Every weekend in the summer the SLA sends LRCC members to manage campsites and perform a variety of tasks: cleaning bathrooms, cutting blowdowns, repairing compost bins, raising docks, and, starting in July, Loon Chick Watch. My hours spent in a kayak, monitoring loon chicks in high-traffic areas and protecting them from boats, quickly became the highlight of the week—I often spent far longer watching these families than was technically required.
After a few weeks of loon chick watching in other territories, I saw a new, stunningly tiny chick born to the family in the channel. While other chicks on the lake were paddling around on their own, I regularly saw this little one riding on his parents’ backs. One afternoon I was sitting in a kayak, watching the chick and one of its parents (hereby Parent #1) lazily bobbing with Parent #1 occasionally diving and bringing up a fish for the chick. Then, Parent #1 started making calls I hadn’t heard her make all day. They weren’t the soft hoots I had come to associate with the parents calling the chick over to feed him a fish. They weren’t the staccato calls of alarm when a boat came too close and the parent wasn’t near enough to the chick. These calls were loud and regular, but didn’t sound like an alarm. Parent #1 started paddling intently toward the mouth of a channel. At first I couldn’t see anything, but then I saw a second loon coming in from the wider lake.
The adults greeted one another by touching beaks and circling with the chick trailing behind Parent #1. I knew that loon parents took shifts watching their chicks, but I had never seen a shift change before. I held my binoculars as still as I could, hardly daring to blink because I didn’t want to lose track of which loon parent was which. I wanted to know for sure if they were switching roles. Luckily I didn’t drop my binoculars or have to sneeze, because I saw clearly that Parent #2 began the role of babysitter. Parent #1 headed off while the other two members of this family stayed near the shoreline. I was surprised by how ecstatic I was to see this change on my own. I already knew that, like many other birds, loons take turns caring for the chick, but something about seeing it with my own eyes filled my whole body with joy.
I was feeling relaxed until about 10 minutes later when Parent #2 started to move across the channel after Parent #1 with the chick in tow. My heart leapt into my throat—this was Sunday afternoon on a beautiful, sunny day, and this wide channel was perfect for water skiers. I paddled after the loons, hoping they would turn back. They did not. An incredibly stressful half hour followed as I tailed the pair across the channel. I tried to stay close to them, watching for incoming boats and getting ready to steer them away from the loons. Finally, we made it across. I still have no idea why they crossed or if it was usual behavior. I have never seen them do that again, and almost every time I’ve seen them, it’s hasn’t been in this area. Regardless of why this happened, I was grateful I was there to see it.
Two weeks later it was my turn to camp again. On Sunday my loon watching shift was much more relaxed because it was windy with on-and-off spatterings of rain. About an hour into watching the loon chick and parent, I saw a second adult loon at the east mouth of the channel. I was excited, expecting to see another parent switch. This time, however, the loon chick and its parent drifted towards the shore and did not go towards the new loon. The new loon paddled through the channel while the parent loon stayed with the chick in the shallows with its neck tucked in. The night before, I had seen a group of three adult loons swimming around one of the docks—an unusual sight. They were likely a group of bachelor loons. Loons are very territorial, so it was a bit concerning—I didn’t know if they were trying to move into this territory. So, on that Sunday, I wondered if this new loon was an intruder, but I didn’t see any sort of aggressive behavior—no chasing or big flapping displays. When the new loon was almost all the way through the channel, I saw the parent loon start to follow it. I watched with interest and it took me a few minutes to realize the chick wasn’t following; it was staying in the exact same spot in the shallows. I had never seen a loon chick this young left alone before. As the parent got farther and farther away, I got more worried. Was this normal? Was it coming back? I started to really panic after about 15 minutes when I couldn’t see the parent anymore and the chick was still alone. Thankfully, after half an hour and 10 minutes of me hyperventilating while an eagle circled over the channel, I saw the parent returning. Once the parent returned, I had time to ponder with awe the communication that must have occurred between the parent and chick to tell the chick to stay in the shallows. I still don’t know what went on that day, but they were a few of the most enthralling hours I’ve had in awhile.
This past Sunday I was running around cleaning the bathrooms, unloading wood, and thinking ahead to what else I needed to do before packing up and heading back to the SLA. As I jogged back to the boat from the bathroom, I was shaken out of my to-do list rundown by the realization that the loon chick and one of its parents were about two yards out from the boat. Stopping abruptly, I sunk down to sit on the dock, take a breath, and watch them. The chick was resting his head on his back, occasionally lifted out of his nap when his parent popped up with a tasty fish for him. While he rested his head, I watched his eyes slowly blink. I don’t know what he was thinking or feeling, but in the sunshine of that fall afternoon I couldn’t help but think that he was just enjoying the act of soaking up the rays. Comparing the chick I was looking at to the tiny ball of fluff I first saw in July made me feel like a weepy parent on her kid’s first day of high school. He was already about half the size of his parent, maybe more. He was in that goofy adolescent stage where his breast feathers are sleek, white, and full but the feathers on his head and tips of his wings are still a halo of baby down. I watched him rise up, extend both wings, and flap in a gesture I’ve seen many times in adult loons. It was bittersweet to see him so big: sweet because he looked so healthy and I felt sure that he would make it through the season and bitter because it reminded me that fall is here, this was my last weekend camping on the islands as a caretaker, and I am leaving Squam and the SLA later this week.
These loons have given me such a gift this summer. They’ve reminded me of where I can find the roots from which my joy has sprung since I was little: opening my eyes to look at things. I grew up in suburban Virginia right outside D.C.—not exactly a place that draws tourists for the natural vistas like the Squam region does. Yet I looked under logs and waded through dirty streams and found a whole world right where I lived that sparked my love of ecosystems and wildlife.
Once in elementary school my friend and I went out in the woods to wade in the creek to try to catch minnows. Many of you probably know how enthralling chasing minnows is, so you’ll understand how we lost track of time and suddenly found ourselves two hours in the future and miles downstream. We returned to parents (no minnows in hand) who were worried and slightly ticked off, but we were full of a rich afternoon.
I’ve known since I was young that I love to look at things and watch, to see what happens when you’re quiet and you take the time to open your eyes; but in the intervening years I’ve come to think too much, clouding my appreciation of vision. The pressure to get things done, to do something to help the world, to better myself is overwhelming and I find myself shutting the world out and trying to turn my brain off. This constant inner monologue has resulted in my spending less time just sitting and watching and enjoying.
Sitting with these loons reminds me that it is never a waste to watch. No matter what you are looking at, you will find something that makes getting out of bed on this specific day worth it. You will feel grateful that you're in the place you are at the time you’re there, because otherwise, you wouldn’t have seen the graceful way an adult loon pops out of the water with a fish in its mouth; how this loon dips the fish in the water while it delicately carries it to its chick; how, even after the chick greedily gobbles the fish, it paddles close to its parent and grunts while it shoves its beak in its parent’s beak, clearly asking for more. As an anxious 23-year-old filled with existential dread, being perfectly content and filled with gratitude and joy for where I am in any exact moment of time is not something I feel often.
I feel strengthened by these hours spent watching. They make my life feel rich and meaningful, and as a result, I feel renewed energy to pour my effort into work that matters to me. I could have read about how loon parents will switch babysitting shifts or follow an interloper to make sure he leaves, but I needed the reminder from these loons that watching and feeling is a very different kind of learning (and living) than reading. I hope that I can remember this, especially as I head into my next stage of life as the Outdoor Education Coordinator at an elementary school in my hometown. I cannot express my gratitude to the loons, to the Squam environment, and especially to the SLA staff and fellow LRCC members. I can’t imagine a more valuable, interesting, and enriching way that I could have spent this past year.
Thank you to: EB, Leigh Ann, Katri, Adel, Emily, Tyson, Dani, Angi, Maggy, Moses, Elijah, Nick, Micaela, Beth, Rachel, Dena, Sam, Steven, Jack, and everyone else that I’ve learned from here. I will miss this place.
Grace is the last member to stick around of our full-time crew, who arrived at the SLA last November. She invests herself fully in everything she does, whether it be composting toilets, being a friend, or loon chick watching. She will be greatly missed, but we know that she’ll go on to do great things. Learn more about Grace here!