I set my old canoe down onto the water. Let’s check: a bottle of water, binoculars, map and pencil in a Zip-lock bag, my paddle. I’m wearing my flotation vest. I push off onto the misty pond. Once again, I’m off to count loons.

I’ve been doing this for almost thirty years. The Audubon Society holds its annual loon count on a Saturday morning in mid-July, to tally the number of adults and chicks on Maine’s lakes and ponds. It’s gratifying to learn that, despite adverse pressures, Maine’s loons are holding their own. Years ago we used to count loons in February, when loons are wintering on salt water. My assigned range was Belfast harbor to Lincolnville Beach, which I’d paddle in this same canoe, but with considerably more clothing.

The sun is barely up, and the surface of the pond is so misty that I can’t see more than a hundred yards along its surface. I’m hoping the sun will cut the mist enough by 7 a.m. that I can see loons. We’re required to count only for a half-hour, from 7 to 7:30. Audubon wants a snapshot, not a movie with a changing cast of characters.

There’s a loon call! That eerie chortle sends a shiver down the spine of everyone who loves wild places. I don’t know of any call more evocative of wilderness, except perhaps for the howling of wolves, and alas, I’ve never heard wolves in Maine. To hear a loon’s call while drifting on a moonlit pond is to be present at the Mystery.

Loons are special birds. Beautifully adapted for life on the water, they are clumsy in flight and unable to walk on land. Their bodies are heavy, their bones are solid, and their legs are set so far aft that all they can manage on land is to shove themselves forward on their breast. And getting aloft is a big production. They can’t just spring into the air like a grouse. When I was a child in Ontario, while trolling for Kamloops trout on a morning such as this, I watched a loon run on the surface of the lake, three broad circles flapping around my canoe before it got up enough speed to get airborne. But with mask and snorkel, I’ve seen them streak underwater to catch fish, swift as an arrow.

They’re shy birds, and are easily discouraged from nesting by the presence of humans. And we, understandably, love to build camps and year-round homes on Maine’s lovely lakes and ponds, their only habitat. We love our powerboats and jet-skis, which terrify them and swamp their nests. Our cars and power plants send acid rain and mercury into their water. All this on top of the natural predators, the marsh hawks, minks and snapping turtles, among many others, that nab their babies from above and below. It’s a miracle that they survive at all.

Here are some bottles floating in the pond. A bottle of cheap coffee-flavored brandy, two 40-ounce bottles of Old Milwaukee, and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. What kind of people come all the way out here to a pristine pond like this and then dump their garbage? It seems so boorishly contemptuous to me, so profane,like farting loudly in a cathedral. But alcohol has always played a prominent role in Maine’s outdoor history, as witnessed by the many ponds named for booze: Rum Pond, Whisky Pond, several Toddy Ponds. I stash the empties behind my seat, where they won’t roll around.

Another call, and a reply, out in the mist. It’s a pair engaging in their fishing duet. One says “I’ve found fish,” and its mate answers “I hear you.” I paddle towards the calls.

There they are! A pair of adults, and yes: one, two, three chicks, little gray balls of fluff in the wake of one of the parents. I feather my paddle, altering my course gently away from them, and watch. They all appear healthy and well-fed, a picture-perfect loon family. And I left my camera in the truck.

They don’t appear threatened by my presence, but both adults are keeping an eye on me. They’re understandably more wary when they’ve got chicks in tow. Sometimes adults will carry chicks on their backs to protect them from predators, particularly from snapping turtles lurking below. A full-grown loon is a formidable bird, large and powerful, and any predator would think twice before menacing one. A muscular peck at the base of the skull would be fatal. But a chick is a helpless morsel.

I watch them until I see another adult flying swiftly along the treetops on the other side of the pond, and then make its ungainly loon splashdown, sending big concentric rings along the surface. I paddle towards the newcomer, to see if perhaps there’s another pair. There doesn’t seem to be. This would appear to be a solitary juvenile who’s come home to live with mom and dad. I’ve got one of those at home myself. I note its splashdown spot on my map.

I’ve been watching loons for over half a century, and it never gets old. I’m certainly not alone in this, as witnessed by all the other certifiable loonatics who got up early this morning to count in other ponds all over the state, and all the loon images that we see on T-shirts and license plates. To be sure, they’re handsome birds, but there’s more than beauty at work here. Loons are magical creatures. There’s something about them that stirs the spirit, that gives us a glimpse of the ineffable, that makes me profoundly grateful to be alive on a summer morning such as this, watching them. There’s love, there’s art, there’s poetry, there’s music, there are loons. I whisper thanks.