Black with white spots that appear as brilliant stars in a dark sky, loons are mysterious and mystical. You often hear them and don’t see them; their calls are so loud that they can be at the far end of a lake and you think they’re right next to you.
I’ve been following the loon activity at Seney National Wildlife Refuge in the Upper Peninsula and I’m amazed at the returning loons and offspring the staff there documents. As of this past spring, banded loons ABJ and Fe, both nearly 40 years old and the world’s oldest known common loons — much of that time spent as a couple, even though loons aren’t known to mate for life — are no longer a pair. They separated in 2022, after a 25-year partnership, and have since paired with new mates. While they returned to Seney in 2025, they’re in different territories. Fascinating!
Beyond their shadowy appeal, loons, a threatened species in Michigan, have carried significant symbolism over time. Native Americans are said to believe the loon’s distinctive vocalization (they have four calls) and solitary nature in the wilderness evoke feelings of serenity and inspire the awakening of hopes, dreams, and wishes.
Just a few weeks ago, when I was painting at my cottage, I could hear song sparrows, chickadees, and crows; birdsong makes for a perfect backdrop when you’re trying to focus. The loud cry of the loon also pierced the air on that afternoon, yet the sound filtered to me unknowingly. When I finally realized what I was hearing, I jumped up from the table and flew out the door to see my husband pointing to the lake. “I called and texted you a million times,” he said, admitting he had heard the loon but didn’t see it.
A week or so later, around 5:30 a.m., the loon returned! The pre-dawn light cast a slight glow on the lake, and through the mist came the song. Our windows were open and as I heard the call, I thought I was dreaming. When I sensed I wasn’t, I hurried out of bed, grabbed my camera, and tip-toed through dewy grass to our dock. The calls were steady and seemed to be regular. I quickly noticed a white-speckled, red-eyed beauty gliding slowly north. He was alone, but perhaps was communicating with another loon. That sound! It’s like nothing else — an evocative, loud wail that hits several high-low notes. I soaked it up and watched him for a while, snapping a ton of photos of this handsome subject.
I hoped to see him again the next morning. No such luck. The following day I was up early, to catch photos of birds such as yellow-throated warblers and vireos. But I couldn’t get the loon off my mind, so I opened an app on my phone to listen to the loon’s various sounds, and I started to hear somewhat of a chortle that definitely wasn’t on my phone! I scurried toward the noise to catch a glimpse of the loon, but I could only hear it.
One afternoon, I became acquainted with a woman who I discovered lives near me on the lake. “Have you been enjoying the recent sounds of the loon(s)?” I asked her. “The loons? No. I don’t open my windows, so I don’t hear anything,” she said. “I put air conditioning in a while back; I don’t want to hear neighbors at campfires.”
I thought it was terribly sad that she’ll never be lulled awake or to sleep by Michigan’s magical bird, whose haunting cry symbolizes the wildness of the north.
As fall approaches, loons are fattening up, molting, and preparing for their migration. Maybe I’ll see my loon taking off for warmer climates. If I do, I’ll be sure to document his exit in our nature journal. 
