THE CALL OF the loon, the great bird known as Mong in Ojibway, is heard throughout Ojibway territory. That call is so piercing and strong that in the Ojibway clan system, the Loon Clan carries the responsibility for chieftainship. Some people say that the loon is also a symbol of communication and of family. When you see a female loon on the water in the spring and early summer, with her babies on her back as she swims, you can easily see why.
The loon’s call is haunting and wild, an ancient trill that’s part honour song and part warning. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t fall quiet upon hearing it. We’re all susceptible to that common magic.
There is a traditional story about a man who had grown very old. He had lost his vision, which meant he could no longer hunt or fish to take care of his family. This knowledge made him sad. The man sat at the edge of the water one day, shedding tears. The ripples they created attracted a loon, who swam close to shore to investigate.
“Why are you crying?” the loon asked the old man.
“Oh, great loon,” the old man said. “Your red eyes are bright, and you can dive to find fish in the depths of the water. My eyes have grown dim, and my family is hungry. That is why I’m crying.”
“Take hold of my wings,” the loon said to the old man. “Hold very tight, and I will dive to the deepest part of the lake, where the water is purest. When we surface, you will be able to see again.”
The old man grasped the loon’s wings tightly, and the bird dove. Down and down she swam, to where the water was very cold and dark. The old man thought his lungs would burst. But he held on tight, as the loon had told him to do. Eventually the loon crested the surface, and the old man found he could make out the blurred outlines of trees and rock. They dove again. The old man was tired. His grasp loosened, and he was afraid he would slip off the loon’s back and drown. But he held fast, and the next time they broke the surface he could see clearly.
The man was overjoyed. He hugged the loon and cried tears of gratitude. “I am so grateful,” he said. “I will make you a gift of my most prized possession.”
The man was wearing a necklace of sacred white shells. He removed it, then placed it around the loon’s neck. In those times, the loon’s feathers were pure black. Every-where the shells touched her, though, her feathers turned white. Through her compassion for the old man, the loon got the white necklace and the white pattern on her back we see today.
Shortly after I had reconnected with my Native family, I stood in the darkness one evening on a northern beach with my uncle Archie. Arch had been a bushman all his life. He’d worked along Winnipeg River as a fishing guide, hunting guide and trapper. It was midsummer, and the sky was clear, filled with a million stars. As we watched for meteors, Arch told me how the constellations were named for the animals the Ojibway saw on their journeys. Then we heard a loon call. The sound wobbled out of the darkness and died out in echoes across the water. After a long silence, the call came again.
My uncle cupped his hands and blew into them. I’d never heard anyone do a pitch-perfect loon call before, and in a few seconds the loon responded from across the water. Arch cupped his hands again and blew another series of trills and dips. Again, the loon responded.
As they called back and forth, the loon drew closer to us. We could hear the bird approaching. I waited to see if my uncle would call the loon right to the beach, but he stopped suddenly and put hands in his pockets. There was silence then, as thick as the night. I imagined the loon swimming away in the darkness. I could see the outline of my uncle, his face tilted up towards the sky.
When I asked him why he’d stopped calling, he took his time answering. He sat down on the beach, and I sat down beside him. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. “The loon calls to remind us that everything is alive,” he said. “A loon’s call reminds us to look outside ourselves, at the air, the land, the water, and brings us back into the natural order of things. There’s no need to see the teacher. We only need to feel the teaching.”
People pay big money trying to get to the heart of Native traditions. There are hucksters and sham artists everywhere adorned with Aboriginal motifs. The truth, though, is that the teachings are available to everyone. All we need to do is pay attention, and be open to them when they arrive. Next time you hear a loon, remember that.