By Nick Simonson

The window in the attic bedroom at the cabin stays open most summer nights, letting in the night breeze, at times the rumble of distant thunder, and many of the other sounds that come with the season.  Most notably among nature’s noises that filter through the old screen are the varied calls of the loons on the lake a few feet from the peaked room where my youngest boy and I sleep in the old twin beds separated by a fly tying desk, just like my dad and I did in years before. The distinctive sounds bring with them the feel of lakes country, and not surprisingly, they have a sometimes eerie impact on the dreams I seem to have in greater intensity and frequency when sleeping near the water.

This past week, while on vacation, the calls – from the long, lonesome one-note “woooooo” to the tremolo warbling, to the siren-like “wee-oo-wee-oo” were so loud it felt as if the water-based black-and-white birds on the lake had somehow developed a sense of coordination and wandered themselves on top of the peak of the roof outside of our room.

The first instance on the week the call of the loons outside became that siren, as I dreamt I was being pulled over for some offense I couldn’t remember committing, but the thought of losing my near perfect record in real life – save for a couple speeding tickets and a care required after a black ice flipover in my youth – was absolutely terrifying.  The fear woke me up with a start and I listened as the conversation of two of the birds went back and forth, until I was wide awake enough to head out the back door and walk the dogs in the pre-dawn light.

The next night, the loud one-note whistle was a train steaming down the railroad tracks.  I can recall little of the dream it associated with, but I woke up with a start when my brain envisioned a long tunnel with a light getting bigger and bigger, and me being unable to move in its circle of illumination.  As I came to, the calls continued and I laughed myself into wakefulness, shook the sleep out of my eyes and prepared for an early morning fishing trip.

The final, and perhaps the most terrifying, influence the haunting call of the loon’s cry came on the last morning of vacation.  I was stuck in a dream where the call became the whimper of my youngest son in the bed across the angled room from me.  The vision in my unconscious brain matched the setting almost perfectly, and his stifled crying continued, despite him not moving, and breathing normally in my dream. It was troubling to say the least, but in the background of the unconscious integration of the loon’s call into my mind’s nightly theater, a voice said: “it sounds like a loon.” 

With that I woke up. Indeed the sound again was a loon, as the wavering notes faded and then returned from the bird out just beyond the beach. This time too early to justify rising and starting the day, I listened to the last notes fade away in the darkness and as the ease of reality and a return to sleep blanketed me. I drifted off reassured that all was well in the little room at the east end of the cabin and…in our outdoors.  

Simonson is the lead writer and editor for Dakota Edge Outdoors.

Featured Photo: Photo: They’re Calling for You.  The distinctive calls made by loons can be exciting and eerie, and go hand in hand with summertime at the lake for the author. Simonson Photo.