Stranded: A common loon in an uncommon situation

It’s been a wet, cold spring, but, finally, on the lakes near the farm we are seeing another sign that summer will come: Dozens of loons congregating on open water waiting for a break in the weather so they can complete their migration back to Minnesota.

Seeing their return reminded us of an encounter with a loon this winter. This is not a happy story, though we thought it was for a while.

As Minnesotans, Heather-Marie and I know what a loon looks like, even in the winter months when its plumage is dull and plain. That’s why we were stunned when, while hiking along a deserted beach on an island off the coast of Georgia over the winter holiday break, we saw a common loon. Alone. Stranded on a vast stretch of open beach. Hundreds of yards from the water.

Anyone who knows about loons knows that this is not only unusual, it’s also not a good sign. Loons are masterful swimmers, but they are more awkward on land than humans are in water. The shape of their bodies is designed to be an underwater torpedo, capable of diving and reaching speeds of up to 20 mph. 

But the qualities that make them skillful swimmers leave them nearly helpless on land. Their legs are positioned toward the back of their long bodies, so they can barely walk. To fly, they need a long runway of water to gain speed before launching into the air like a B-52 bomber.

We were on Cumberland Island, a 17.5-mile long barrier island that has been designated a National Seashore by the National Park Service. It is one of the few places on the East Coast where one can experience the raw, natural terrain of vast, open beaches and sweeping sand dunes that protect acres of forested canopies of saw palmetto and live oak.

Heather-Marie and I had hiked down to the southern tip of the island and were having our lunch on one side of a massive rock jetty when we spied the loon on the other side.

Amateur birders, we pulled out our binoculars for a better look, protected from view by the rock jetty. It was unquestionably a common loon. We had seen many of them on our winter trip exploring the coastlines of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic where loons winter over. 

As we watched, a black vulture dropped down out of the sky and cautiously walked toward the loon. With its powerful, spear-like beak, the loon turned to face it. It was still active and alert. The vulture flew off.

We decided to contact our friends back in Minnesota, Clinton and Kristina Dexter-Nienhaus. Clinton is the head naturalist at the Sax-Zim Bog wildlife area north of Duluth. There isn’t much that the couple doesn’t know about birds and the natural world.

Clinton said there were a couple of things that could be going on. One, the bird could be suffering from avian botulism, common in waterfowl. Two, the bird could have lead poisoning, which happens when loons ingest sinkers and fishing tackle made with lead. If the bird’s feces was bright green, that could be lead poisoning.

We walked to the other side of the jetty, and the loon dropped its head flat against the sand in a protective stance.

We came closer. 

It raised its head and turned its beak toward us, unable to rotate its body. It let out its signature call. We backed off to give it some space.  

Each of us had tears in our eyes. The large, elegant animal we had seen and heard on lakes in Minnesota’s Boundary Waters seemed trapped and helpless.

We could see from its tracks that the loon had already crawled a hundred yards or so trying to get back to the water.

We sent Clinton and Kristina a photo of the animal’s feces. It was green but not too bad. 

We sent them a video of the bird. It looked strong and healthy, they said. Great news.

They asked one more question: Was the bird in a place where the tide might have gone out, trapping it in shallow water?

Yes, that was definitely the case.

We talked over our options.

If we had some kind of blanket or something, we could have tried to capture the bird and help bring it to the water. But we were hiking and had nothing. We were miles from anything.

We could try to grab it, but the loon had made it clear that it was not going to welcome any assistance. It would see us as adversaries, and we were no match for that powerful beak.

We decided to get far away from the bird, so it did not feel threatened and wait for the tide to come back in.

We set up our spotting scope and watched.

An hour felt like a lifetime. The water creeped almost imperceptibly closer to the loon. While it may have been moving toward the water earlier, it now sat, unmoving.

Finally, the water surrounded the loon, but it was still not moving. A few gulls floated just feet from it. 

We whispered softly, though we were hundreds of yards away: Move! Swim!

And then it was gone. Almost without warning, the loon vanished.

We rushed over to the spot where it had been and scanned the water.

In classic loon form, its head and body popped up. It looked around for a moment, maybe hearing our cheers of elation from the beach. It vanished again, resurfacing a few hundred yards away from where it had been.

We texted our friends the joyous news: “It’s back in the water! Free and safe.”

But, as I said, this story doesn’t have a happy ending, but it’s also an uncertain one.

Two days later, we were watching our final sunrise on the island, sitting in our camp chairs and sipping coffee and tea respectively. A couple we had gotten to know walked toward us and said hello. They had ridden their bikes down to the same spot where we had seen the loon.

How was your bike ride, we asked?

They looked at each other before giving us the news.

They had discovered a waterlogged loon dead on the beach, not far from where we had seen ours.

They thought we’d want to know.

We were gutted. Was it our loon? We’d never know. Maybe the loon we saw was trying to find its mate, as they do mate for life.

I’ve struggled with how to end this story and find meaning in what happened with this loon. As a writer, I like a story to have a focus and an ending where something is learned.

For me, the lesson of this loon is simply that nature is harsh and that life, for all living things, is both arbitrary and fleeting. 

On our final day on Cumberland Island, we carted our gear out to the ferry and climbed aboard with those who’d come out to visit for the day. The sun was gently dipping toward the horizon and the air was still, the water glassy, as we pulled away from the dock.

Looking back toward the island, a few hundred yards away from the ferry, a loon surfaced.