The canoe slides among the rushes in the early morning mist. I try to dip the paddle without making a sound. The atmosphere is glowing golden green, adding depth and distance to objects even near at hand. Suddenly, the stately pair appears unexpectedly close.
The common loon has a mystic quality that belongs to the wilderness. The call is perhaps more important than the sight of the bird. It is often disembodied, echoing from forested hills across a northern lake. It may be a long, mournful yodel, a maniacal laugh or a jubilant chorus.
Most of us who have grown up in the land of the loon will always be carried back to a magical time of the clean solitude of nature when they hear the call of the loon. Sadly, many of the loons' lakes are dying from acid rain or are harried by powerboats. It is hoped that the evocation of the loon will not be lost to our future generations.