A soft, swirling mist lingered over the lake. A gentle breeze whispered, only to me, its secrets from ages past. Then, I heard it - echoing eerily through the pre-dawn stillness - the long, mournful wail of a Great Northern Loon. It was a sound felt as much as heard. A sound my soul has never forgotten.

As a child, I spent a lot of time by myself exploring the shores of Blue Waters Lake in Minnesota. It was a more innocent time then, a time when a young girl could venture off on her own without the fears of today.

I often walked the narrow, rock-strewn path down to the lake to watch the sunrise. I loved to sit on the beach in the early morning hours and just listen to the sound of the world before mankind made its imprint on the new day.

Those quiet mornings alone were times of magical discovery for me - cultivating my imagination, my dreams, my love of nature.

One morning, when I was about five years old, I watched as the colors of the sunrise began to paint the sky with delicate brush strokes of pink and orange and yellow...