h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Some time back, when I arrived home from work, there were some new photos sitting on the kitchen counter. They were from rolls of film that spanned nearly a year, and frankly, I’d forgotten that I’d taken them.

As usual, most weren’t worth a second glance. But there were some of our August camping trip, including some good shots of the loons that call the pond where we stayed home, some striking sunsets, and the pond and mountains lit by a bronze sunset. When I looked at them, they evoked a memory of one special day…

Loons have an unmistakable call. Actually, they have a few once you start listening. One of them is sort of conversational. One is to announce a perceived threat. One is an “all clear” call. And there was another one. One I had never heard before this day.

I was at our campsite, away from the water. It was nearing the end of a warm and sunny day. When we heard the warning call, I began preparing my camera by fitting a zoom lens. Shortly, I got a call over the hand-held radio from our two boys who were fishing down at the pond. “Dad, the eagle’s back.”

I’d been hoping to get a decent picture of him all week but he’s shy. Not like the ospreys, which we’d been seeing pull fish out of the pond every other day or so.

I hurried down to the shore, and found him sitting in a tree directly across from the landing. I decided to see how close he’d let me get. Climbing into our kayak, I alternated between paddling and photographing. I figured that in this way, I would have taken at least one photo at the optimal distance before he got nervous and left.

As I did this, the loons swam in a circle at the foot of the tree he was perched in, sending their danger calls up to the heavens, energizing the air with their haunting voices.

I am used to the loons breaking off whatever they are doing if I drift too close. And I’m used to the eagle leaving before I can get anywhere near him in my canoe. So it came as a surprise when I stopped for one last photo at perhaps eighty feet from his tree, and the loons began circling me still wailing their beautiful cry.

Now it was nearly sunset and that’s when the magic really started. The last rays were fondling the mountain behind me and the whole world was gold. Not colored gold. It was gold. The eagle leaned forward, spread his wings, and jumped into the air. He flew lazily over my left shoulder, turned across the sun, and his silhouette shrank as he flew out of sight.

I turned and looked at the loons now circling me, and it occurred to me that I had never taken the kayak near them before, and I probably resembled a huge loon myself. They swam to a spot between me and the setting sun, their call now changed to the “all’s clear” sign. I sat their briefly, basking in the warm golden glow, letting their song vibrate through my body.

Then their voices changed in timbre, and somehow I interpreted the meaning differently. It no longer meant “Safe!”. Now it meant “Triumph!”. They began to dance, raising themselves out of the water, spreading their wings, and singing with their attention directed straight up to the golden sky.

I don’t know how long it lasted. I don’t remember much more, except returning to the dock as it darkened all around. That is, I don’t remember much except that all too short period when I stared into the golden half-globe that was the setting sun, bathed in color and sound without equal, feeling very, very happy.