Indian Lake is quiet and meditative. Not only is it in the middle of nowhere (no one has had a lick of cellular reception since arriving here Saturday afternoon), most of the other campers have departed by today to return to work, some from our group but mostly from other sites.
I sat on the rocks at the southeastern edge of our island this morning and watched a pair of ducks take off from the lake at least 100 yards away and I could hear their wings flapping. Other than that and the wind in the pines, there was silence.
We had to be off the island by 11:00 a.m. so we weren’t able to cram in much more activity than breaking-down and packing-up both campsites, breakfast, sandwich prep (for lunching on the road) and a bit of skinny dipping.
Before we left, I asked the old guy at the marina shop (not the same guy who’d warned us of beaver fever) to recount the history behind the name “Indian Lake.”
“Whelp,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “I’d guess it has something to do with Indians.”
Other than taking an hour scenic route, as my dad used to call them, during which our Google Mapped directions got away from us, the drive back to the city was uneventful. The van passengers got cellular service back at about the same time and our van was a flurry of digital tones, texting and returned calls (“You have [pause] 12 [pause] new messages.”) It signaled an unsubtle shock back into civilization; although Manhattan is also an island, I’m hyperaware it’s everything our Indian Lake island was not: loud and crowded and with garbage floating in the water at its shores. I have a feeling I’ll adjust. Eventually.
Bonus: You can check out the camping photos I took with my Lomo LC-A in a set on my Flickr page.