Making Space for Loons

island adventures with sand, water and that haunting call

A dad boosts up his three-year-old daughter, dressed in a swimsuit, as she stretches up with all her might to grasp the monkey bars. There is something about wanting to make it all the way across, no matter our age and upper arm strength, that I remember.  All the kids here are roaming the island, and most parents are practicing free-range parenting, except for those of the very young.  Many have bikes and are exploring the dirt roads and paths through the woods, others are fishing off docks and bridges or playing ball in the center of the island, while still others will not leave the cold lake water for hours, even to eat.  Our own are in the lake by 10 am because the sun is warm, there is no wind, and why not?

Our kids are on the playground and sand volleyball court until after dark, as bonfires crackle.  Bedtimes and mealtimes go out the window—there is such a thing as island time as we all eat when we are hungry and sleep when we are tired but are not driven by clocks or schedules for this one precious week. It is a place where I do not wear makeup, care little if my clothes match, and rarely wear a bra.  To add to the magic, there are no mosquitoes or ticks, just lots of dragonflies zooming through the air and too much sand in the bed.

Our family has just returned from our annual stay in a rented cabin in northern Minnesota. The cabin itself is small and rustic.  It is a whole log cabin with electricity but no running water.  So, we rough it a bit, compared to other cabins we’ve been in with three bedrooms, a bathtub, cable tv and wi-fi.  This is not that. 

The cabin is on a large, 55-acre island, part of a campground offering just three rustic camper cabins and 85 wooded camp sites—almost half of which are lake sites because they ring the island.  The lake is crystal clear; residents of our state know that lakes are cleaner the farther north one goes. The island has sugar sand beaches surrounding it, much like one would find in California. Cars and campers take a long, winding causeway to get from the mainland to the island that was built by the owners and needs upkeep after each heavy rain. The second-generation family still owns and operates the island resort and are celebrating their 65^th year this summer.

I know my husband and I are giving our children awesome island memories. They see the same friends each year since many families return the same week, and there is a community of kids and their parents. Perhaps they will keep returning with us as young adults or bring their own families there someday. 

We’ve watched our kids hop into beach volleyball games, learn to cast a rod and catch fish for the first time, and swim out to the water trampoline. They have had fierce water gun fights, built some amazing sandcastles, and been buried in sand themselves.  We have rented the pontoon to explore the lake together, hopped waves on a jet ski, and paddled slowly on a kayak. We have driven 45 minutes further north to Itasca State Park and hiked the trails, craned our necks upward at the red and white pines, spotted the elusive Lady Slipper—our state flower—and marveled at how tiny the Mighty Mississippi is at its source and how far she travels before reaching the Gulf of Mexico.

We have played some competitive mini golf games, raced go carts, and eaten a lot of hand-dipped ice cream cones while climbing up on stools and peering eagerly over the counter at the multitude of choices. We have seen baby ducks, turtles, large white cranes flying overhead, and airplanes with skis land and take off in the water.  We have waited out storms while heavy rain and even hail pelted the metal roof overhead and bounced off the surface of the lake. We’ve read by flashlight in bed and played board games and cards. We’ve built campfires and licked the marshmallow goo off our fingers as we build our s’mores. We live fully when we are there.

If I could tell you one thing, though, that makes my week, it is this: hearing the haunting cry of the loon—our state bird—echo over the lake.  Every time, I pause, close my eyes and breathe the sound into my very being.  I try to memorize the high-pitched call and not take it for granted.  I look at whoever is with me and say, “Listen! There it is!” and we smile.  I learned there are three calls made during breeding season: the wail, the tremolo, and the yodel, and that only males make the yodel. Click here to hear the sounds. I truly wonder when loons sleep because I hear and see them active in the day, I hear them calling early in the morning, at dusk, and even in the middle of the night. 

With its black body, white speckles on its back, distinctive white ring around its neck, and that red eye, it is a gorgeous bird. Minnesota enjoys the most loons of any of the lower 48 states and I’m so grateful.  I enjoyed watching one dip its head under water to look around, come back up, stand halfway up in the water to stretch-flap both its wings and settle in again to hunt for fish under the surface of the water. It’s a guessing game to watch one completely disappear for almost a full minute and scan the surface of the water, wondering where it will pop up again—sometimes hundreds of feet from where it started!

We were treated to a whole loon family near us this year—two parents with two babies (loonlets!) bobbing near the swimming area, without seeming to mind the hubbub of human activity.  Often a momma loon will carry a baby on her back as they swim.  

I even saw a loon in flight, calling out as it flew solo over the lake early one morning with the sun sparkling off the surface like diamonds. I know that a loon needs a long runway to take flight—about 600 feet of open water—so it’s not easy for one to get airborne.

If a lake is blessed to have more than one pair, it means that the lake is quite large because they are territorial birds.  A male will often return to the same lake year after and defend its nesting territory from other males, sometimes to the death.  With a lifespan of 20-30 years, visitors to a lake with a mated pair on it are blessed indeed.

When I arrive to the island, I Make Space within me for what the week will bring—trying to unwind from my scheduled, professional, and busy home life—and I Make Space within me when I leave to hold all that I have encountered and experienced while up north, on island time, knowing that it will be a long year before I taste it again.

If you receive this by email, check out my page to read past essays and see what Making Space is all about!