When I was young at the lake, I fished for hours and hours on end while on the shore of our cottage. I remember the feel of the rocks beneath my feet sitting on the beach or on one of the many rocks in the lake. I’d swim out to the island to try to fish there. I remember that I found an island in the centre of the lake. Crow Island is what they said it was called.

When I was young at the lake, I remember tasting the sweet wild blueberries. I remember fishing on the rocks, hearing the rapids to my left, the weight of the rod in my hand, the sand hot against my feet waiting patiently for something to happen.

When I was young at the lake, I felt happy to sit and fish all day long not a care in the world anticipating the fish that I was going to catch, I was almost bursting with excitement. I remember being nervous one day when I was fishing and I looked up and saw a black bear walking on the other side of the lake with its cubs following behind like obedient dogs.

At the lake, I always remember fishing in the boat, eating blueberries I found on the shore and creeping up searching for trout, always checking for dock spiders under fallen trees or on rocks. If I had seen one, I would’ve surely screamed with fear.