October 27th, 2011
Published by: mooresb
Twlight of the August Loon everyone of them hears the eagles.
By Robert W. Butche October 27th, 2011
By Robert W. Butche On the lakes of the high plains, the fleeting sights and sounds of eventide presage the inevitable darkness of the night. Although nearly imperceptible to eye and ear, images and sounds of the lake slowly fade into graying shapes and gentle quietude. They call it 6th Crow Wing lake. By Minnesota standards, it is not that large, but it is connected to others in the Crow Wing chain by the tiny river that gives them name. At this latitude, being but a mere 40 miles from Bemidji, summer is short -- and sometimes hot. Late in the August Moon, summer's cold fronts bring dramatic changes in weather and cooling afternoons that transpose into a gentle fog that falls quietly onto the surface of the lake like dust on an old piano. Even in the heat of August, when day yields to night, life around the Crow Wing chain goes on as it has for eons untold. For these eleven small lakes, the diurnal passage of the terminator intertwines the life and death struggles of the day creatures with those who will soon become the denizens of the night. If one listens you can almost hear the twain of twilight settling o’er the stillness of the placid waters. Even as the creatures of the day exit the stage, the night cast is ready in the wings to carry on the eternal struggle for survival. Soon, lake beaver, sometimes called the the night construction crew in these parts, will be heard slamming their flat tails on the still waters. When lake dwellers hear the beaver, they know the third-shift building and demolition team has punched in for the night.
Just outside of Keith Bemis' beautiful cabin, the dominant Eagle alights on a dead limb. It takes less than a minute for her to down a wiggly Bluegill. Afterwards, she sits majestically and surveys her domain. She knows that night is at hand, but as long as there is daylight, she remains queen of all she surveys. For the longest time she sits there -- perhaps enjoying the view, perhaps just waiting for the moment to leave. Everyone around 6th Crow Wing knows the Minnesota Lakes country belongs to our national emblem -- for she and her kin have been the top of the food chain around here as long as the lakes themselves. Suddenly, the eagle turns toward the lake. Then, without a sound, and in a blur of motion, she silently lifts from her perch, climbs above the settling fog and disappears into the accumulating mist. It's official: Day is done. In eventide, when even the Mallard chatter fades magically into the spreading mist, a sense of tranquility engulfs the lake. Gone now are dozens of Gulls who so earnestly wing against an azure sky in the afternoon sun. The day’s fishermen will soon be gone as well as the last boat pulls anchor -- its fishermen heading home with big tales and wide smiles. All the better for sharing the rich bounty of the Crow Wing over dinner with family and friends.
Then, as the last rays of sun dance along the tops of trees on the distant north shore, the authoritative voices of Eagles slice through the developing silence for the last time. None of the night critters is really listening, but
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