Read on to find out what these two have to do with one another
We interrupt the Cross Canada Adventure for the following bit of breaking news from the East Coast.
Instead of Pacific seas of serenity, envision shores so rocky the seams are ripped from your bathing suit. Imagine a rugged beauty with breathtaking views—figuratively as they’re irrefutably stunning, but also literally because the force of the wind sweeps into your nostrils and swipes your breath away.
This message comes to you from the shores of Newfoundland.
A brief history of our relationship with the loons
During every visit to this East Coast paradise, we start our mornings with coffee on the dock. Because a stairway isn’t yet in place, we half-slip down the 50 m embankment to the pond, hooking our hooves into pine roots and grabbing at prickly branches. We sigh as we reach the dock, unfurl our bodies into foldable camp chairs, and drink whatever coffee remains in our mugs.
We bask in the stillness.
Occasionally, a few sounds penetrate the quiet. Bullfrogs croak out a chorus or a local dog yaps. Or what sounds like someone yacking up yesterday’s excessive Screech intake, but is more likely the young bull moose wandering the area.
Oh, and the loons, with their haunting cries.
Usually, we spot them at least once a day. This week, however, we had only been privy once to two still-fuzzy teenage loons, unsupervised but calling back to their parents with wheezy-sounding coos.
Little did we know that we were about to get up close and personal with one.
The Great Loon Rescue
Driving back from O’Brien’s Grocery and Gas as dusk descended on July 10, we noticed a dark lump on the road.
“It’s a duck!” Mark said, slowing as we approached. “Why is it sitting right on the road?”
“Wait,” I replied, astonished, as Mark stopped the vehicle, and we both peered out the window. “It’s a loon!”
“No wonder it’s screeching,” I said, after Mark crawled out and began snapping photos. “Something’s wrong. Look. There’s something wrapped around its wing and its beak.”
As the loon extended its neck with every cry, we could see fishing line circling its wing and looped back around its beak in a tight and twisted pattern. As we wondered how to help the bird, an onslaught of questions entered my head:
- Have I spied bird rescues in any offbeat Facebook reels?
- Recently, there had been that black bear with a cheese puff container stuck around its head for weeks. What did the rescuers do? Would that help me here anyway?
- I read the book called The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook but did it ever mention how to untangle a bird before it pecks out your eyeballs?
- A towel over its head. To save my eyeballs. Yeah, that’s it. Where do I get a towel?
- And scissors. Won’t I need scissors? In Ontario, I have a pair in the glovebox. (Not joking. Do you know how many times those suckers have come in handy?)
We decided I would stay with the bird, to make sure no one careened the corner and hit it, and Mark would speed to the cabin to grab a blanket or a towel and some scissors or a knife.
While he was gone, the bird and I chatted. Well, admittedly, it was a little less gabby than I was.
“So, you have teens?” I babbled, sounding a bit like I was at a beer-puddle-filled pub trying to flirt with the poor fella. “Yeah, I know what it’s like to parent teens. I have two as well. I get it.”
Suddenly, interrupting my continual reassurances to it that all would be okay, my phone rang. I jumped.
“Um, guess what?” asked Mark, completely composed. “You have the keys in your purse so I can’t restart the vehicle.”
“I’ll just start walking back,” he said as I rolled my eyes, remembering the two other times I’d performed this key-in-purse-and-vehicle-elsewhere trick.
New plan
With what I figured would take a whole lot longer now, I began to concoct a new fix. I explained the plan to my new fowl friend.
- Step one: Go to the cabin I can see tucked nearby amongst the dogwood bushes.
- Step two: Ask for a blanket and scissors.
- Step three: Ask you, Loon, to pray that I won’t get duct taped and shoved in the stranger’s basement. I swear I heard it say, “Good thing it’s Newfoundland…with all this rock, no one has a basement, ya cracked dummy”.
The plan worked. The neighbour didn’t even attempt to murder me. They generously offered a towel and wire cutters, and just as I headed back to the road, I watched an orange jeep pull up beside the loon.
Gordon and Marilyn had stopped to take a picture, too. And inadvertently ended up as part of the rescue team.
Enter Doc Gordon
“I think I’ve seen this done on TV,” Gordon said as he suggested I cover the loon’s head with the towel and gently hold it down.
He pulled the wire away from its wing, and I snipped it off. Making it look as though he’s performed this act a thousand times before, he snaked his hand slowly up the bird’s neck, holding it so I wouldn’t lose a finger as I unraveled the fishing line from its beak. Within seconds, and just as Mark rounded the corner with a towel slung over his shoulder, the loon was free.
It wiggled and flapped its wings just slightly, but it didn’t move much.
“We’ll take it back to water,” Gordon announced, putting Mark in the role of backseat loon holder. “It’ll need help getting to the pond.”
And so, the carload took off, and the loon was returned to its watery home.
Don’t go quite yet. You’re going to want to hear this next almost-unbelievable part.
The Follow-up
We named the loon Keith. After The Who’s drummer, Keith Moon. Nicknamed Keith Moon the Loon, this artist was known for his many crazy stunts. Supposedly, he cherry bombed toilets and once drove a car into a hotel pool in Flint, Michigan.
On our last morning, just hours before we had to head to the airport, I wrapped my hand around my whale blue mug and sighed, “I just want to see Keith one last time. Just one time before we go.”
Mark looked dubious. Later, he admitted that he’d been thinking, “yeah, doubtful. The loon hasn’t been here all week and won’t be here today either. Poor Jen is setting herself up for disappointment.”
“Keith!” My shout echoed off the smooth-as-cod’s-tongue lake. “One last time. Please, Keith!”
As the last syllable left my lips…
“Holy Shhhh…, Jen. Look who’s here.”
Keith floated towards us. Closer and closer.
“Hey, Keith. Thanks for coming.” The bird kept turning his head toward me when I spoke. “It’s so awesome to see you. How are the kids?”
He glided from one end of the pond to the other and back, his head continually swivelling in our direction, and then proceeded to complete one final flyover. Just for us. Or so we tell ourselves. Thanks, Keith.