They come in the dark of night and they leave in the dark of night. Most of us are asleep as they glide into a lake or river and when we wake up, there they are, floating magically in front of us as we look out from shore. The loons have returned to northern Minnesota.
The state bird of Minnesota is the loon. Now, some who do not know the loon personally might scoff at hearing that a state actually adopted a bird called a loon as its official mascot. The word "loon" has a rather negative connotation and some might laugh when they hear that Minnesotans are nuts about loons. But, they are. And, for good reason.
This left-over bird from prehistoric times has a mystic quality about it. It is in a category of its own when it comes to appearance, physical ability and most of all sound. There is no mistaking the call of a loon. I never tire of hearing them.
I heard my first loon at the age of 16 after two friends and I had driven my '51 Chevy 360 miles north of our farm to a small lake in Minnesota, Sibley Lake. The closest thing to water birds that I had seen to that point were the seagulls that migrated through our part of farm country each spring at plowing time and some migrating waterfowl in the fall. I hadn't ever heard of a loon until we ventured north with our fishing rods packed in the trunk of that old Chevy.
We arrived at our cabin around midnight and quickly hit our beds in anticipation of catching a boat load of fish the next day. I awoke from a fitful sleep at about four in the morning and stumbled to the outhouse located just behind the rustic, bare-walled cabin. As I was sitting there deliberating, a sound came through the wooden door that sent chills up my back. At first I thought it might be a moose or a wolf, neither of which I had ever encountered, but a sound like that had to be coming from a large creature.
It was a loon. The long, haunting wail followed by a number of shorter, laughing notes pierced the early morning fog like a knife cutting through butter. There was a period of silence and then the whole rhapsody was repeated. And then in the distance came an answer. The loons were talking.
I've seen many loons on the water since that time. I've seen them sitting on their nests at the edge of the shoreline, ready to protect their eggs at all cost. I learned long ago that bothering a loon on a nest isn't the right thing to do. Causing a loon to leave the nest in order to protect its eggs gives eagles, otters, raccoons and other predators an open invitation to raid the nest. Staying away from a loon's nest is a good piece of advice.
Loons have accompanied me on many fishing trips. As I float in the middle of some lake, it isn't rare to have a loon pop up beside the boat, look at me with those red eyes, hoot shyly and wonder if I've got an extra minnow in the bait bucket. I don't toss minnows to them, because I've found that a loon will follow you around the lake once they think you are going to provide their dinner. Best leave them to catch fish the old fashioned way, they need to earn their vittles.
The loons are talking on the little lake that lies nearby our house. I can hear them, especially now at night during the breeding and nesting season. This pre-historic remnant from the bird world still finds a way to sustain itself, even with all the development that has taken place on our lakes. It would be tragedy to ever lose the loon from our waters. Humanity would certainly lose a treasure.
The loons will be here through the summer and then sometime in October they will be gone. They'll leave just like they came, silently and in the night. They'll float on the Gulf of Mexico through the winter, diving up to 300 feet deep for shrimp, rarely making a sound. Our northern Minnesota lakes always seem bleaker after they leave. But, the loons are here now, so sit back and enjoy!
See you next time. Okay?
