I'm not exactly sure of the time that I started out in my canoe on that June day in 1994.  I think it may have been around seven o'clock.

Sheets of fog floated over the quiet lake.  The sun broke through the clouds as I paddled east across Lake Luzerne to the inlet to Second Lake, the route that I had tried to discover the summer before.  Once I arrived, I realized that I felt sorry for anyone who wasn't in the marsh early that morning.

They wouldn't have seen the orb spider webs weighed down with dew droplets, the minute prisms glittering golden in the brisk morning air.  They wouldn't have heard the bullfrogs calling from their clandestine hideouts, and realized that each frog's call sounded different from another's.  The difference of each call was also true of the redwing blackbirds that perched in the spindly trees, their red wing patches vivid against their sooty wings.  They weren't shy: I could often get close enough to see a glittering black eye or a tiny foot.

Those who weren't in the marsh that morning also wouldn't have heard the crashing in the weeds just ahead of the boat, where they would've missed the sight of the whitetail doe looking back from her vantage point among the weeds.  They wouldn't have had the chance to watch each other for a minute before the deer slowly slipped into the forest.

For the next half-hour I dragged my battered Coleman canoe over the beaver dams, and negotiated tricky obsticles like fallen trees and quick currents.  The chilly morning breeze soon became the hopeful, late spring morning air that whispers of summer coming soon...that very day, perhaps.  I was soon in my T-shirt, my flannel shirt abandoned at my feet collecting the muddy bilge-water.

Just around the bend in the creek beyond the Towner Road bridge stood another whitetail doe browsing among the pickerelweed.  The sun shone on her rich red-brown hide, a radiant hue rarely seen unless the sunlight is friendly and penetrating.  The doe often turned to glance at me, but I didn't move and neither did she.  We watched each other for five minutes until the deer wandered slowly into the woods.

The water grew wide and shallow as it moved groggily beside Towner Hill Road.  It soon opened up and became weedy, a haven for the two-inch dragonflies that landed on the canoe gunnels, or flew by on their fragile wings.

It was a great day to explore this small lake!  A pleasant breeze blew through the hot air, a breeze strong enough to cool, but not annoy someone who would have to battle it in a small boat.  The mosquitoes stayed in the woods; the only insects were the iridescent dragonflies and some deerflies, which fortunately didn't stay too long.

I was back home at exactly 12:00 - the noon whistle sounded as I locked up the canoe.  I had felt like I was journeying through the Adirondack wilderness, instead of the backwoods of my small town.  It was a good feeling.

I thought about the silent peace of the early morning.  I remembered the doe in the sunlight seeming unafraid as I, a member of her enemy species, stood watching.  I recalled the heron, beaver, and two other deer that I saw on my way home.  I remembered the silent morning fog...and knew that it had been an unforgettable trip from reality.