Early Mornings on Lake Morey

My feet are cold as the soggy hem of my sweatpants is caught between my foot and the sole of my crocs. My eyes are as heavy and dim as the air. It’s 5:30 a.m. and I’m still asleep. Or I wish I were. Technically I’m upright, but my brain has yet to catch up with my feet as I trudge down the hill, occasionally bumping into my three friends as we stagger toward the docks. My mind is empty of thoughts except for the warm bed I left behind. It’s a chilly Vermont morning and the dampness of the fog clings to my skin, hair, and clothes. Little droplets of water hang suspended on the tips of cattails and blades of grass, bending them towards the ground. The cold, crisp air shocks my system after a deep inhalation and my feet start to move a little faster. As we make our way to the docks, we giggle a little at how funny we must look to a passerby (not that there would be one this early) – four girls in haphazardly thrown-on sweatpants, hats, shirts, and the ever-so-fashionable crocs with socks, hustling towards the water.

The lake has yet to wake up as well. The trees at the water’s edge across the lake look dark green and saggy with dew. The water is calm and still, its surface perfectly reflecting the nothingness above it. There are still fingers of mist drifting slowly across the mirror of water giving everything an even hazier, dreamier quality. The groan of wooden boats being turned over and feet stepping in a syncopated rhythm are the only sounds, save for the clacking of a loose mainstay on a sailboat a little way away. The canoes make no noise as they’re pushed from land and glide to waiting hands at the dock. The water is silent, we are silent, the boat is silent – waiting. I sit at the edge of the dock wrapped in a blanket, knees to my chest, head leaning against a neighboring shoulder. The wood is rough and wet under my bare hands and feet. I close my eyes and listen to the quiet disturbance as the blade of a paddle cuts into the mirror and pulls. My mind’s eye wanders over the scene in front of me and I ponder a possible schedule for the day ahead. I squeeze my eyes tighter, piecing together lifeguard training, teaching hours, planning my white water trip, and finishing a bracelet for one of my campers. The full day ahead makes me want to stay on the dock as long as possible, enjoying the peace and quiet. Occasionally there is the sound of a paddle rubbing against the gunwale of a canoe on the lake in front of me. The creak of the dock. A loon calling across the lake. The miniscule sound lake waves make as they lap against the barely there sand between the two floating docks.

As time wears on, our little bubble grows livelier. Someone calls slalom times to my left. Two girls and their paddles strain against the awakened water, pulling with all their strength to make this run faster than the last. Sitting on the dock, I carefully trace the shape of Upper Richardson Lake in Sharpie on the smooth, sanded blade of the paddle I’ve been meaning to decorate since the summer before. Things are still quiet everywhere but within the oasis of our waterfront. The water may be awake, but the rest of lake isn’t. The daily drone of motorboats, delighted kids, and bikes hasn’t yet begun.

The trees look a little lighter as the air brightens. The water is no longer a mirror and the wispy trails of mist have receded from the middle of the lake where the sun has just begun to shine. Small birds tweet in the trees, and loons give their final calls of the morning as I take off my sweatshirt, prepared for another beautiful Vermont day. Minutes later the boats groan once more as they’re hauled back onto the racks and feet shuffle along the grass. As we make our way towards the road, the hems on my sweatpants are still weighed down with water, but my eyes are no longer so heavy; and we have life in our steps as we climb the hill to officially start the day.

As the hours pass and I’m caught up in teaching, learning, running, and eating, the magic of the time before reveille recedes into memory. That little pocket before everyone else wakes up almost seems like a dream. Even though I merely dangled my feet into the chilly water, my head is clear. I feel refreshed instead of tired, and my eyes are wide and bright instead of droopy. As I sit at a dining hall table for breakfast, I’m grateful for the paradisiac snapshot saved in my head for a day when I will need to remember the peace and calm of the early morning lake.