On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  As if on cue, another Greek chorus would wail, “He’s gone! He’s gone!”

  But before long, we’d be rolling along the road again, the windows down and our heads in lookout positions like sentries in Al Capone’s car.

  Because there were still wolves in those days, deer were less plentiful and problematic than they are now, so much so that we occasionally swung by the local deer farm just to see them up close. With outstretched hands filled with corn, we watched in wonder as wide-eyed does nuzzled our fingertips with their soft wet mouths, while shy fawns stood in the background. Their trust and beauty enthralled us.

  Other favorite animals included porcupines and skunks. They provided fairly frequent sightings, happily ambling across woodland paths or deserted dirt roads with leisurely intent.

  One early evening, someone in our family spotted a porcupine climbing a tall oak tree behind our cabin and shouted out the sighting. As if hearing Pavlov’s bell, we kids dropped what we were doing and came running.

  In my mad dash, I almost decapitated myself, such was my desire to see the porcupine perched in its spiky splendor. Running blindly in the near darkness, I hit my neck on the clothesline, which flung me backward onto the ground. The porcupine, slow mover that he is, was wisely long gone, thanks to all the clamor before I recovered.

  Neck injury or no, it was worth the effort.

  Of course, we loved water wildlife and never tired of watching loons dive for fish, eagles soar overhead, blue herons flap by the shore, or a family of ducks glide under our dock.

  The multitude of woodland insects intrigued us as well. Daddy longlegs, june bugs, pine spiders, and dragonflies all held our fascination—unless of course, they crawled on us, in which case hysterical jerking body movements accompanied by loud screaming sent them flying or scampering away. It’s a wonder they didn’t die of fright.

  In the summer of 1961, my older sister was about to enter ninth grade and was tasked with the science assignment, common in that era, to collect bugs and return the first day of school with all species chloroformed, identified, and mounted on a cork-board. It was right up our alley. Being in the thick of Northwoods bug country, we knew she’d get an A even before she started.

  All of us eagerly enlisted to help. At first we thought it was great fun. It was easy to catch june bugs on the kitchen window screen as they buzzed toward the light, a dragonfly on the dock, or a daddy longlegs on the log wall. Armed with old mayonnaise jars, we’d sneak up on each doomed insect, snap down the jar, and slide the lid under.

  After watching it crawl around for a while, our mother would drop in the chloroform-soaked cotton ball, and the bug would meet its demise, soon to be displayed and identified on the mounting board. Although we didn’t like watching them die, we didn’t feel too bad either, as there were plenty more where those came from; after all, it was in the name of science.

  It wasn’t until we killed the luna moth that our hearts went out of the project like air out of a balloon.

  At night, we usually kept a light on over the garage door to guide us back to the cabin after an evening outing. If it was late enough, we sometimes discovered a scattering of ethereal moths gathered on the weathered wooden door, as though a midnight fairy with her own gossamer wings had painted them there in our absence.

  Resting on the lamp-warmed wood and lit by the overhead lightbulb were beautiful moths in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some were ivory, golden rosy, and dusky dark, and occasionally in their midst was the exquisite eyespotted polyphemus. The night the huge, lime-green luna moth appeared, we knew we’d hit pay dirt.

  Because of the lamp’s attractive light and warmth, it was easy to slip the mayonnaise jar neatly over the luna’s large long-tailed wings, scoop it up with the lid, and drop in the killer cotton ball. It was not so easy to watch such beauty die. Nor was it easy to stick a pin in its still, dried-out, perfectly preserved form and mount it in a straight line with all the other insects. Although my sister returned to the start of the school year with an A+ bug collection, one of the finest her teacher had ever seen, we never collected bugs again.

  Instead, we learned to love and watch them in their natural habitat. A dragonfly resting on a knee was a blessing; a daddy longlegs traversing an arm was fun and fascinating; a june bug thumping the kitchen window screen was cause for delight.

  But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a luna moth, watched a porcupine amble up a tree, smelled a skunk, or heard a wolf howl. Because of pollution, loss of habitat, overcollecting, hunting, and outright eradication, as with the wolf, much of the wildlife we observed in the Northwoods as children has either dwindled or disappeared. For a while, even the beloved loons and eagles went into an endangered tailspin. Thankfully, through the protection efforts of many, these two species are starting to increase in numbers.

  But for now, it’s the howl of the wolf that I miss the most. Its midnight music lent an aura of magnificence to the woods. Even as a child lying in my bed and listening to the wolves, I could sense that their song sprang from the ancient melody of creation, that somehow we are all connected on this earth. Most importantly, I understood that their harmony was something to be treasured and preserved.

  Amazingly, despite modern-day encroachment, near extinction, and the steady suburbanization of the Northwoods, the wolves are starting to make a comeback. Although I have not heard or seen them yet, others have.

  Perhaps one day in the not too distant future, when my little grandchild is dozing dreamily on the cabin porch and wakes to ask what that sound is, I will say, “Don’t worry. It’s only Willie the Wolf. He is calling his friends to come and play.”

  She will nod in understanding as their beautiful music lulls her back to sleep.

  In the meantime, I’m still listening for the chorus to begin.

  Loon Ranger

  We saw the eagle first, his white head and tail feathers backlit by the early morning light.

  Kayaking along the shore of a northern Wisconsin lake, we slowed our paddles and gazed at his regal majesty perched high in the feathery boughs of a tall pine.

  “There’s another one!” I whispered to my husband kayaking a short distance behind me. “He’s just a few branches down and to the left.”

  We couldn’t believe our luck. Although eagles are making a comeback from their daunting decline several decades ago, it is still a thrill to see one up close and personal in the wild. To see two together was like a gift from heaven.

  As we watched the eagles, they watched us, their eyes clearly focused on our progress as we drifted closer to their tree. Now we could see the alertness of their black eyes, the yellow of their beaks, the elegantly sculpted details of the brown feathers covering their powerful bodies.

  As we looked up into their faces and they looked down into ours, the space between us felt sacred. To be included in the eagles’ circle of sight, if only for a moment, was a rare and privileged gift, a shared spiritual connection to all God’s creation that was humbling.

  Then, just as we glided under their branches, the spell broke.

  First one eagle lifted off, his wings wide and wonderful, and then the second one took flight in a similar display of fanned feathers, the two beating a slow song into the blue sky.

  Suddenly, just when we thought the moment could not be more magical, a whoosh of wings fluttered from behind us and a third magnificent eagle flapped through the air just feet over our heads in close pursuit of the other two.

  As they flew off across the lake, we sat still, savoring the moment.

  But then, a sad, suspicious thought entered my mind. Why had the three eagles been together in such close proximity? Slowly, I turned and looked back at the shoreline.

  My heart dropped. There lay a loon, lifeless, its white belly still whole and pure against the rocks, its black-and-white wings rocking gently with the waves, its head and neck stretched out beneath the water. I wept.

  The previous night, while out on a sunset cruise on ou
r pontoon boat, we spotted a large, dark object bobbing in the water and motored over to investigate. My whole family gasped when we saw it was a loon floating face down in the lake, its wings spread-eagled.

  “Oh no!” I said. “It’s a dead loon!”

  In reverence, we admired its beautiful body, for once close enough to see the elegant detail of its black-and-white wings.

  “Let’s leave it alone,” I said. And mournfully we moved away to give dignity to its death.

  All of a sudden, to our surprise, the loon abruptly lifted up, its wings flapping in a desperate act to take flight over the water.

  “It’s alive!” we shouted.

  Like Peter Pan characters clapping at Tinker Bell’s revival, we watched in disbelief as the loon settled back on the water and appeared to dive under. With a hope and a prayer, we continued on our way.

  But it was not to be. The eagles confirmed my suspicion.

  For those who have never seen one, the loon is one of the most majestic symbols of pristine wilderness still remaining. From the uniqueness of its red eyes and the white ring around its neck to the checkerboard stripes of black-and-white feathers that cover its long, elegant body, the loon is fascinating to behold, especially when it dives underwater and pops up dozens of yards away. Those who have never heard its call have missed one of the most glorious sounds on earth. The haunting, laughing, yodeling music of a loon singing across a lake is not soon forgotten.

  Sigurd F. Olson, the great conservationist, described it best: “The loons were calling, I can hear them yet, echoes rolling back from the shores and from unknown lakes across the ridges until the dusk seemed alive with their music.”

  For the past three summers, I have been a Loon Ranger volunteer for the Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute’s LoonWatch program at Northland College in Ashland, Wisconsin. My job is to help monitor the loons’ spring arrival, their numbers, their nests, their chicks, and their fall departure.

  Because I am often out kayaking, sailing, or boating, it is an added delight to document my sightings. And because this is my first foray into the scientific field of observation and recording, I am fascinated by the patterns and the process.

  So as a lifelong lover of loons, my discovery of the dead loon brought not only a personal sadness but also the worst possible news to record in my annual report for this continually struggling species.

  According to LoonWatch, extensive research shows that direct anthropogenic factors (those caused by humans) lead to 52 percent of adult loon mortality, with ingested lead fishing sinkers and jigs being one of the primary factors. Drive-by boat collisions and lawn fertilizers that pollute the lakes also contribute to loon deaths. Much of the fishing tackle that is widely used today contains lead, which, when ingested by wildlife, causes nerve damage that atrophies neck muscles, causing loons and other waterfowl to drown. By all appearances, that is probably what happened to the loon we found.

  According to the Minnesota Office of Environmental Assistance, eagles are also at risk of lead poisoning due to the ingestion of lead shot found in big game and exposure to lead fishing tackle. The Raptor Center at the University of Minnesota, which has monitored injured bald eagles for lead contamination since 1980, reports that 23 percent of its injured eagles suffer from lead poisoning.

  I shuddered to think that the possible lead in the loon I found could also kill those three magnificent eagles—a quadruple wildlife homicide, so to speak. Even though the eagles had been there to feast on the loon, I felt honored to have witnessed them.

  In a spirit of gratitude, I rested my paddle on the bow of my kayak and paused to give thanks for the loon’s life of beautiful music and for the humans who help protect them. On eagles’ wings, I sent my prayer.

  Night Skies Beckon

  The night sang with a sacred rhythm. Not content to watch the lunar eclipse from behind my window, I threw a ski jacket over my old pink bathrobe, stepped into some serious snow boots, pulled a too-big ski cap over my head, and walked out into the frigid night air.

  A surprise of radiant splendor greeted me as the earth’s shadow slid slowly across the face of the moon. High in the eastern sky, a reddish cloak of darkness inched its way across the moon’s silver surface. To the south, Orion stood anchoring its domain with bold brilliance. And to the north, the handle of the Big Dipper trailed downward like leaves on a vine.

  Despite the subzero temperatures, the night sky filled me with warmth. Except for the lone bark of a distant dog, all was silent. Bare tree limbs silhouetted by moonlight reached upward, as though seeking an otherworldly embrace. The night was magical.

  And finally, like a slow-moving game of tag, the earth’s shadow fully covered its celestial friend. As the last of its silver edge disappeared, the moon transformed into shades of burnished orange and hung like a smoldering coal against the blackness of the night.

  It seemed as though a sense of eternal time permeated the darkness, as though all those across the centuries who had ever gazed skyward were linked arm and arm by the glow of that lunar light.

  And just when I thought the night sky couldn’t get more beautiful, a shooting star burst out of the darkness right next to the moon, its long tail glimmering like a ribbon of fiery sparks.

  Eventually, the cold won over and, with a last look up, I slowly made my way back inside.

  Although the gift of such a theatrical night is rare, I have long been entertained by the heavens. On family vacations in northern Wisconsin, my parents would frequently lead me and my four siblings down to the dock to witness the Milky Way’s river of stars and to teach us the names of the constellations. Orion, Cassiopeia, the Big and Little Dipper, the Seven Sisters, and Cygnus all became our night friends.

  And if the evening yielded the blazing flights of shooting stars or the eerie upward flicker of green-glowing Northern Lights, we felt we were as near to heaven as earthlings could be.

  Scouting merit badges and fifth-grade science further propelled my interest in the stars. I can still vividly recall running around a dark field with my classmates while waiting to look through the telescopes that would show us the moon’s face and the rings of Saturn. One look through the scope and the universe had me hooked.

  As a young girl, I was amazed to learn that ancient sailors navigated across the dark oceans with only the stars to guide them. And as I learned to know the sky myself, I understood why those early civilizations, the Native Americans, and the pioneers heading west all looked up to the stars and saw stories, how the brilliance of the night sky fueled their imaginations with poetry.

  An appreciation of the night sky is a wonderful lifelong gift to a child. I hope that I have passed a love of the stars on to my children and that they will do the same for theirs.

  Nowadays, people rarely look up at the night sky. Understandably, busy schedules, multiple responsibilities, and just plain fatigue get in the way. Light pollution that hazes over the heavens does not help either.

  However, an annual global event called Earth Hour, when people switch off their lights for one hour on an appointed night, is taking hold. Its mission is not only to remind us of the impact of our carbon imprint on the earth but also to enable the satellites, space stations, and astronauts to witness and record the return of the earth to its natural state of darkness.

  For those of us below, Earth Hour is a wonderful opportunity to look up and enjoy the beauty of the night skies without light pollution. Imagine the possibilities, especially for a child: a chance to spot the constellations, to create a story based on the stars, to discuss the phases of the moon, to pretend to be a sailor on the seas, to learn not to be afraid of the dark, or perhaps most importantly, to just sit quietly in the silence of the night.

  Maybe the passage from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice says it best:

  How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

  Here we will sit and let the sounds of music

  Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night


  Become the touches of sweet harmony.

  And maybe, by turning off the lights on any given evening, we too may awaken a new harmony with heaven’s radiance. All we’ll have to do is look up.

  Listening for Wolves

  I have been listening a long time. Over half a century to be exact. Listening decade after decade for that eerie, lonesome howl to pierce the forest. Waiting year after year with an ear turned toward the pine-studded wetlands for that magical music to rise up once more. Longing, summer after summer, for that soulful song of my youth.

  Listening!

  Listening in the glistening moonlight, listening at dawn’s golden arrival, listening in my aging heart for the voice of the wolf to sing again.

  “The call of the wild,” as Jack London so aptly described the wolf’s wail, has haunted me ever since I first heard wolves back in the 1950s. As children summering at our family’s cabin in northern Wisconsin, my siblings and I often heard their howls as they roamed the nearby tamarack wetlands ringing the north bay of our lake.

  “It’s only Willie the Wolf,” our father would assure the five of us. “He is calling his friends for a midnight rendezvous.”

  We were thrilled, mesmerized, and of course, a little scared.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he assured us. “Wolves won’t attack humans. They are only curious about you. Why, I even came face to face with a big gray wolf on a snowy winter walk up here when I was just a kid back in the 1920s.”

  “What did you do?” we asked in suspense.

  “I stared at him and he stared at me, and then we both took off running in opposite directions! I don’t know who was more surprised.”

  And so, despite the fearsome fairy tales that were fed to so many of us in our youth, the wolves never frightened us. Calling to a friend in the wilderness, howling at the beauty of the full moon on a starry night, and roaming through a winter woods all made complete sense to us.