It is dawn. My wife and I are out for an early morning canoe paddle on Little Joe Lake in Algonquin Provincial Park in Southeast Ontario. We spot a lone male loon, his black head and Javelin-like bill are barely visible at first light. Softly we paddle abreast of it for a few minutes. The slight forward motion of its head reveals a smouldering eye. Nearing the water's edge he stops, turns toward shore, turns again and starts toward the canoe. We are surprised to see him being closely followed by a female and their two-week old off-spring. The two had been concealed by dark vegetation at the edge of the lake where they were nesting.

The family's path took them across our bow. The male's sturdy black neck and breast have white sections. On that white are delicate black lines that criss-cross and swirl outward in a horizontal pattern that in the dim light look like an exotic tattoo. The trio glides toward the centre of the lake. As they are about to disappear in to the darkness the male stops, partially spreads its wings while rearing out of the water and gives an eerie call.

The same morning word spreads among the people staying at the lodge that a baby, while sitting on its mother's back, had died while she dove. They said the loons' wailing cries had sounded across the lake. I was skeptical. We had been out on the lake at that time and had heard nothing. I settled into a chair on the wooden deck of our cottage at the edge of the lake not too far from the loons nesting site and gazed out at the lake. On the far end appeared a lone loon silhouette. It was followed by another which was smaller than the first. The second silhouette was a baby loon. Far ahead of them was the father. Their eerie sound echoed across the lake as if to announce their return from the rumoured dead. They stopped within 35 yards of deck near the spot where we first saw them earlier that morning.

When we initially saw the loon family nesting on the lake I had remembered that they often hunted on salt water but nested on fresh water. The question of what they ate had dimly crossed my mind. Now it was about to be answered in vivid detail.

In my scope the chick was a fuzz ball of light and medium brown. Next to it patiently sat the mother. Suddenly breaking the metallic blue surface of the water was the distant dad. A red eye now glowed in the sunlight which had broken through. Then it stared. The adult pair dove in what seemed like choreographed ballet of glistening blacks and brilliant whites. Their necks bent and their bodies disappeared beneath the water. Sometimes they dove singly, sometime simultaneously and yet other times within a second of each other. They reappeared with the same timing never remaining below the surface more than 35 seconds. Their heads seemed to be made of solid black waterproof rubber. As they broke the water's surface an occasional thin sheet of water could be seen to shear off. Most of the time they appeared to be dry. The chick sometimes stuck its head under the water when the adults dove but it was unable to fully submerge itself.

As the adults surfaced, small wriggling silver fish gleamed in their bills. They swam to the fledgling and transferred the fish to its small yet undeveloped brown bill. The transfers were done so quickly I could barely see the fish go from bill to bill. Once the fledgling seemed to give a little shiver as a fish disappeared into its fuzzy body. Almost all of the transfers were made above the water but a few times were made just below the water.

The feeding came to an end when both adults swam near the youngster but no longer dove. Soon the male swam slowly away leaving mother and baby near the side of the lake where we first saw them at dawn. Within a period of some 18 minutes the fledgling had consumed 16 silver fish - about a quarter to a half pound of protein providing fuel and adding muscle for the long migration only weeks away. It was now noon. This morning had been the longest and best birding morning of the summer. I wondered if there might be fish for lunch.

We found a small particle of an island on Little Doe Lake. It is a designated campsite which meant that someone had cleared a few trees, that another someone had fashioned two good sized logs for seats, and above anything, it had a terrific view. Unpacking the rest of our lunch, we greedily ate everything up - two sandwiches each, wrappers full of wonderful European cheeses, crunchy carrots and celery stalks, more cookies and apples and oranges. Two bottles of Arowhon Pines' own spring water filled the bottom of the bag. After lunch, feeling very full, but not so guilty, I found a shady spot amidst softened pine needles, and was soon fast asleep and dreaming. A good hour later, I awakened to find the 1 PM sun making sparkling sensations on the water. I couldn't help but feel like a child when I splashed in the water, floated on my back, and yelled at my friend to "come on in!" I had found paradise.

The thought of the up and coming mile long portage brought me back to reality as I started to pack up all our belongings. Remembering to leave the campsite cleaner than I found it (an old camp tradition), I meticulously picked up all the garbage and wrappings and stuffed them into my rucksack. I was happy to find that the people who had come before us hadn't left a thing behind either!

I was suddenly struck by the fact that up until now we had only seen two other groups of canoeists on the lakes. One was a couple who were "tripping" into the interior for about 5 days. The other group was a couple from Toronto also staying at Arowhon Pines - who had decided to do the same canoe route as us - but backwards. Well they had certainly survived! I was feeling a bit better.

We rechecked our map to pinpoint the portage entrance and as we approached it, we could hear the rush of the rapids over the Burnt Island Dam. Before the long haul we walked a few steps to see how really awful this was going to be and ended up sitting on some rocks along a beautiful crooked shore line, our feet dangling in the water. Some chipmunks came close enough for us to capture them with our cameras. With renewed energy and enthusiasm we retraced our steps, flung our sacks on our backs (a lot lighter now, after lunch!), and in one fale swoop, we tipped the canoe onto our shoulders. Before we knew it, 30 minutes later, we were on the other side of the dam and feeling mighty fine.

The vista changes dramatically here, from open blue lake to small shallow waterways, where for the most part, the current leads you in the correct direction. The water was so shallow at some spots that we had to walk in stony waters with our canoe. Often in the canoe, you had to move out of the way or you would be smacked by the dense overhang of branches and bush. Tiny fish swam in the deeper pools. To dip your hands over the side of the canoe and feel this fresh cool water was indescribable. We passed many old tree stumps and kept a close eye out for beaver and otters playing along the shore line.

When finally we reached Little Joe Lake again and could see the bright red roofs of the Arowhon Pines dining room in the distance, we felt overwhelmed not only by a sense of physical accomplishment and strength, but by how truly magical the wilderness of Algonquin is.

In a half hours time, we had pulled our canoe up on the Arowhon shore. Later, after a wonderful hot bath, and a glass of wine in hand, we pondered the day, not talking much and wondering what was for dinner.

Thank you to Michael Givant from Woodbury, NY, who was an Arowhon Pines guest in July 1999.