The lonesome, languid calls of the loons kept me awake our first night at camp. They echoed over the river and sang through the stately pines in the morning as well. Waterskiing the first day, I raced past a mother and chick and marveled at how unconcerned they seemed. I skied with them nearly every day after and looked forward to watching them curl and dive below the surface.
I don't recall loons in years past. I'm told my recollection is faulty, though, that their calls have always filled the woods.
Rentry into post-Kingsley Pines life is proving tough. We crawled along the Massachusetts Turnpike Saturday in bumper-to-bumper traffic then sought refuge in a chaotic rest stop teeming with people and noise and anger and anxiety. It was jarring in a most horrible and offensive way. Sad too. Such a contrast to what we left behind.
Later, I washed sand and dirt from my toes and sighed.
When I found the loon call on iTunes last night, I immediately set about the project I had planned to get around to sometime. Sometime later. But the call put me back in a place I never wanted to leave to begin with - of bare feet, fresh air, dirty clothes, sweaty hair, wet towels, bathing suits, camp-fires and thrills.
We look forward to camp for 364 days, then we get there, blink and it's over.