It’s 8:00 am, and the lake is a mirror. Someone’s just backed a small fishing boat down the gravel access road and pulled away, leaving the boat at the shoreline. Not a sign of fish rising. The ripples reach my side of the lake, and mist drifts across the surface.
It’s overcast today and cool. There’s no sound but a single bird chirping in the trees outside my aerie window, where I lie on the bed, watching the lake wake up for another day.
The fisherman is back. He’s set the electric motor in place and hops on board. Standing, he drifts quietly along the shore, casting his line in the shallows, and drifts out of view.
I hear the sound of wheels on gravel. But it’s not another fisherman, come to share the lake. Maybe another weekend cabin owner?
The mist is building. Soon the lake will disappear, as inevitable as the arrival of fishermen in the early hours. I’ve marked the arrival of both countless times from my small cabin at the water’s edge. I never get tired of the small quiet events here. This time—waking up at the cabin—is my favorite time here. I pull its peace over me like a blanket and smile.
Another crunch of tires on gravel. Another small boat appears at the end of the ramp. And the lake disappears behind a silver curtain of mist.
Time to build a fire, and start the coffee brewing, and pick up my book. And as I settle down to read, I reflect on the small, quiet events that are part of each day spent here. Strung together, they make cabin life a very satisfying life indeed.