Call of the Loons

I wake at 4:45am to kayak before sunrise. It’s our last morning on Lake Andrusia in northern Minnesota. I love the call of the loons, and rising before dawn means I might savor that sound one last time.

While not quite in my body yet, I manage my clothes, life jacket, and hat. I stumble out the cabin door with one thing in mind, get to the kayak—which is why I don’t see the great blue heron until I startle her into flight.

Stop, Emma, I chide myself. Slow down, match the stillness of the morning, and listen. As I watch the wide, slate blue wingspan lift, I recalibrate my pace to the surrounding stillness.

And at that moment, a loon’s two-toned call rises from the north, answered by the same interval from the east. The sound causes me to inhale a quick breath of delight. Then, I hold and wait.

Meanwhile, a mother duck and seven baby ducklings gently bob along the shoreline. I watch them glide under the dock and continue their morning swim towards the Mississippi River.

When all quiets again, I flip the kayak that’d been resting upside down on the sandy beach. I choose a paddle among those leaning against the boathouse. The kayak scrapes the shallow bottom as I push out into smooth, glassy water.

This hour of pre-dawn holds treasures like no other.

I paddle towards the east where light glows just above the tree line of the far shore. As I float forward, the color intensifies to a deep salmon.

Mid-lake, I pause to look back. To my surprise, the full moon is still visible in the western sky. Thin, translucent clouds cross its orb, creating a misty effect.

The southern sky is pale blue, mostly cloudless. In contrast, the northern sky is cloud-covered.

To the east, the rich salmon glow softens to purple gray. Light cast from the coming sunrise tints surrounding striated clouds a pale pink.

Silence. A fish jumps. Now, the fading purple is gradually replaced by gold.

And still, my heart dares to hope for more loons.

That’s when they call again! Yes, it’s a 1-4, I check with my memory of musical intervals. Then a 1-4-7. Then higher—and laughter, like a kookaburra.

I watch the golden glow build in brilliance until the sun’s rays pierce the horizon, stinging my eyes.

This feels like a sacred initiation.

I pivot the boat 360 degrees, like a camera panning the lake’s full form.

The hum of a small motor heralds the start of the fishing day. My kayak rocks slightly as the wind picks up. A sound vibrates in my right ear, as if my eardrum is fluttering.

In time, I paddle back to shore, changed. This is what I came for—wilderness, beauty, stillness, and silence. Except for the haunting, healing call of the loons.

Photo by Bruce Fuller

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