The joke in many cities goes like this: If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute; it’ll change.

That certainly applies to northern New Hampshire — and all of New England for that matter — but I have come up with a similar saying about the upper reaches of the Granite State: If you don’t like the remote pond you’ve found, keep driving; you’ll find another one.

I’ve found countless gems of water far from civilization during my many travels to the Great North Woods just by picking a dirt road and driving. Sometimes it takes a little persistence — and a few hairy sections of “road” — but ponds are always there to find. And they’re always spectacular.

One pond typically doesn’t look very different from the next, but they all harbor their own secrets and wildlife surprises. To borrow another saying: They’re all the same, but different.

I found a great pond — maybe it was a bog or a fen, but I’ll call it a pond — a few weeks ago during a short trip to northern, N.H. I knew it was going to be great even before I parked the car and unleashed the canoe. I saw the loons right away.

They were on the other side of the pond, probably 150 yards away, but loons are so big and unmistakable, that I knew what I was looking at. As I got closer, I realized there were three loons, one parent and two juveniles.

It had been awhile since I had seen loons in the juvenile stage. I’ve seen dozens of adults and several babies, but not too often at the in-between stage. They were getting the classic loon patterns on their backs and had dull red eyes, but were a grayish-brown color, instead of black.

They reminded me of loon teen-agers. The young ones would stray from their parent from time to time, but never get too far away and never stay for very long.

The adult was clearly still in charge and still cautious, so I kept my distance. The lay of the pond, however, was such that I could see the loons at all times. My patience paid off on several occasions as the trio of loons approached the canoe to within 10 yards. Then they got bored and moved on.

Twice the awesome call of the loon reverberated in the distance from the opposite side of the water. The trio I was watching veered its path in the direction from which the call sounded. There was obviously another adult loon on the pond, but I never found that one.

I watched them for hours — 7 a.m. turned into 8:30 a.m. and, before I knew it, it was pushing noon. The water was mirror-like in the morning, but by the afternoon a significant chop was rocking the canoe.

That’s another similarity that all remote ponds in northern New Hampshire share: wind. The ponds are so smooth in the morning that you can’t tell reflection from reality, but come 11 a.m. or so, a stiff wind will put a considerable ripple on the surface.

It was time to head home, my least favorite part of visiting northern New Hampshire.

As I drove south on the highway I thought of the loons, especially the young ones. How easy it is for me to travel miles upon miles. In a matter of a few hours, I knew I’d be home safe and sound. If I got hungry, I could stop and eat. If my car needed fuel, I could pull off at the next exit. 

Sure there are hazards to driving, but in reality, the chances of me not making it home are so slim that it’s not even worth calculating.

The loons face a different journey, one wrought with innumerable hazards. Real hazards.

Soon those young loons would embark upon their first migration. Where would they go? Would they actually get there? Where will they stop along the way? Will they return next spring?

If they do return next spring, where will they go? Their parents won’t share the same small pond with them; the parents will have another brood to raise.

Then I remembered my saying about the Great North Woods and I felt better about the fate of the young loons. 

If they can’t settle on the pond they’ve found, they’ll fly a little farther and find another one.