Madeleine “Maddy” Adams is a 2024 intern at the Adirondack Center for Loon Conservation and a 2022 graduate of St. Mary’s College of Maryland with a bachelor’s degree in environmental science and anthropology. Her position is funded through a grant with the US Fish and Wildlife Service on behalf of the Bouchard Barge 120 Buzzards Bay Oil Spill Trustees and in partnership with SUNY ESF Adirondack Ecological Center. Maddy’s roles with ACLC this summer include conducting field research, participating in educational outreach events, and working on the Lead Tackle Buy Back Program. You can read more about Maddy’s goals and background in our 5 Questions With Our 2024 Interns blog post.

If you hear a sound often enough it can enter into your subconscious. The sound can echo in your mind, tricking you into believing that you are still hearing it. That sensation has been familiar to me for the past few weeks, as I have been hearing the low, melodious call of the common loon in all my waking hours and even in my sleep. I am having one of these pleasant dreams, with musical accompaniment by the loons, when the sound transitions into an infinitely more grating sound: my alarm clock.

Excitement quickly replaces the dread of leaving my warm bed. As I begin to prepare for a day in the field, I hear Britta - my partner in looning and my bunkmate - stirring quietly. Even though I know her alarm will ring in five minutes, I also know she would somehow be ready and out the door before I have even put my shoes on.

The SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry (ESF) remote campus in Newcomb, New York, is the premier spot for young adults who love working outside. Britta and I share a bunk with six others who are also passionate about the natural world. While each of us has a different job, I believe that spending my days on picturesque Adirondack lakes watching majestic waterbirds takes the cake for best position. The rest of Cabin 1A rises from their slumber, and together we make the short trek down a dirt path to the Rich Lake Dining Center, also known as the Wifi Zone. While we may choose to spend our days in remote wilderness doing research, we are of the internet generation, and thus each member of our little band spends at least an hour each day silently scrolling in the only spot with reliable connection.

Chef Gary greets us with his usual gruffness. “You all know the drill,” he says. “Pancakes, eggs, bacon, blah blah blah, let's go so you all can get on with your day.”

No one argues with that as we all scramble to get in line. It's surprising how well you eat when the chef is a retired professional who prides himself on showing off his years of skill. So far I have not had a bad meal, which is something few people living at a field station can say. 

On this day the trail crew is off to chainsaw some downed trees on Goodnow Mountain. The wildlife crew is doing tick surveys and vegetation plots. But the loon crew? We’re off to Elk Lake to try to find a nest. 

The Elk Lake nest has been a white whale for Britta and I. In all of our multiple visits, we have never actually laid eyes on it. We have seen many loons swimming on the lake, and have even found empty nest rafts, but despite our best efforts, we cannot seem to find that mysterious nest. We’re beginning to think that we’ve been sent on a wild goose chase (or a wild loon chase?).

After a hearty meal, the day truly begins with a 45-minute drive to the lake. Anyone who has spent time in the Adirondacks knows that everything is a long drive away, but I hail from the DC area in Maryland, where everything is a hop, skip, and a jump off of I-270. Finding out that I would have to drive at least an hour to find a Walgreens was shocking at first, but then I drove along the mountainous and winding roads and forgot about the miles. When every drive is lined with pine, birch, and Balsam fir, time falls away into the background, and I get lost looking at the peaks and hills above me. 

Eventually I turned down the long dirt road that leads to the Elk Lake lodge. Usually, Britta and I pack up our kayaks and paddles into our individual cars and drive separately, but at  Elk Lake we are not allowed to use our own boats for fear of bringing invasive species into the waters. This means that we can drive together, and our drives are spent in comfortable silence listening to the radio. 

Now, it should be noted that Britta and I make our own schedule. This allows us to pick the best weather days for going out on the lakes to observe loons, and spend the bad weather days inside doing office work. On this particular day, the weather is looking moderate at best. Light rain and wind, with temperatures at a high of 60. For two southerners such as ourselves (Britta is from Tennessee), this weather is borderline freezing. But we are determined to make the most of the day and find this damn nest. 

We haul our borrowed kayaks onto the beach and gather our materials: kayaks, paddles, PFDs, binoculars, waterproof notebooks, lake map, water bottles, raincoats. As we prepare, I look out onto the water.

“Hey Britta,” I say, “The water is getting kind of choppy.” 

Britta, ever the optimist, follows my eye-line. “It’s probably fine,” she says, continuing to push out her kayak. “We can do it.” 

Not being one to back out of a plan just because of a little wind, I tighten my PFD and stepped into the frigid water. Getting into a kayak on wavy water without slipping and tumbling cartoon-style is still something I’m trying to master, so it's good that the Elk Lake Lodge is devoid of people on this less -than-ideal day. Following Britta, I push my boat off shore and began to paddle. 

It becomes evident almost immediately that the water is going to be rough. The waves are rolling with a steady rhythm that seems to be designed to throw my boat off balance. The wind is firm in my face and pushes against my paddle at every stroke. I can see the frothing white caps that threaten to go into the cockpit of my kayak. I distantly recall the first training that Britta and I did with the Adirondack Center for Loon Conservation (ACLC), when it had begun to pour on all of us while we were in the middle of the lake. I also recalled my four years on a varsity rowing team, where conditions like this would make rowing an eight-oared shell  grueling and downright miserable. In that moment, the voice of my old coach and the voice of Griffin, ACLC’s research biologist, combine in my mind to say the same thing: “Don’t go out on the water when it's too windy. It’s not worth it and it can be dangerous.”

Well. Too late for that now. 

I spend every ounce of my energy moving my kayak forward. I know that if I stop paddling for even a moment, my boat will be carried by the wind farther from my destination. On a calmer day, I would be leisurely paddling along, looking out for any loons I can see swimming near me. Today, I am more focused on getting the boat to move in a straight line. After what feels like hours of fighting the wind and the water, we make it into Loon Bay. We have been told by Mike, the general manager of the lodge, that the nest is near an empty nest raft in this bay. We make it into the relatively protected bay, and the wind seems to calm down as we search for the empty nest raft. Off to the northern section of the bay, the raft bobs gently along, held in place by the four cinder blocks anchoring it to the lake bottom. Britta and I stop paddling and look at the raft for a minute, as if processing where to look next. I paddle my kayak next to a small grassy island, no more than four feet long, and look around the shoreline in front of me.

“Well,” I say, “There's the nest raft, but where’s the nest?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of black and white movement to my left. I swivel around to see an adult loon clambering without its usual grace onto the island next to me, not even a boat length away. “Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to be so close to you, friend,” I say as I hurriedly grab my paddle to try to move away, as if the loon can understand and forgive me .  We had been told by our supervisors to not get too close to the loons so as to not scare them or drive them from their nests.

“Wait,” I think, “could this be the nest?”

I paddle my boat around the island, keeping my eyes trained on the loon as I make a wide arc. As I move slowly but surely around, I see what I have been looking for – the loon, sitting up on its legs, tucking its long neck down and using its bill to gently rotate its egg, and then carefully settle down on top. I stop paddling and watch in awe. Such a seemingly simple movement, but I watch on in enraptured silence as if I am witnessing a miracle of nature.

Loons are a long-lived species, living 30 - 40 years, and they only start having chicks around age six. They only have one or two eggs at a time, and nearly half of those chicks don’t survive their first year. Each loon egg is precious, rare, and worthy of admiration. This singular loon, without knowing it, is contributing to the survival of its species in the simple action of taking care of its egg. It's unknown what the future holds for this loon, its mate, and its chick, but for now, we are honored with the opportunity to watch life unfold. 

Britta and I watch the nest long enough to forget about our soaking clothes and chilly hands. Eventually, wordlessly, we turn our kayaks around and began the slow process of paddling back to shore. The return journey is harder, as the wind has once again decided to turn and push against us, but I am too giddy from my observation to care. Like the long drive though the mountains, the beauty of my surroundings lets the monotonous paddling motions fall away. 

As I paddle, I reflect on how I got to this point. I knew I wanted to do field work as a teenager, when I had the opportunity to participate in a citizen science trip through the Grand Canyon. I remember the hot, dry winds that would sting my skin like I was sitting in a furnace, and the sharp pain of cactus spines pressing into my legs. But more than that, I remember the joy I felt the first time I held an endangered humpback chub in my hands, and the purpose that I felt with it.

While the Adirondack mountains of New York and the deserts and canyons of Arizona  could not  be more different, the same idea of field work applies to both. Field work is hard. It’s physically and mentally demanding, and will make you push yourself endlessly to reach a goal. But the majesty of nature blinds you to all of it. Knowing that each observation and measurement you take is worth something, that it will all contribute to the conservation of a land and species, makes every aching muscle and freezing appendage worth it. 

Madeleine “Maddy” Adams, 2024 ACLC Intern

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