second lake trip stories.

It's hard for me to sit down and write about these annual trips to the lake. The first reason being that once I write about it, the words are no longer my half-formulated thoughts. They're out there on paper. More distant. A thing of the past, even if I desperately wish they were still my present. The second reason being my incapability to sum up handfuls of my favourite moments in just mere sentences. I don't want to say that It was amazing. or give it to you all in a nutshell. I just want to tell you some stories.

Like how on the third night, we got that nasty windstorm we secretly always wish for. The sky was grey and the sun was pink and we played like six-year-olds (swim rings included) in waves unfamiliar to us prairie kids.

After renting out little yellow bicycles (bananas, we decided they were) we stuffed ourselves with beavertails (and lemon) at a mosquito-infested table somewhere between the town and the shore. You chased seagulls with your arms outstretched, yelling LOVE ME! They didn't.

Waking up in a cabin that still smelled like campfire and reese's peanut butter cup s'mores from the night before.

We ended up here on most afternoons, which was completely fine for a girl with a book obsession, a coffee problem, and a painting weakness. 

I disregarded the don't talk to strangers rule on more than one occasion (more on that another time). Strangely enough, its something I'd like to do more often.

The one night we stopped for gelati and dad said it reminded him of Italy because of the cobblestone and the busker on the cello, but the gelati just wasn't as good. We sighed, envious of his travels. I can't wait to take you there someday, he said. Neither can I. 

Staying out here a bit later than I should have (with Jack Kerouac and some chai), for no other reason than a) I'm a night owl. b) It was summer, and c) I wanted to. 

On the last night, we went swimming as soon as it got dark (and, yes. probably what you're thinking. it was a bucket list thing...). We had to stop halfway back up the steps because we were either panting too hard to properly giggle, or giggling to hard to properly pant. 

Not wanting to leave the cabin for the very last time and purposely leaving things inside, just to live the lake life for a second or two longer.

On the drive home, we stopped at that old-brick-church-turned-hammock-shop we've always meant to duck into. Instead of a hammock, we got a tour of the owner's basement pottery studio and his old lens for my film camera. Some strangers are wonderful. 

Those are my second lake trip stories.