Spring Arrives With the Laughter of Loons

For some New Englanders, spring arrives on the wings of Canada geese honking hello during their return flight. For others, it comes in an evening symphony of wood frogs and peepers or a morning rhapsody of songbirds. For me, it isn't really spring until the first long, hollow cry of the common loon echoes across the waters of the lake behind my house in northern Vermont.

Male loons return to the Vermont lakes before the females, in early to mid-May. I hear their tremolo -- the “loon laughter” -- that establishes their territory. At night, they sing a long, mournful wail, beckoning their life partners to return. Their solos continue for two weeks before the females fly in for the breeding season.

I am a devoted observer. Throughout spring and summer, loons approach the dock curiously, sometimes blessing me with a visit close enough to see their deep red eyes. By mid-summer, a small chick or two might be seen trailing behind its parents or hitching a ride on a parent's back.

While common loons have many unique traits, their song draws me. The loon has four distinct calls -- the hoot, the tremolo, the wail and the yodel. The short hoot lacks the intensity and loudness of the other calls and keeps contact between mates, chicks and other social groups. I enjoy using the easy-to-imitate sound to attract curious loons for closer appreciation. The tremolo, the only call made in flight, is a series of sharp notes; it reflects alarm or fear. The yodel is similar to the tremolo, but it is used only by males to defend their territory while rearing their young.

The signature call of the common loon is the wail. Heard for miles, it is used to keep in contact with other loons nearby or on surrounding lakes. The echoing calls of the loons are ever-present reminders of the beautiful wilderness surrounding my home.

During the spring of my senior year in high school, on the first calm, clear and quiet night, I convinced a friend to join me for a canoe ride to observe the stars. We untied the canoe and tossed the ropes over its flat base. Rolling it up on its edge, we let it fall to the water -- the slap as it hit the surface was like glass shattering in an empty opera hall. We glided toward the middle of the lake, our path lit by an audience of stars. After lifting our paddles and gently placing them on the floor of the canoe, we leaned back on the gunnels to admire the bright sky.

Suddenly, a loon's laughter broke the silence above us. Another continuous yodel fluttered over our stern. All around us one eerie wail followed another, rising to the stars -- a musical round that made our hearts race and our skin tingle. Each voice echoed off the surrounding mountains. Soon we could no longer count the number of loons that sang around us.

All of my life, I have heard these wonderful birds, but they never touched me as deeply and spiritually as they did that night. In the darkness, their spirit song of the wilderness echoed across the waters like ghosts from a forgotten world. Their song has gone unchanged for millennia; however, it no longer rises to the heavens as it once did.

Loons, a symbol of unspoiled wilderness and of New England's outdoors, remain vulnerable in a number of states. Although the common loons safely summer and breed on the reservoir behind my house, where motor boats are prohibited and game wardens regularly patrol the waters, they winter along the Great Lakes and in the oceans off the U.S. coasts, where they must avoid motor boats and commercial fishing nets.

Additionally, factories and power plants across the country spew mercury and sulfur dioxide, creating acid rain that contaminates or even kills the common loon's food supply. Fishermen carelessly toss sinkers into the water or return fish with hook, line and sinker still attached. Hungry loons gobble up the fish and debris, falling victim to lead poisoning and death. When one partner fails to return to the safety of its breeding ground, the loyal survivor might remain alone for life.

During the 1980s, Vermont had only seven breeding pairs. But, because of state initiatives such as the Vermont Loon Recovery Project, the loon was removed from Vermont's threatened species list in 2005. Artificial nesting sites help promote successful breeding; the dock-like structures of logs and bushes give the loons a nest that doesn't change with the varying water levels caused by hydroelectric dams. Additionally, steep fines -- between $500 and $1,000 -- and the threat of jail time for harassing common loons when they were on the endangered species list created an awareness of the birds' vulnerability. Vermont also keeps a number of lakes clean and free of motor boats to encourage peaceful breeding environments. In mid-August, my family helps the Friends of Green River Reservoir survey chicks and adolescent loons. Constant monitoring ensures their safety and amounts to the state’s pledge to keep common loons off the threatened and endangered species lists.

My love for the natural world undeniably stems from my love for the common loon. Its struggle has guided me toward a future invested in environmental protection. I only hope that others will find in nature their own “common loons,” place them on their proper pedestals and join environmental conservation efforts.

Kiersten Hallquist

The writer, a junior at Dartmouth College, grew up on the Green River Reservoir in Garfield, Vt.

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