We have been debating for days whether that is ice on the distant surface of Eagle Lake.
My suspicion is confirmed that it is plenty cold when I look out the door and see frost on the car.
I feel as though we have waited too late in the season to be this far north. Our days are pleasant enough, but our nights have been in the mid-twenties and have become very uncomfortable. We pile every blanket on and insulate ourselves with pugs, so everything is toasty except our noses. It is strangely difficult to sleep with a cold nose.
With daylight comes heat, and the pugs locate the sunniest spot to recharge their batteries. Murray is the laziest creature you can imagine and, contrary to all common sense, rests his face on the window crank, his buggy eyeball millimeters from danger.
It isn't until after dinner that we venture away from our site and take a walk across the dry lake bed.
Countless bleached snail shells litter the ground as we trudge through thick brambles.
The ground is so odd to walk on, like how I would imagine walking on the moon would be. There is no moisture in the gray soil, but it is very soft underfoot and each step causes the dirt to ripple like jello.
As we come nearer to the water line, the ground becomes more moist, and now we have to jump from clod to clod sticking out of a marshy, sucking mud.
Hubs finds a pair of ancient Oakleys, probably the cause of a ruined outing on the lake.
The sun sinks below the horizon as I prepare for a night photography experiment, and that weird whooping we heard last night echos off the surrounding hills.
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