The haunting call of a loon echoes across the lake outside our cabin. To me, no sound says "summer up north" quite like a loon.

"Sunnie, let's go," I whisper to our puppy as we head for the dock.

The loon calls again. Both adults drift lazily across our small lake. One suddenly dives. When it surfaces, it swims toward a tiny black chick. Their beaks touch, and the adult passes a small fish to its youngster before disappearing beneath the water.

Summers are meant for moments like these.

A light breeze stirs the leaves of the aspens overhead. Their gentle rustling reminds me of naturalist Marion Moran, who once encouraged me to cup my ear against the trunk of a tree.

"You can hear it talking to you," she said. "Nature is always speaking. We just have to listen."

Skeptical, I tried it. A surprisingly loud rushing sound filled my ear, almost like listening through a stethoscope. I’ve never forgotten that moment.

Soon, my husband starts the boat motor and heads out perch fishing with a friend. I decide a kayak suits my mood better. The quiet dip of my paddle is far more peaceful than the drone of an engine. Sunnie sits proudly in the bow as we hug the shoreline, searching for turtles and fish while giving the loon family plenty of space.

Across the lake, children's laughter drifts over the water. I wonder if they're building a secret fort like the ones I loved as a child. Grapevines formed the roof. Soft clumps of moss became the carpet. Or perhaps they're bracing themselves for a refreshing swim or catching frogs as our children loved to do.

Every season has its soundtrack.

Then the music changes.

The loon’s haunting yodel gives way to an urgent tremolo—a laughing, quavering alarm call. Explosive splashing shatters the quiet. I look.

One adult suddenly begins wing rowing, churning the surface with its powerful feet while thrashing its wings. Suddenly, the beautiful bird looks enormous and intimidating. Then the second adult joins in, adding a tremolo alarm call. 

Worried the adults are wasting precious energy trying to drive us away, I dig my paddle even deeper.

The kayak lurches.

Splash!

Sunnie tumbles into the lake.

She's been in the water before, but never this far from shore. She paddles frantically while I struggle to steady the kayak. Once. Twice. I miss her collar. On the third try, I grab hold and haul one very wet puppy back aboard.

We continue putting distance between ourselves and the loon family.

When I finally glance back, I see only the two adults. They're much farther from where we'd first seen them, and the lake has gone quiet.

Where's the chick?

Seconds later, one of the loons dives. When it resurfaces, it swims directly toward a tiny black shape floating alone. Their beaks touch. The chick had never been abandoned.

Then, from across the lake, the second loon calls.

This time, the call sounds different. It no longer sounds lonely or haunting. It sounds reassuring.

The family is together again.

I rest my paddle across the kayak and simply listen.

Years from now, I’ll probably forget many of the day’s details.

But I’ll remember the sounds.

Children's laughter.

Aspen leaves whispering overhead.

The splash of a puppy unexpectedly falling overboard.

And the haunting call of a loon echoing across a Wisconsin lake.

Marion was right. Nature is always speaking. We just have to listen.