Janet Chapman, Maine Romance Author

:: 2003 Letters From LakeWatch ::

April 4, 2003 Dear Readers, We are knee-deep into mud season, the lake is still carrying two feet of solid ice, and today's forecast is for five-to-nine inches of snow.	Immature Bald Eagle
But despite all that, the promise of warmer weather abounds; hoards of red-breasted Robins have arrived (looking somewhat perturbed because they can't find any grass to build nests), potholes and frost heaves are making a mess of our roads, and the shoreline of the lake is finally softening. We can see Bald Eagles far out on the ice, busily devouring abandoned fishing bait that is slowly being exposed as nature's original icebox thaws. The fishing shanties are gone (although some tardy fishermen had to pull them to safety by laying planks across the open water separating the firm ice from the shore), and the view out my window is once again void of human activity. Animals, be they feathered or furred, are reveling in the fact that they have the lake to themselves again. Deer are crossing the great expanse without having to look both ways to avoid being run over by zooming snowmobiles. Coyotes, with increasing regularity, are expanding their hunting grounds while keeping an eye out for potential mates. And the largest skunk I have ever seen (when I snapped on the flood light at two in the morning last week) was rooting through our woodpile searching for hibernating bugs. Yesterday morning, just after sunrise, my husband and I awakened to the deafening sound of nearly a hundred crows gathered on the ice in what appeared to be either a heated town meeting or an environmental rally. When we looked through our spotting scope, every blessed crow was screaming an opinion; its beak raised to the sky, its chest puffed in indignation, and its beady little black eyes glaring. (It's a very powerful scope.) It has been quite a long and record-breaking cold winter here in Maine, and we've noticed during our rides up to the mountains that many of the evergreens have suffered some degree of winter-kill. Rusty fir and pine needles pepper the usually dark green trees, as if an artist from the Arctic got carried away with his frosted paintbrush this year. There is still almost four feet of ice on some of the more northern lakes, and my poor husband spent most of his fishing days this winter hand-chiseling holes through the thick ice.
I should say here that Robbie flies into the remote northern lakes in a ski-plane, often in sub-zero weather. I have watched - while shaking my head in wonder - as his pilot/fishing buddy had to place a lantern under the cowling of the plane, just to warm up the oil enough to start the engine. And I can't help but ask, what compels a man to engage in such an extreme sport?	Robbie going ice fishing
And with six layers of clothes bulking him up, and a smile peaking through his heavy winter beard, my husband only shrugs and says that the fish whisper to him in his dreams; calling, teasing, challenging him to come find them. So I simply kiss him goodbye, wish him luck, and toss another log into the woodstove before rushing back to my nice warm bed. Robbie's final trip north for this season was last week, and I have hope that spring is close at hand. The fishing traps and ice chisel are missing from their exalted place in the kitchen, and spinning reels and long, thin poles - that look like they'd snap at the first strike of a five-pound lake trout - now litter the living room. And scattered through the mess are several brochures for lawn mowers. Lawn mowers! Why bother, I wonder. At the rate we're going, summer will be only a three-week season this year! Until later, from a slowly thawing LakeWatch... Janet
September 3, 2003 Dear Readers, Summer finally arrived, but somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, it slipped by my notice! Already it’s September, and welcome cold-fronts are sweeping down from Canada on a regular basis now, giving us warm sunny days and crisp cool nights. This is Maine at its best. The tourists are migrating home (we’ve enjoyed your company, and look forward to seeing you next year, but now it’s our turn to play), the pumpkins and apples are plumping with delicious sugars, and furry and feathered babies born mere months ago are quickly maturing. Just yesterday, on an early morning kayak trip with Robbie, I came close enough to snap a picture of the young loon born in our cove this June. Dappled feathers have already replaced its soft bouyant down, and it has grown too big to hitch a ride on mom and dad’s backs. It can dive quite well now (in strong contrast to its downy-days, when it would try, only to pop back up like a cork from a Champagne bottle!), and our young loon can even catch its own meal of minnows, though it hasn't outgrown begging for handouts from still attentive parents.
We’ve noticed small rafts of mature loons gathering already – most likely adults who didn’t bother nesting this year. Soon they will migrate south to the waters off the Carolinas and Florida, and the young loons of this spring will be on their own. They, too, will come together in feathered rafts, but will head to the Gulf of Maine to grow strong and beautiful on rich ocean fish. It is there they’ll find mates of their own, not returning to freshwater lakes for three or four years.	A raft of adult loons. (Photo by Robert Chapman)
I am always amazed – if not awed - by Mother Nature. How can a young loon, not three months old, survive without benefit of its parents? And how, after a summer of loving attention, can a parent simply fly away? It boggles my mind, considering I’ve had twenty-two years of parenting two sons, and I am still reluctant to cut ties. Instead of going our separate ways, the hint of fall in the air only urges me to gather my loved-ones close to the woodstove, and pretend our insular family will continue forever.
Wishful, motherly thinking. Life happens. Like baby loons, sons mature and must travel their own paths. And to be a good parent, that means taking a lesson from Mother Nature and continuing down our own path – which suddenly appears to be paved with the freedom of countless destinations. So yeah, maybe my LakeWatch loons chose to nest in our cove this summer for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, they came to teach Robbie and me a much-needed lesson. "Let go," they hauntingly call as we lie in bed wishing both our sons were under our roof, snug in their childhood beds. "Enjoy," those wise old loons tremolo deep in their throats. "This is not the end, but the beginning of something even more wonderful."	Our nesting loons arrived early this spring, even before the ice had gone out! (Photo by Chick Rauch)
Yeah. . . well. . . we are humans, not loons, and advice is much easier given than taken. Until later, from LakeWatch... Janet

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