CHAPTER 1
“In every fiber of my being, I felt the urge to travel and be one with nature. And at last, my journey began! I did not dread this strange new world filled with mystery and adventure—I yearned for it; I welcomed it.” — Cecilia Richardson, Tales from the Trail
My first Monday of summer vacation was a total fail. It did not include sleeping in, biking around town, and a Dilly’s double-scoop ice cream cone but instead, involved a smelly trash pickup of cantaloupe peels and leftover hamburgers.
Uncle JuJu chugged along the campground path driving our rusty 1992 Ford truck as I stood in the open bed hanging on to the warped wooden rails. He came to a stop, and I jumped down at the next campsite, grabbed two bags of trash, and threw the stinky clumps high up into the back of the truck. It shuddered from the new weight, already straining with the refuse of summer campers.
I climbed back in the truck and rearranged the bags, so they fit snugly. We didn’t need them flying out of this rust-bucket as we cruised down Route 3 to turn into the dump, right before the sign: You Are Now Leaving Nikuwoss, Maine. Pop. 1,953.
“Onward ho, Sarah?” JuJu asked, peering out of the truck cab. His round face was cheery as usual, his speckled moustache twitching while black flies danced along his white hair.
I batted away the beastly bugs that cursed Maine in June. “Just go!”
JuJu flexed one of his gigantic biceps and threw the old truck into gear. I held on tight as we lurched to the next campsite.
Picking up rotten food was not the highlight of my day.
Making summer happen was. And with my best friend, Gemmi, around she’d make sure of it. Later today, after my volunteer job at Reenie’s Raptor Rehab Center, Gemmi and I would officially launch our summer plans. A big one for me included convincing a loon expert to come to Nikuwoss Lake and research why our loons were disappearing. For months, I’d been emailing the University of Maine’s Department of Wildlife, Fisheries, and Conservation Biology Research Unit to send us help. So far, I’d gotten one email back saying that they were limited on resources but would look into it. Sounded pretty lame to me.
“JuJu and Sarah, my sweeties,” a familiar voice called. Everyone called JuJu by the name I gave him as a toddler. No one knew his real name. Well, except Dad, and he wasn’t telling.
We chorused a hello. Miss Lilabelle’s parked trailer was tucked away on the outer loop. Loon Cove Campground included fifteen sites for campers, trailers, and RVs, eighty-five tent campsites, and four cottages on Nikuwoss Lake. Only thirty percent of the sites were full right now, according to JuJu’s daily report. The “perms” kept us operating all year long, but summer was the big season. We needed more perms like Miss Lilabelle. She’d even stayed on after her husband, Gerald, died eight years ago.
She waved to me now from her stoop. Today, a blond swirly wig topped her head. A loud metal grinding struck the air as JuJu shoved the truck’s knobby stick into first gear, easing decrepit wheels toward her door.
“Nice choice, Miss Lilabelle,” I said. “I haven’t seen that wig in a while.”
Once an aging way-off-off Broadway star, Miss Lilabelle now sang for the woods and campers—and me.
Her face softened. “Sarah Richardson, you’re so sweet. You need to meet a nice young boy. Maybe at that bird center you volunteer at.”
“It’s a raptor rehabilitation center,” I gently corrected her. “And I’m only thirteen.”
I’d almost kissed a boy a year ago at Amelia Skelly’s lake party. But almosts didn’t count, according to Gemmi.
“Who needs a boy anyway?” I said to Miss Lilabelle, twirling the ends of my scarf-of-the-day, stitched with white daisies against blue-and-yellow checkered silk.
She took my hands. “Oh, Sarah, we all need someone. I miss my Gerald. He kissed me on our first date at the theater.” She shook my hands for emphasis. “Oh, what a kiss.” She closed her eyes for a moment and pursed her lips.
Blech. Old people kissing.
But I smiled at her and chucked her trash into the back of our battered truck. Aluminum cans, emptied of tuna and chicken noodle soup, clanged together. Campers couldn’t hide what they ate from me, Chief Wrangler of Refuse.
I pulled myself back up in the truck bed as Miss Lilabelle handed out her final words of wisdom before we left. “Love keeps you happy.” Then she added in a softer voice. “You need to find your happy. Your mother would want you to.”
I forced a smile on my face. Yes, Cecilia Richardson had known about being happy. Until the cancer came.
“And we’re off!” JuJu spouted. He understood loss. He’d lost his wife, Pim, four years ago. And then his younger sister, my mom, Ceci, this January.
I gave Miss Lilabelle a wave as we creaked and groaned down the rough dirt road toward the campground’s outer loop and our house, a sprawling lodge way too big for me, JuJu, and Dad.
I pulled Dad’s note from my pocket. He always left his morning notes by the dingy white coffeemaker listing my jobs for the week before hitting the road to his Monday-through-Friday job. These notes were the most conversation we’d had for months, even when he was home. Our silence could fill buckets, overflowing and dumped out each day to be filled up again the next.
He left every Monday because the campground couldn’t make us enough money. Since I was nine, Dad had tried to make his dream work after giving up his job with an accounting firm. It didn’t. So, he’d spent the last two years in a motel during the week, over three hours away in Bangor, to work as an accountant to pay the bills. This left JuJu and me in charge of Dad’s dream.
I hadn’t wanted to be in charge, but I’d been spying on Dad and JuJu’s late-night conversations lately. They whispered words like: bankruptcy, selling, apartment rental, moving on. I couldn’t lose my home, the raptor rehab center, and friends, too. I’d already lost Mom.
In a way, I’d lost Dad, too.
I missed him taking me to Dilly’s. We’d gobble our dripping ice cream as we wandered down Main Street, peering in shop windows and making up silly stories about customers.
I missed him taking me fishing on the lake in our rusty boat. We mostly cruised past fancy lake houses, imagining our own. Dad wanted one with a bowling alley. I insisted on a trampoline room.
I missed his hugs.
But all that had stopped after Mom died.
I pushed those thoughts away and focused on Dad’s neat, tiny block handwriting.
Sarah,
Please get the garbage collected with JuJu and to the dump by 9 a.m. The new campers should be here between 11 a.m. and 12 p.m. Stock up the store, and have JuJu check the generator because they’re calling for storms this week. Call if you need me.
Love ya bunches kid, Dad
I shoved Dad’s note back in my pocket as JuJu reached the Pruitts’ site, another of my favorite perms who moved up from the South. We followed the delicious smell of country ham and fried johnny cakes.
Ruby Pruitt waved us over to her grill, a plate in hand. “Morning y’all. Come eat!”
We always had time for ham, corn cakes, and the Pruitts’ southern hospitality, JuJu said.
“Delicious!” JuJu ate a johnny cake layered with ham and butter in two bites. I mumbled in agreement, my mouth full of the same.
“You two are natural Kentuckians,” Ruby said, flipping her cakes. They sizzled, shooting up more heavenly aromas.
Philly, Ruby’s eight-year-old daughter, popped her head up from their nearby garden when she heard us. “Ooh, don’t go yet!”
She ran into the trailer and came out with a piece of cardstock clutched to her chest and shoved it at me with a missing-tooth grin. A crooked watercolor sunflower waved in bright green grass.
“Another one for your collection.” So, I could “plant” a whole field, in her words.
I smiled back at her. “I love it.”
JuJu and I said goodbye as I wiped sweat off my neck. It was only eight a.m., and this historically hot second Monday in June promised to be full of annoyances. Like explaining to the Saxby twins about why we didn’t have chocolate Pop-Tarts in the camp store, cleaning pine needles out of the pool, and registering new campers. And we still had twelve sites of garbage to collect and take to the dump. I’d rather be volunteering to clean bird poop at Reenie’s Raptor Rehab Center. At least there I got to visit with hawks, eagles, and owls—not black flies.
We rumbled down to our next stop: Big Bob’s RV. He stooped through the door of his camper, giving us a half-hearted wave. No sign of his grumpy nineteen-year-old daughter, Rachel, who he’d brought here for summer vacation to make things up to her. He hadn’t been around much when she was growing up, or since the divorce. Don’t guess his plan was working yet because she still hid in the camper, and he looked sad all the time.
After collecting his trash, I handed him his favorite tinfoil bundle from the truck’s front seat, still warm.
Big Bob towered over me, a rare grin on his face. “Aha, JuJu’s famous biscuits.”
“Enjoy,” JuJu said, happy to spread his love for food with another foodie.
“Thanks. I’ll share with Rachel.” His grin faded and he headed back into the camper.
Poor Big Bob. He missed his wife.
I understood all about missing someone, but I couldn’t help him. I had no idea how to stop doing that either.
CHAPTER 2
Reenie’s Raptor Rehab Observations
*Softened dry dog food can feed nestlings (baby birds).
*Raptors are birds of prey and have hooked beaks and taloned feet.
*Peregrine falcons are the fastest creatures on earth. They can dive over 200 mph!
*Birds poop a lot!
I skidded into the parking lot of Reenie’s Raptor Rehab Center, spraying up stones from the gravel road. I locked up my bike in the stand out front. 1:28 p.m. Two minutes before my volunteer shift.
I dashed through the glass doors to the education center, waved at Margo, the receptionist, and ran to the stockroom.
“Where’s Reenie?” I asked Tom, our most senior volunteer. He’d been working here since Reenie started this place over forty years ago.
He took a break from restocking fresh bedding linens and jerked a thumb to the left. “In the infirmary, observing a case with Dr. Todd.”
“Thanks!” I headed off to the back wing, reaching the double windows to the surgery room. Dr. Todd bent over with his back to me, blocking his patient from view, as Reenie stepped out into the hallway to greet me.
“Sad news, Sarah.” Reenie’s forehead crinkled. “A resident found a dead loon on Lake Nikuwoss.”
“What happened? Is that it?” My words tumbled together as I peered around her.
She shook her head. “The loon preservation center up north picked it up. They’ll do a necropsy and let us know how it died.”
I’d already learned from Reenie that this was an animal autopsy. I’d seen some done on raptors here.
“We need a loon expert here to help the loons.” I slumped.
“Someday, Sarah, it will happen.” She turned to the surgery room window. “For now, let’s care about the birds we can help.”
“Is it a raptor?” I strained to see the bird Dr. Todd was working on.
Reenie clasped her hands behind her back with a nod. Most birds that came in were raptors, but we took in all injured birds. This was our busiest time of year between May and August, especially for baby birds. I secretly hoped someday to get a loon. Not that I’d want a loon to be injured, but to care for one up close would be amazing.
“A hawk?”
She shook her head.
We liked to play this guessing game each time a newly injured bird came in.
“Owl?”
She peered down at me over the rims of her glasses. “Yup. But what kind?”
Up to eleven species of owls lived in Maine, depending on the time of year. I named my top one, after my favorite permanent owl resident here, Winky. He’d lost an eye in a car accident and was deemed un-releasable. “Eastern screech owl.”
Reenie gave me another hint with a soft hoot.
“A barred owl!”
She laughed. “Good job.”
Dr. Todd straightened and moved aside. A brown and white owl lay on its back, the bars displayed on its feathers providing its name. Its black eyes stared at the ceiling.
“Poor thing.” Reenie leaned into the glass. “She has a compound fracture in her left wing and also suffers from a blood feather problem. Dr. Todd pinned her wing and gave her medication.”
“I wish I could help care for her.”
Reenie nodded, securing her long, gray ponytail tighter with its rainbow scrunchy. It was the only bit of color on her aside from her brown khaki shirt and pants. “When you turn eighteen, you can work with the raptors, kiddo, you know that.”
I sighed. That was five years away. Right now, the most exciting part of my job as a junior volunteer was to feed the non-raptor baby birds. Nestlings ate a lot. Every thirty minutes, twelve hours a day. But someday I’d carry an owl on my arm. Feed a bald eagle. Save an injured loon and release it back to its family.
“Can you help Tom feed the nestlings first thing?” Reenie said.
“Totally.” Rescued baby songbirds were so cute, begging for food with their featherless little bodies and closed eyes. They couldn’t walk, hop, or fly yet.
Reenie placed a hand on my shoulder. “After that, I need you to clean the floors of the non-raptor cages.”
I sighed. Great. Extra poop.
Her eyes crinkled and she squeezed my shoulder. “The things we do for those we love, right?”
I frowned. “I guess.”
“Remember, every day we help some of these amazing birds get back to where they belong.”
“Yeah. So, they can poop in their own home.”
Reenie chuckled and strode off down the hall to the center’s administrative offices, her boots thumping with purpose.
I put on my overalls and waders, headed to the non-raptor cages, and spent the next few hours feeding tiny bites of softened dry dog food to nestlings, washing out food and water bowls, and replacing dirty newspaper from cage floors.
My final cage held Ryker, the raven. He swooped over my head with a caw-caw, his sleek, black feathers gleaming in sunlight that shone down through wooden cage slats.
I cawed back and shook a finger at him. “I hope you’re saying sorry for your mess.”
He hopped about, staring at me with glittering eyes. Probably not sorry at all.
When he came here, Ryker had suffered wing fractures and developed metabolic bone disease. Now, he’d become too imprinted on people and could never be released. Ravens can recognize human faces and hold grudges, but also remember the people who are nice to them. And when a raven dies, other ravens gather around and mourn together, like humans do. I was extra nice to Ryker. He’d lost his family, too.
He cocked his head, snapping his beak at me.
“Sorry, you know I can’t feed you. You’ll have to wait for Tom to feed you worms.”
He squawked and flew off to a high perch as if miffed. I didn’t blame him.
Finally, my reward. I headed for the raptor aviaries. Winky the owl lived at the end of the compound. He was sleeping on his favorite large, twisted branch at the top of his aviary.
Reenie appeared by my side, sipping an iced tea. “I’m taking a quick break. We’ve already had eight calls today to pick up injured birds.”
Before I could ask, she shook her head. “No loons, Sarah.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s a good thing.”
I stared at Winky, dozing on his perch. “I know.”
“Have you heard yet from the university?”
Reenie was committed to checking in about my email writing to the University of Maine. Each week I sent a new email to please, please send a naturalist here to find out why the loons are disappearing from our lake.
“No.” With that one word my mission seemed dumb. I was a kid. Why would scientist people listen to me?
Reenie drummed her fingers on her cup then turned to me. “Sarah, why don’t you go out on the lake and record what you find? Like loon nests, number of eggs, loon behavior, predators in the area, and pollution that could affect them. Email the university your findings to strengthen your request.”
Reenie was right, but I hadn’t been out on the lake since Mom died. We’d watched the loons together and named them. Lady and Lewis, a pair at Drake’s Island, had been our favorite.
“But I’m just one person.”
Her phone went off. “I’ll be right there.” She ended the call and slid the phone into her pocket. Reenie had pockets everywhere, stuffed with pliers, gloves, banding tape, and more. Anything she might need in the moment as director of a bird rehab center. She never got rid of anything if it still worked. Like our birds, she once told me. You don’t give up on something just because it’s a little bit broken.”
