Yesterday afternoon, my husband and I drove the winding mountain roads that lead through tall pine trees to the old inn, where we’ve come for a weekend escape. Even though it’s June, the mountain air is still cool so the sunlight felt good as we walked familiar piers and beaches, finding wooden benches where we could sit and talk. The summer season doesn’t really begin here until July: the little towns were empty and everywhere, summer cottages were still boarded up. We had the place to ourselves — well, except for the black flies. We had to be strategic about where we walked, looking for any place with a breeze to keep away the clouds of annoying black insects.
I woke up this morning to blue light reflected from the mist of a mountain lake. Without even checking the clock, I climbed out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and grabbed my camera for an early morning walk. No one else was awake, not even the black flies, it seems, and I had the whole lake to myself. I walked along the shore, testing out floating docks that creaked and swayed under my feet. I wandered about happily, exploring and taking pictures, the dew soaking my socks and sneakers, until I was chilled through. I came back quietly through the side door of the inn, taking off my wet things to climb back into bed with a warm husband, who was still asleep.