I have heard the stories, though I have not yet witnessed the phenomenon of loons stealing fish from anglers' lines. I think my pal Doug and I came very close to seeing it Sunday on Little Kennebago. Certainly Doug, in his pontoon boat with his finned feet dangling in the water, came closer to a feeding loon than he perhaps would have cared to.

Common Loons, or at least loon-like birds, have been on Spaceship Earth for a long, long time -- a million or so years in their present form -- but we humans came close to wiping them out through various forms of negligence, stupidity and hostility. Some fishermen blame loons for poor fishing. "Damn things eat all the fish," they grumble. Think about it: a couple hundred years ago, even a hundred years ago, there were a lot more loons -- and a lot more trout. So who's to blame for poor fishing? Look at the pictures of 19th-century "sports" with their huge strings of fish, most of which were simply thrown away. Look at the habitat destruction, acid rain, modern poachers. And you still blame the loons for lousy fishing? Get a grip.

Back to the stories, which claim that the loons have learned to let us do their fishing for them, and that a trout struggling at the end of a fly line is easier pickings than a free-swimming fish. Personally, I do not doubt these stories, and the loon that accompanied us on Little Kennebago seemed to have such predation in mind as he hung around us while we fished. The loon was doing a lot of fishing himself, making numerous short dives in pursuit of the small trout that were thick in the water near the mouth of the inlet, but it was clear that most of his dives did not produce a meal or a snack. I have seen loons surface with quivering trout tails still visible at the edges of those long pointed beaks, but I didn't observe even swallowing actions when our friend surfaced. No wonder he kept checking us out to see if we were having any more success.

The trout, ranging from six to eleven inches long, were taking our dry flies with great abandon, providing a bit of fun in the absence of their parents and grandparents. They were game little fighters, but so small that the fight never lasted more than a few seconds before they were boated, unhooked and released. The short duration of those tussles didn't give the loon much of a chance to move in for a steal, but shortly after Doug had released a trout I heard him yell, "HEY! Getouttahere!" I looked over to see him pick up one of the pontoon boat's small oars and jab downward with it into the lake while he tried to lift his feet out of the water. The loon had swum right under Doug's flippers, and to have a close encounter with very large bird with a very sharp beak while you're sitting in an inflatable boat can be a bit unnerving. But nothing more happened -- the loon swam off and left Doug alone for the rest of the day.

Not an hour earlier Doug had spotted a yellow sign nailed to a tree on the far shore and had paddled over to read it. In bold black letters the sign said, "DO NOT DISTURB THE LOONS." I believe this is what's called irony.