October 27th, 2011
Published by: mooresb
Call Of The Loon By Robert W. Butche October 27th, 2011
The night had been still as we slept high above the shores of Minnesota’s Legendary Sixth Crow Wing Lake. By the end of the short summer night, absent the sound of songbirds, and nary a wolf cry be heard, only the song of the loon spread o’er the still blackness of the lake below. Bill was first to arise – still at the coffee maker he would soon command to fill the cabin with the rich aroma of well roasted coffee at the beginning of another long summers’ day. Without so much as a word, Bill and I found ourselves at the railing of the high deck overlooking the quietness of the moment night begins to yield unto the day. Below, in near darkness, the lake was all but obscured by small cusps of fallen clouds daintily resting on the water’s surface. Bill poured our coffee and soon we witnessed the beginning of yet another day in the legendary lake country made famous by stories of Paul Bunyan. By and by, the eastern sky began to show tinges of orange – which were soon followed by the cackle of songbirds and the gentle rustle of deer shadows disappearing into nearby woods. The routine was well established, and reassuringly ancient and renewed, but as Bill and I watched it played out only for our eyes.
Morning Coffee on the Deck While we sat on the deck, cuddling our hot coffee to keep our hands warm in the bracing coolness of the new morn, we could watch the fallen clouds beyond in their unending performance. As seconds turned into minutes, we could witness them gently slipping onto the stillness of the lake in wispy waves of gray that crept somehow westward out of the unseen, nearly ripe rice paddies – perhaps by unseen breezes, themselves not fully awake nor full astride their afternoon power. We spoke briefly of what it meant to be on this lake in the autumn of our lives, and to share the camaraderie and companionship of men we had known since the puberty that had propelled us each into our own unique experiences as we followed the rules of the generations that commanded us to know and, perhaps, if lucky, to come to understand the human condition and our place within it.
so carefully, on the dark blue waters where it would spread out on the still waters as chocolate syrup onto the inviting and creamy countenance of ice cream on a summers’ eve. No matter the sparse breeze, or the increasing orange globe pushing above the distant tree line, the waves of fog danced over the cold waters, until dissipated of their energies, each diffused widely over the open lake only to dissolve into nothingness. The air was so silent, and the Earth so at peace that morning, that human troubles in a world unseen in the north woods of Minnesota seemed all the more irrational and disconnected from mortal concern. Soon, Dick and Keith joined us in the rollicking man talk that passes for communication amongst old friends, at one moment jabbing and sparring at reality and at others speaking loudly in disjoined sentences and shared happiness sufficient to produce laughter occasionally punctuated by joyful smiles. Soon the small waves of fog beyond kin of our joyful chatter turned into a steady stream that poured over the eastern end of the lake reminiscent of white frosting being generously spread onto freshly baked hot rolls. As we chatted, the fog began to lift from the surface, as if signaled by the rising sun to give way to the powers of the day. Soon the fog was gone, and the enveloping blueness of the morning sky etched the still surface of the lake in iridescent hues of blue dashed together here and again by the commanding orange rays of the fully established morning sun. Now, as the lake came ablaze with color, and its surface was increasingly stroked by the gentle morning breeze, a pair of Eagles appeared in the sky, dove purposely over their lake, and disappeared into the lushness of Aspens huddled together along the distant shore. Then, with a long whoooooooo so familiar to those who share the lore of America’s lakes, the Loon who had begun it all voiced his own approval. The day was new, the Eagles in command of their domain, and the quiet assurance of a solitary Loon that all was well on Sixth Crow Wing lake.
No more had Bill poured us a second cup of steaming coffee than we heard Keith and Dick stirring about inside. In the coolness of the nearly still air that morning, we said nothing as we watched wave after wave of gray fog move gently out of the rice fields at the eastern end of the lake, only to fall, ever 1