We used to camp on Pleasant River Lake in northern Maine. It was cabin camping, so we had screens on the windows. We had propane tanks: a gas-powered refrigerator and range, plus a wood stove if it got chilly.
In exchange for that little bit of unpleasantness, in the evening, we would build a bonfire on the shore of the lake. It was a big lake, deep, surrounded by pine woods. There were several beaver dams and it was not unusual to see moose swimming across, just their giant heads visible above the waterline as they sought their favorite snack food: water lilies. There were bears too.
Best of all, there were about a dozen loons nesting on the various parts of the shore. As evening came on, they would start to call to one another. Warbling and calling, a sound so haunting and beautiful as it echoes across lake.
I will never forget the song of the loons, the voice of the northern lakes. I miss them.