I paddle fast toward the shore. The hull of my kayak parts the dark water easily, its orange a stark contrast to this landscape. I find respite bobbing next to a moss-covered rocky overhang, hang on to an exposed tree root, and hoist myself up out of the boat. The moss feels luxurious - a soft, earthy carpet - and as my feet make contact with it, I am aware of its cushion of velvet goodness.
It feels oh so good to be here.
My senses are bombarded: the breeze kicks up scent of conifers across the lake; the rush of the wind raises goose pimples across my skin; the trees are so colorful with their dancing display of new life, and then, my pupils dilate to meet the flash of lightning.
Low clouds roll in, like a hoard of teenagers in a bad-ass pack. Together, they huddle, creating an ominous and dramatic presence. They move in closer, sneering at me.
Suddenly, I am keenly aware of how small I am. Here, under this pack of gray clouds, here, on this mossy bed, I am a spec of a splendor that will ebb on long after I am gone.
Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages."
Give me that wildness.