Weld Observer article. WebbSwimmer: First Swim of the Season, Early to Mid-June.

(For the Weld Observer, long version; photo by Henry Blau, III)

 “They’re ducks, Paul, not loons.” There were thirteen floating fowl in the water. “Loons come in singles or pairs.” I was a little too cocky.

Paul stood in a dark swimsuit about thigh deep in the cold water at dawn.  His goggles were assembled on his head, and his body occasionally shuddered in the just-above-freezing mist rising from the lake. We did not expect to invite the chill by stalling our swim, but we like to give loons space and honor their territory. We respect their regal elegance, swimming skills, and powerful beaks.

I peered intently over Paul’s shoulders, watching the large birds sitting low in the water, clearly displaying laddered backs, long distinctive beaks, pearl necklaces, and shiny smooth black heads.  They were motionless and silent. Paul had been correct; they were loons.  I was aghast. Thirteen?

“Hey there,” I almost sang, speaking in words I use each year to greet the loons and warn them I was entering their territory. “Hey there,” I repeated as they turned effortlessly creating only the smallest of ripples on the lake. Their heads rotated side to side as they peered at us silently. They look so graceful; it seems ironic that the name “Loon” comes from the Scandinavian word for clumsy.  They are only clumsy out of the water.

We stood still, waiting for the loons to decide where they would go; we would swim in the opposite direction.  I am, after all, a LoonDodger and aware that these birds weigh up to sixteen pounds and have pointy beaks.  The standoff felt interminable.

They gazed at us; we gazed at them. Clocks stopped, breathing slowed, and our beating hearts echoed loudly as the most discernable sound. The stillness in the air engulfed us all as the mist rose gently from the mirrored lake.  In another hour, the opposite shore would become visible, but for now it was shrouded in thick fog that absorbed all sound.

The raft of loons (sometimes referred to as an asylum) gently veered to the right, we dove left paddling swiftly, staying parallel to shore.  I could feel my blood shift from my arms to my torso. My arms felt the chill, but my core felt the warmth.  Swim, breathe. Swim, breathe.  Swim, breathe.

My mouth tasted the sweet spring water, a flavor of which I can only dream in the winter when chlorine dulls my senses.  There is no other spring water, be it bottled out of Switzerland or Figi, that tastes like our lake or our spring waters in Weld.  It’s a comfort taste, a taste of home, of clean living, of the water from the pipe on the Wilton road, of Mount Blue’s gurgling well, and of the stream crossing the trail on Mount Bald.  

Our hands slipped into the still water as we worked to fend off the shakes and as we worked to make progress towards Williams’ beach – or maybe the other end of the sandy shoreline, the Inn beach.  Swim, breathe. Swim, breathe.  Swim, breathe. We focused on our cruising speed and on gathering warmth. 

My eyes darted at the images below the surface. Each rock rested gently against its neighbor, some pushed by the recently-receded ice.  Pathways of larger rocks, driven powerfully by freezing water, made distinct roads below us.  Plants had not yet sprouted, fish had not yet created their nests to guard.  Thick green plant life did not swallow the rocks; no one’s water hoses were yet tied to milk-crates on the bottom. Only a few docks stretched from shore, and I could hear the silence in the water, unpunctuated by whines of outboard motors.  I felt the clean of the refreshing spring water in my armpits, thighs, and in the arches of my feet.  As the sand, rocks, winter logs, and lost anchors rose up to greet us, I slowed into an egg-beater kick and looked at Paul.

We were surrounded by the raft of loons.  All thirteen had followed us.  We swam with the loons, or rather, they swam with us.  We looked around at each bird, treading water and rotating our own heads in the same way as the loons are known to do. We were in the asylum and acting like it. “Hey there,” I called. No one answered.

Later, sitting on our concrete patio, we shared an afternoon beverage with Ron and Pam Moore. Earlier in the day, Pam had been standing on her sister’s dock looking out at the raft of loons while Paul and I had stood earlier in the day, shaking in the water.  She saw them head right, then she saw us dive to the left. 

“Then,” she said, “the most amazing thing happened.  One loon raised himself up, flapping, and made one hoot.  In unison, all thirteen turned and followed you, joining you closely in your morning swim.” 

That was 2022.  In 2023, the raft of loons now numbering twelve settled in a more northern region of our beloved lake but would occasionally swim to greet us on our morning swims in our cove.  If a loon was not immediately with me on a swim, I called, “Hey there,” casting an announcement of my visit to their home. Perhaps they heard this as a beckon; when I approached Bowley Rock, I was often joined by a loon hooting hello. Then again when I passed Pine Point, a loon frequently offered a soulful greeting. Loons often keep pace with me when I swim, sometimes diving below and reappearing on the opposite side.

Last summer, James Paruk spoke to a collection of Weldophiles about our loons.  His book, Loon Lessons, describes how he observed loons swim under dolphins to take advantage of better fishing opportunities provided by the dolphins’ wake. His descriptions of Loons’ movement with dolphins paralleled my experience. Perhaps I was stirring up the fish for the loon?

Knowledgeable, humorous, and entertaining, Dr. Paruk shared images, experiences, ideas, and information with us about our feathered summer residents.  After the talk, I shared with him my interactions with Webb Lake loons.  He smiled knowingly and spoke with certainty: “They know you.”  Loons can live to be over thirty years old and return to the same cove on the same lake.  Each bird has a unique identifying sound – and likely each bird identifies me by my unique, “Hey there.” This greeting is not much different from how we say hello to Carol Cochran in the Town Office, Nancy Stowell at the flower shop, Judy Marden at the Transfer Station, David Alexander while working on his boat, or Maggi Vivrette behind the desk at the Mount Blue Garage.

Both loons and humans are philopatric – we love our home.  Both loons and humans recognize the differences in their neighbors – loons by sounds, humans by faces. Both loons and humans share the same home here in Weld. Loons know each other as neighbors – just as humans do.  Loons greet each other enthusiastically as friends – just as humans do. As the summer residents descend upon Webb and Weld with the surety of the daffodils, lilacs, brilliant sunsets, out-of-state plates and tents, we can greet each other with the recognition that we agree on something profoundly important: our love of home.

 This piece was informed by Loon Lessons: Uncommon Encounters with the Great Northern Diver, by James D. Paruk

 

For the Weld Observer (Short version, much of the same material)

WebbSwimmer: Swimming in an Asylum

“They can’t be loons,” I said to Paul.  “Loons appear in singles or pairs. This group is so big -- must be ducks.”  Upon a deeper look, I saw their laddered backs, shiny black heads, pearl necklaces, and large beaks.  They were loons.  We were looking at a raft of thirteen common loons. I called a greeting to them that I’ve used in years past, “Hey There,” and was met with silent turns of heads that seemed to express a curiosity more than a greeting.

It was dawn on a mid-June day in 2022; a mist rose from the lake contributing to the fog. The raft, also called an asylum, of loons floated seamlessly with the water, creating only the smallest of concentric ripples when they turned.  We waited until they turned to the right, then we dove left for our morning swim to the Inn Beach. We wanted to give the loons space and not invade their kingdom.

When the sandy bottom rose to greet us upon our approach to the shore, we raised our heads, slowed to eggbeater kicks, and found ourselves surrounded by the raft.  They followed us!  Our heads above water, we looked left and right, mirroring their head movements.  We were in the asylum.

Throughout the summer, as I have each summer, I swim – alone – to a variety of erratic rocks left by glaciers that are scattered under the water around our cove.  When I’m between Pine Point and Bass Rock, a lone loon often joins me in my swim, diving beneath me and surfacing on the opposite side and zigzagging for nearly a mile.  When I’m north of Center Reef headed to Bowley Rock, I’m joined again by a loon who greets me with a single hoot – and I reply with my calling card, “Hey There.” He also engages in zig-zag behavior, appearing alternately on my right, then my left.

In 2023, the raft settled north of our camp on the lake and numbered twelve loons.

Dr. James Paruk, author of Loon Lessons: Uncommon Encounters with the Great Northern Diver, spoke to a congregation of Webb Lake loon lovers in the summer of 2023. I found myself sharing with him my experiences with loons.  “They know you,” he smiled with an air of certainty.  Loons live to be over thirty years old and are philopatric – they love their home – returning each year to not only the same lake but the same cove.  Each loon has its own unique sound; the community of loons on the lake communicates through their wails, hoots, yodels, and calls.  Loons recognize each other by their individual sounds; my ‘Hey There’ serves as my unique loon-esque call.

The zig-zag behavior?  In Loon Lessons, Dr. Paruk reports that he observed loons following in the wake of dolphins, taking advantage of the fish stirred up by the currents of water around the dolphins. Perhaps I am stirring up fish in the same way, allowing the loons to catch an easy meal through better fishing opportunities.

Both loons and humans are philopatric – we love our homes in Weld in and beside the lake.  Both loons and humans recognize the differences in their neighbors – loons by sounds, humans by faces. Both loons and humans share the same home here in Weld.  Loons know each other as neighbors – just as humans do.  Loons greet each other enthusiastically as friends – just as humans do. As the summer residents descend upon Webb and Weld with the surety of the daffodils, lilacs, brilliant sunsets, out-of-state plates and tents, we can greet each other with the recognition that we agree on something profoundly important: our love of home.