect.

From the very first shift, it was clear this wasn’t just about showing up and helping visitors. It was about stepping into a living, breathing story that unfolds differently every single day, one that is constantly shaped by people just as much as the wildlife.

There is something humbling about standing alongside people who have traveled from across the country and from around the world just to witness this migration. Staff, volunteers, and visitors bring their own perspectives, their own stories, their own ways of seeing.  The sandhill cranes may draw people in, but what keeps each one of us here, and what brings us back, is something deeper.

It’s the connections we find here.

We’re not talking about the surface-level exchanges, but the kind that unfold naturally when people share space and time with a common purpose. Conversations that might begin with something simple, such as where someone traveled from, how long they’ve been coming, and what brought them to Rowe. On occasion, these conversations quietly shift into something more meaningful. Stories of why nature matters to each one of us.

I found myself surrounded by individuals - volunteers and guests alike - who weren’t just passing through. They were fully present. People willing to pause, to observe, to listen, not just to the cranes, but to each other. There’s a shared understanding that settles in, a kind of unspoken agreement that this place is meant to be experienced, not rushed.

And that kind of environment does something powerful: it reignites wonder.

In many ways, it felt like finding a missing puzzle piece I didn’t even know I needed.

Slowly, I realized that photography wasn’t about getting “the shot” anymore. It became an extension of the experience.

Wildlife photography, at its best, is not just about technical skill; it’s about being connected to the world we immerse ourselves in. But that connection can fade when you’re working in isolation, chasing subjects alone, measuring success in images rather than experiences. At Rowe, a blurry image of an eagle and a crane deep in mortal combat is far more important than the picture-perfect postcard shot.

Along the banks of the Platte River, you’re not just a volunteer. You’re not just a guest. You become part of a shared moment, one that belongs equally to everyone there.

And something happens in that space. Without realizing it, you begin to feel like part of the environment itself, aware that your presence matters. A simple whisper carries across the water. A small movement can ripple outward. This place teaches you to slow down, to be mindful, to move with intention. You’re no longer just observing the scene; you’re part of it. Your very presence contributes to its balance, understanding that even the quietest actions can shape the experience of everything around you.

That awareness doesn’t stay at the river’s edge or out on the trails. It carries into the work you do as a volunteer, shaping how you move through each role and interaction.

Each day at Rowe Sanctuary is different, and the rhythm of volunteering shifts with it. One day you might be helping with meals, sharing space, and conversation between groups. Another day, you’re in the gift shop, answering questions and connecting with visitors as they come through. On a different shift, you’re out on the trails, pointing out wildlife or helping someone get a better look. And then there are the days spent guiding tours to the blinds, walking groups toward the river as anticipation builds and the focus quietly settles in.

Each role is different, but they all share one thing in common: connection.

While the cranes are the centerpiece and why we all come to this spot on a dusty Nebraska road, the human element we experience is just as powerful. Whether someone is volunteering for the very first time or has been returning for years, there’s an openness that defines the experience. You’re not stepping into a rigid system; you’re stepping into a community that evolves with every season, where each role, shift, and conversation can affect the environment we all share.

Just as you never step into the same river twice, no visit to Rowe is ever the same. New people, shifting flocks and wildlife, and fresh experiences come together to shape each season, small moments that quietly become part of who we are.

That unpredictability is what keeps the experience alive. It’s what keeps you coming back, even when you think you already know what to expect.

Whether it’s the moment before sunset when the sky turns that impossible shade of gold or the minutes you spend on a cold, wet morning in the blinds, I found that cameras almost felt secondary. You still shoot, of course. You still chase composition and timing. But you’re also simply there, present in a way that’s increasingly rare in a world driven by constant motion and distraction.

I was reminded that when you witness someone else’s sense of wonder, it sharpens your own.

The more time I spent here, the more I began to notice things I might have overlooked before: subtle behaviors, shifting patterns, and the way different groups of cranes or even ducks interact depending on time of day or conditions. I found myself slowing down, taking fewer shots but with more intention. Instead of chasing volume, I started chasing meaning.

That shift in perspective didn’t happen in isolation. It was shaped by the people around me, by the conversations shared in blinds, on trails, and over meals. It doesn’t take long to realize that Rowe Sanctuary is anything but small in its impact. Though rooted in Nebraska, it draws people from across the globe. Visitors arrive from countries throughout Europe, Asia, and South America, while volunteers travel from states like Florida, Delaware, and Alaska, all brought together by the pull of the cranes and the shared understanding that this place offers something truly exceptional.

As a volunteer, you become part of that global exchange.

You hear stories of wetlands half a world away. You hear tales of other great birding opportunities. If you are a photographer, you trade photography tips with someone who shoots in environments completely different from your own. And in doing so, your perspective expands, not just as a photographer, but as someone connected to a much larger network of people who value conservation and the natural world.

That sense of connection is hard to overstate.

You are part of something larger, something that extends beyond a single image, a single volunteer shift, or even a single season.

As both a volunteer and a photographer, the perspective you gain is unique. It goes beyond a single moment to tell the larger story of the river, the cranes, and the other wildlife that call this area home.

Through sharing some of my images, especially when something rare, like when a leucistic crane appears among thousands, people begin to understand the scale, the significance, and the rarity of what is happening. It becomes a way to connect others to the experience, even if they’ve never stood along the Platte River themselves, and to show just how special and fleeting those moments truly are.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that what I had been missing wasn’t a new technique or better equipment. It was this, this sense of belonging, of shared purpose, of connection to both people and place.

You’re no longer chasing moments; you’re recognizing them as they unfold. There’s a shift from reacting to just being, from trying to control the image to letting it happen. The result isn’t always technically perfect, but it’s honest. It reflects not just what was seen, but what it felt like to be there, fully present and part of the moment.

Volunteering at Rowe Sanctuary didn’t just reinvigorate my passion for wildlife and photography. It redefined it.

It reminded me why I picked up a camera in the first place, not to collect images, but to capture moments that matter, to share the animals, and a world that I was a part of.

In a world that often feels fragmented and fast-moving, places like Rowe Sanctuary offer something rare: a chance to slow down, to reconnect, and to be part of something enduring.

Written by Meggan Sommerville, Rowe Sanctuary volunteer