The Last Morning with My Friend,Eagle Lake

The Last Morning with My Friend, Eagle Lake by Jack Muller

Before the sun climbed up over the homes and the trees lining the shore, after shutting off my alarm and carefully putting on my shorts, I tiptoed down the stairs, descending each step with gentle, quiet precision, making sure not to wake up anyone else in the house.  Continuing my morning ritual while at our lake home, I quietly made my way to the screen door at the back of the house, gently sliding it open and stepping outside.  There she was.  My trusted friend and my old companion: Eagle Lake.  Our morning rendezvous had begun.

I carefully walked down the old porch stairs, soaking from the morning dew, grumpily absorbing the weight of my feet, groaning like old men with each step. I approached the pier and inhaled a deep breath full of fresh, cool morning lake air packed with the smells of leaves, earth and grass, bathing my lungs in a cozy warmth which spread throughout my body, down to every toe and and out to each fingertip.  

This is it, I thought.  My last morning with Eagle Lake. Spending summers at our lake house in southern Michigan had been my family’s tradition since I was a baby but our recent move to Maryland meant that we needed to sell it.  

I made my way down the pier, taking care to gently place each step, preventing the metal planks from banging into the stakes, avoiding any noise that might wake someone up.  I did not want anyone interrupting this moment, my special date with Eagle Lake, an invite shared with no one else but me and her.  As I stood at the end of the pier, I ingested another deep breath of that crisp morning air while slowly moving my head from one side to the other, taking in the view before me.  That familiar silvery, pale mist moved across the surface of the water, always reminding me of the little clouds people formed with their breath in the winter.  The water danced, swaying streaks of sunlight moved across the lake as the first rays of sun began to paint the landscape, making soft, rhythmic sounds like a heartbeat as it lapped against the shore.  

In that moment, the whole world felt still, hushed, and patient, making me feel so at peace that I wished I could just stay in it forever.  I remembered my mom’s advice that she kept repeating in recent days, knowing we were all going to miss this place: “Don’t forget to take lots of mental pictures!” So that's just what I did. I closed my eyes, painting all the details on a canvas in my mind, recording the soundtrack of the birds chirping, the rustle of the trees overhead and the honks of geese in the far distance, focusing on my favorite morning sound which was from the reeds of the cattail plants jostling against each other, sounding like a group of old friends sharing secrets.

Grabbing my fishing pole from the old shed at the end of the dock, my mind started to race with dreams of the big fish I might catch that day, always finding humor in the fact that my fish dreams were way beyond the size of any fish likely to be swimming around our little pier.  As I opened the plastic container filled with soil and worms, I did just what my father had taught me and grabbed one of the slimy creatures, taking care not to squeeze too hard, sliding it on the hook, leaving just enough to dangle and catch the attention of my prey. 

I loved the way the rod felt in my hand, the way it made me feel like a conductor, commanding the scene before me. The weight of the rod light, yet sturdy, slicing through the air, making a whirring sound as the line casted out. The bobber made contact with the water, causing a cascade of ripples, minnows fleeing from the intrusion, and a nearby crane turning his head to check out the commotion.  I sat on the pier with my rod in hand, dangling my legs over the side, wiggling my toes in the water as the minnows danced around with darting motions.  

And then I waited. Patient, reflective and at peace.  I watched the bobber, dancing up and down as the little waves caused it to frolick to and fro… up and down, side to side.  The water shimmered, reflecting the morning sun, mimicking the song being sung by all the birds in the trees above.  I truly believed that this was the most perfect place on earth.  I took in another deep breath, basking in the magic, feeling the stillness in my chest, calming and steadying.  The world was waking up and I felt like its special guest, witnessing it all unfold, with a front row seat to the show.  

After a while, my trance was interrupted when mom yelled down to me from the house, “Breakfast is ready!”  And that was it, my final, private date with Eagle Lake had come to an end. As the morning melted into the day, as the lake’s whispers were swallowed up by boat engines and jet skis, I felt a sadness come over me at the realization that this was really the last time I would share a morning with her, my trusted friend.  

Little did I know that this moment would actually live on and be with me for the rest of my childhood.  In fact, even at 16 years old, anytime I feel overwhelmed, I bring up this canvas and soundtrack in my mind and I feel my old pal, Eagle Lake, embrace me; calming my anxious thoughts, silencing the noise of the hustle and bustle, rooting me in my love for fresh air, open spaces and peaceful nature.