At the end of August, as the slight chill of Autumn drifts through open windows in the early morning, we pack up dogs, food, books that have waited patiently to be read, journals and pens, and head North to Moosehead Lake.

On the first day I arrived, I breathed in the crisp air, tipped my head to the sun, and listened. To. Her. The massive expanse of water. If not for the missing scent of salt in the air, I’d mistake her for an ocean. She sounds tidal on this morning, lapping over rocks, jutting above her surface, like glistening heads of dolphins, against the weather-beaten dock. They have a relationship, a bond between them like siblings, like family that have grown together, intertwined by time, weathering the heartaches of thunderstorms. The bond ever tighter when sub-degree temps freeze them in a stiff embrace, until April arrives, releasing them, as…