Two Loons on Todd Lake
[fragment :written on September 8th, 2024:]
I have returned to the chair - looking more couch than chair - after a long weekend away with my partner. I've always found the view from this chair beautiful, insofar as a cosmically terrifying void can be beautiful, but it pales in comparison to the absolute splendor of New Hampshire in the early fall. Though I may be biased: I grew up in the state, and its natural beauty will always be unparalleled to me.
[fragment :Todd Lake.jpeg:]
Todd Lake is situated in the small town of Newbury, though the lake is feet from a Welcome to Bradford sign, making Bradford the lake's canonical residence. The area was sparse but not dead. A well adorned community center, a church, and a large farm stand marked the roadside, with the spaces between filled in by multicolored colonials and two eateries: a Dunkin' Donuts and a pizza shop. A mixed-use cycling and walking trail carved through the town, extending from the church parking lot over the bridge bisecting Todd Lake. Our rental was located down a quiet side road following the lake shore, adorned on both sides with sleepy second homes made up of new construction abutting the lake and old family shacks across the road. We saw a couple in their late twenties walking their long-haired pup as we parked. A young woman several years our junior walked by with a portly golden retriever. A motorcyclist passed through slowly and stopped to admire the lake. Aside from these diversions, the road was empty for hours at a time. This, along with the dark, curtain-hidden interiors of the unoccupied homes, lent credence to the feeling of isolation that comes with a secluded get away - though this one was less secluded than most. In total, we counted six homes that appeared occupied out of the twenty or so we passed on our drive in. A measly quantity, but expected: for the first time in what feels like years, New England is entering an early September autumn.
Our rental was quaint and appropriate for the sparseness we intended for our stay. It featured two small bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, an all-season porch running the length of the house and facing the lake, a charcoal grill, and a kitchen. The home was situated atop a hill, requiring a short hike up a winding flight of stone steps, a feature that immediately tested my and my partner's tendency to over pack. At the base of the stone steps was the road, and across it was the small private beach where the owners had put down sand attempting to create a white-sand experience out of the otherwise rocky shoreline. Nestled in the sand were two green metal chairs. After we unpacked, this is where my partner and I plopped ourselves for the afternoon. The rising Mount Sunapee was always in view. With the 3 p.m. sun blasting down on us, we put on our suits, grabbed two provided inner tubes from the house, and floated on the lake. We lounged while the sun crest over the cloudless sky and tucked behind Mount Sunapee. This quickly left us wet and chilly. With heat and light retreating fast, we went inside for the night. A gas fireplace provided ample warmth. Battling mosquitos, I cooked a few pieces of chicken on the charcoal grill while my partner made green beans and garlic bread. In the distance, I heard a howling, one that met the encompassing darkness and had me rushing to turn on every outdoor light. My partner came outside and commented, without any worry, "It's the loons."
We ate dinner and watched Practical Magic while sipping on good wine and good beer. This lead us both to an early bed. I didn't sleep a soundly as I hoped; I woke up several times sweating, and woke my partner by dragging a fan into the room, which allowed me to sleep the night. It was on the second day - our one full day on Todd Lake - that we were brought into a true peace.
[fragment :Loon at Todd Lake.jpeg:]
We rose early to a fluctuating lake top: wind and fog poured from Mount Sunapee and its foothills, pushing a violent wake to the shore. The fog hid anything beyond the shoreline until 10 a.m. when the gray dispersed to reveal a white-torn sky and a glassy lake. Without a breeze, there was no bias to the water; one could float and remain still until they moved themself. After coffee and a short walk, I made a fire by the beach and sat alone while my partner napped on the porch. Kayakers and paddle boarders came by, along with a solitary row boat captained by a nautically festooned fisherman. These boaters respected the lake's right to stillness. They kept quiet. They moved in small, even motions as to not cause any wake. But they were not the only creatures on Todd Lake.
From my vantage, I counted two loons floating in a small rectangle half way between the shore to the several small islands at the lake's center. The birds were quiet for hours, floating like logs until an unknowable force caused them to break out in droning howls - the same howls I'd heard the previous night. The water served as their passive amplifier. The calls pitched down into wide, black bellows then flew up into high, unwieldy cackles. They spoke articulately from opposite ends of the lake, the call-and-response coming through as though they were next to one another. The loons had an elongated conversation broken up by dives beneath the water and erratic sputters as though they were RC boats controlled by an excited child. What they spoke of was relevant. By the time my partner came down to the beach in the early afternoon, the loons were gone. They returned around at the start of evening, before the sun had set, and brought with them a hazy mass of storm clouds. The gray sky threatened us from a distance, masking Mount Sunapee and steadily taking over the hills and trees until even the homes at the opposite shore were hidden. Uncaring, the loons continued to putter along their little patch of lake with an envious calm.
I sat quietly watching these loons for a half hour. I stopped only to tend to the fire, and once to move a caterpillar that was crawling along the edge of the fire pit. I was fascinated by these birds. They appeared cosmically calm. Why wouldn't they be? The lake was tranquil. It was a place that seemed at once locked in the moment and completely out of time. A glacial place with passive natural residents. I knew ascribing this human sense of peace and calm to these animals was at its base ridiculous: they were, as all wild animals are, always in keen awareness for their survival. That reality didn't matter as I watched the loons dive and cry out to one another. I felt the peace they exerted, however imagined it was.
I asked my partner, a biologist, what the loons might be communicating about. She shrugged and commented, "they're probably just talking." They're vocalizing as we were, discussing the weather or density of fish. Perhaps they spoke of how they were lonely, bored, or otherwise needed something to do. Maybe all their howling and cooing was a call for play: come here, find my voice, and lets do something.
I never saw them take off, even as the storm began to batter the lake with gusts and rain. They remained on the water motivated by the movement of their bespoke, loon-specific current. And when they were done, having reached their destination, the current disappeared forever, and the loons stayed in place.
[fragment :Partner sleepy.jpeg:]
As we departed the beach to take shelter from the storm, a shout carried over the lake: "To everyone on Todd Lake: I just caught a massive fish!" I smiled and laughed, thinking that maybe the same phrase had been cooed by the loons earlier that day. We ordered a pizza, forgoing the burger patties we'd purchased the day before in favor of something that wouldn't involve grilling in the rain. We set up a laptop on the all-season porch and watched Beetlejuice as rain and wind rattled the little cabin. By nine, we were both tired enough that we barely made it bed. I didn't hear anymore loons that night. I think, with the storm, they too found shelter and settled in for sleep. My partner and I slept better than either of us had in months. In the morning, departing the lake, we took a final look at the misty water. The two loons were parked in the same spot, silently floating.
Now I rest in my chair, drifting in the infinite void, after a relaxing weekend away. What I didn't say was how, about an hour into sitting on the beach with these loons puttering several yards offshore, my partner turned to me and said, "I feel absolutely relaxed." I agreed. Like the loons, we'd managed to find a stillness on the lake. We read a lot that weekend, but more than that we sat and spoke with one another about the small bits of life that only come from that calm. Far off ideas of homes and marriage, and closer ideas of more trips, hikes, and activities to fill our autumn. I thought it was silly that I had watch on my wrist. Being aware of the time was useless on the lake - the loons certainly weren't tracking it. Maybe, in a different life, in a different void, I'd be happy as a loon.