Last Wednesday afternoon, I walked onto a dock on Lake Logan and jumped in. The water held the first chill of the impending winter cold, and yet still felt soothing like it did when I immersed myself in the heavenly soak earlier in the summer. I knew, when I launched myself into the lake, that this would probably be my last swim there this year, sadly and, more so, sentimentally.
Emerging from the watery depths, I grabbed for my towel, dried off and sat in the old camping chair, drops of water dripping down my neck from my hair that hasn’t been cut since spring. Throw on the scratched sunglasses and lean back into the chair; let the last of day’s sunshine wash over your body before it quickly ducks behind the mountain ridge cradling my position. Images of the past year float through my mind like fireflies on an otherwise quiet evening. Images of friends and loved ones, of backroads and lost highways.