Learning to Call Loons

Ever since I watched that pair of loons perform their haunting dance the morning after we arrived at Nanna’s resort, I’d been obsessed with learning their calls, and what they meant. I’d heard certain sounds repeated over and over, and I was convinced they had a language.

I wanted to learn it.

That was four blissful months ago, and today, I decided, was the day I would master calling back to them.

King and I strolled our favorite trail along the lazy creek that spilled out of the still bay. The morning sun warmed my shoulders. The air smelled of pine and damp moss. Birds trilled high in the trees.

I settled cross-legged at the water’s edge and made up my mind.

This is it.

I’m going to sound like a loon if it takes all day.

Plenty of people had tried to help me.

Some simply mimicked the sound with their voices.

“Woo--eee-euuu! Woo--eee-euuu!”

But when I tried, I sounded more like a kid being tickled to death than a wild lake bird. No loon would fall for that.

Dad had shown me the grass-blade trick, trap a blade between your thumbs and cup your hands to make a whistle. It worked… sort of.

But the sound was thin and high, not the deep, haunting wail I was after.

That’s when Marley appeared on the path with Champion.

The two dogs spotted each other and exploded into a full-speed chase through the tall grass, tumbling and tackling until they collapsed panting at our feet.

After a short rest, King trotted into the water and began paddling in wide, gleeful circles, barking at Champion to join him.

The big Malamute ran up and down the shore, whining, his voice rising in a long mournful yodel.

“Champion hates the water,” Marley said, shaking her head. “Always has.”

Then she gave me a sly look.

“Tell you what, if King gets him to swim today, I’ll teach you how to call loons the right way. The way I learned in Alaska.”

That was all the motivation I needed.

I ran to Champion, grabbed the thick fur at his neck, and coaxed him toward the shallows. King kept splashing and barking encouragement. Champion looked torn between curiosity and dread.

I waded in beside him, ankle-deep… then shin-deep… until finally he had no choice but to swim.

And once he did, something changed.

He struck out boldly toward King, tail high like a banner.

The two dogs spun in wide circles in the middle of the bay, barking and yipping with pure joy.

When they returned to shore, they shook themselves violently, drenching Marley and me in a spray of lake water.

“Stand clear of wet dogs!” I shouted through laughter. “That’s the rule!”

Marley wiped her face and grinned.

“I can’t believe it. Champion swam, for the first time in his life. You and King pulled it off.”

She nodded toward the water.

“So… a deal’s a deal. Time to learn loon calling.”

She sat on a dry patch of grass and demonstrated.

She curved the fingers of her left hand and mirrored them with her right, cupping her palms tightly together. Her thumbs formed a narrow slit, just wide enough to blow through.

The first sound was low and breathy, like air passing over the top of a Coke bottle.

“Wait,” she said. “Now listen.”

She opened the fingers of her right hand slightly and blew again.

This time the sound shifted, longer, more fluid.

“Eee-euuu! Eee-euuu!”

She opened and closed her fingers as she blew, bending the pitch.

Then she leaned forward and gave the full call.

“Woo--eee-euuu! Woo--eee-euuu! Woo--eee-euuu!”

Now that was a loon.

She explained that the first call is the wail, which means: Here I am. Where are you? In loon language.

She nodded for me to try.

I cupped my hands and blew through my thumbs.

Nothing.

Just a flat, raspy: “Hoooo… hoooo.”

More Coke bottle than loon.

But Marley coached me, adjusting my palms, my thumbs, my breath.

After a dozen tries something real emerged.

“Woooo… woooh!”

“That’s it! You’re getting there,” she said, clapping her hands.

I opened and closed my fingers, trying again.

“Woo--eee-euuu! Woo--eee-euuu!”

Still rough, but recognizably loon-like.

I kept practicing.

My hands cramped. My thumbs were slick with spit. But I didn’t care.

Something about the sound, the way it echoed across the water, felt sacred.

Soon Marley joined me, our calls weaving together through the stillness.

“Woo--eee-euuu! Woo--eee-euuu! Woo--eee-euuu!”

Then Marley suddenly gasped.

“Oh my God, Jerre, look!”

Out on the water, six loons appeared, gliding silently toward us through the mist. Their heads swiveled. Their red eyes fixed on our shore.

“They came,” I whispered.

“We did it,” Marley said, wide-eyed. “You’re an official loon caller, and you got Champion to swim. Not bad for a morning’s work.”

She grinned.

“There are three more calls to learn. Keep practicing the wail.”

I sat there, stunned and grinning, watching the loons paddle closer, answering our calls across the quiet lake.

It was one of the looniest, happiest moments of my young life.