She ran ahead, in the way that she used to run ahead when she was small.





In those years, her younger sister, held by one parent or the other would look on.

Indian Lake was a favorite – close, but quiet. Manageable. Initially, we would just take a walk to the lake and back.





Now, of course, we aim further. The rewards are tremendous.





I come here to this same path in the winter, to cross-country ski. I tell her how warm you feel climbing up these hills on skis. Maybe next year she’ll push along with Ed and me in the winter forest? Maybe my littler one will too?


We watch the clouds recede. That gorgeous Midwestern sky! Later, in the shop where I spend the waning hours of the afternoon, I encounter customers from England. They are bothered by the cold, but I remind them that they have a multi-layered cloud system over the British Isles that always threatens to explode on the poor sods below. In Wiscosnin, we have sky! Endless beautiful sky! Yes, the old man agrees. Your clouds are rather high up.





I don’t think it passed 40 degrees today. Who cares. It felt breezy and vacation-like because I was indeed on an early afternoon vacation.

In the middle of the forest we encountered a couple of mushroom hunters.





You found those here?
Yes, of course, by the trees.





I recognize the accent. Are you from...?
Byelorussia.
Ah. You know, I’m from Poland. We were big mushroom hunters there, when I was a little girl.
Actually, the part of Byelorussia that we’re from used to be Poland…

Yes, there’s that.

The mushrooms here? They’re like the ones in Byelorussia. I admire and move on.

Up the next hill, the final hill, for that last view.





Last breath of quiet air. The weekly clamor for spare minutes hasn’t started, but I hear its rumble. But not at this moment. Not now. Not at Indian Lake, where little girls once chased their fantasies and I trailed behind, beaming and proud.