For the birds

ON SQUAM LAKE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE -- The water in late summer is as smooth and clear as glass. In the boat all is quiet, almost reverential. Harry Vogel sees something and raises his binoculars. "There they are," he says, with a mixture of awe and triumph. In the distance, five loons meet in a kind of kaffeeklatsch and begin a synchronized performance of head-dipping, wing-rowing, and diving.

The boat captain idles the engine, and the small audience watches the birds silently, hoping to hear their unique call that has inspired poets and writers from time immemorial. Vogel switches from binoculars to camera. "They're doing the foot-waggle," he says excitedly.

Loons are his passion and his paycheck. As senior biologist and executive director of New Hampshire's Loon Preservation Committee, Vogel is in charge of all things loon in the state: mainly their survival and well-being. He works out of the Loon Center in Moultonborough, where you'll find a map on the wall with push-pins marking every loon concentration in the state -- that he knows about. At the moment, there are around 200 territorial pairs and another 100 single birds. But the loon folks are worried, because the population of the threatened bird has declined this year.

At the center, manager Rachel Williams, who wears silver loon earrings, picks up an X-ray that clearly shows a lead fishing sinker in the gizzard of a dead loon. "This bird we picked up a few weeks ago," she says.

Williams, who has worked there for five years, matches Vogel in her passion for the striking black and white birds. "They're just so magical," she says. "If you have the privilege of living on the lake and sleeping with the windows open, you can wake up at 3 a.m. to a symphony of loons. And when you see them in the water, they're just surreal. The sun will come in on their heads, and they're just iridescent -- their greens, their red eyes. It just kind of adds to the magic.

"I'm getting chills thinking about them."

All over the nearby lakes -- Squam and Winnipesaukee -- live such loon people. In fact, Vogel says, Squam Lake is the most intensely studied and managed loon population in the world. In the early 1970s, lake residents began to monitor their loons, and in 1975 they formed the Loon Preservation Committee. Historically the lake has had a high loon population, but in 2005 there was a drastic decline and the numbers haven't recovered.

Vogel believes that more people -- and the establishment of eagles on the lake -- contribute to the lower breeding success of Squam's loons. There could also be an environmental hazard or bacteria in the lake, he says, which could explain the deaths of adult loons; autopsies are pending. "It's a statewide problem, and there's nothing we can really put our finger on. It's been a poor year with no real obvious cause."

What is it about the birds that makes even grown people emotional?

"They have an appeal to more than just hardcore bird-watchers, and therein lies their power," says Vogel, who has been at the job for a decade. "I think it's their striking black and white plumage, their blood-red eyes, and their distinctive and far-ranging calls. They're wild spirits and charismatic unlike any other bird." Scientists believe that loons are among the most primitive of birds, dating back more than 20 million years.

Joe Kabat is at the helm of his 18-foot bow rider, a loon flag flying from its prow. On the previous Saturday, lake residents throughout the state were asked to participate in a loon census, so out they headed in their canoes and kayaks, marking the numbers and locations of loons. Kabat, who summers on Squam and is on the board of directors of the Loon Preservation Committee, is concerned about the loon loss on his lake.

"I was horrified," says Kabat, 71. "There should be at least 60 adults and 10 babies."

In 2005, the committee recorded a decline on Squam Lake, from 16 pairs the previous year to nine pairs. Such a single-year decline, says Vogel, is unprecedented on Squam or any other large lake in the committee's 31 years of monitoring loons.

The number of loon pairs on Squam has increased this year to 13, but the number of singles has dropped by 14. There is a single chick. On Winnipesaukee, which is five times larger than Squam, preliminary counts from last month's census also show a slight decline.

Dead birds and the eggs that didn't hatch this year were sent off to the veterinary school at Tufts University for analysis. The birds' worst enemy is the lead sinkers they swallow, followed by mercury poisoning, power boats, and jet skis. New Hampshire was the first state in the country to outlaw the sale and use of smaller sinkers and jigs, but the loons still swallow the larger ones.

The high mortality rate, coupled with a low fertility rate, threatens the birds' viability. "The key to keeping the population viable is keeping the adult population alive," says Vogel.

His committee has called on volunteers to help in the effort, and they have responded, from the woman in her kayak yelling at other boaters to stay the required 150 feet away to people like Kabat who build and install warning signs near nests and build floating platforms for the birds.

Then there's Wendy Van de Poll, who swam 7 miles for her beloved loons. Van de Poll, who lives in Center Sandwich, N.H., wanted to do something about the declining loons on Squam Lake. The former conservation biologist offered to do a fund-raising swim across the lake. She did the 7 miles in 5 1/2 hours, stopping only to grab a periodic drink from her husband, who was following her in a canoe. She raised $9,000 for the Loon Preservation Committee. This year, she put together a relay team: Nine of them swam the distance and raised $22,000.

"I swim in Squam every day, and last year I had a loon near me on every swim I did," says Van de Poll, 52. "But this year, we haven't had many." Last year, during her solo swim, she wasn't alone in the water. A loon, swimming in the bay where she started, followed her the entire route.

Kabat is another hard-core volunteer. Several nights this summer, he went out in his boat with biologists and veterinary students to "band" loons. They stun them with flood lights, throw a net over them, and cradle them in a towel. "From there, it gets fun," he says. "That beak can be nasty." They draw feathers and blood to test for contaminants and place a plastic band on the leg for monitoring.

On a recent bright day, he steers his boat across the rocky lake, looking for loons. He passes Perch Island, which has a single house. Each season, the owners will not occupy their house until the loon chicks there have hatched. "Now these are people who love loons," says Kabat.

He should know. He's wearing a loon T-shirt, and his lake cabin is Loon Central: a loon throw on the sofa, loon trays, towels, and trash can, loon pot holders, a loon lamp, and light switch. The clock in the kitchen has a loon on its face. There are framed loon photos everywhere, and a magazine called Loon Magic.

His boat approaches a small, cordoned-off basin where a floating sign says: "Loon Nesting Sanctuary. Please stay away." Kabat made the sign, built the platform for the nest, covered it with grass, and strung empty gallon milk jugs to keep people away during the nesting season.

Not far past the house made famous by the film "On Golden Pond," Kabat spots a pair of loons. "There should be a chick," he exclaims.

And there it is, paddling around by itself near the shore.

The excitement in the boat is palpable, but Kabat steers away as the male loon emits a strangled cry. Roughly translated: Get the heck away from my baby. A few days later, Vogel reports that the chick has died. No one knows why. But they're trying to find out.

A loon photographic exhibit and talk will be held at 7:30 p.m. Thursday at The Loon Center in Moultonborough, N.H. Director Harry Vogel will discuss the results of this season's monitoring on the New Hampshire lakes.