Indian Lake is a small, isolated town located in the midst of the mountains of upstate New York. Within the secluded town, emptiness roams the streets, spreading shattered windows, creaky doors, and lifeless buildings. It holds the gateway to the lake: a whole different world full of life and beauty. Every summer, my family and I go camping on the lake. My father grew up in town and graduated in a class with about twenty-six students. In fact, it was so small that everybody knew everybody. The first time I camped on the lake, I was three months old, so it’s practically my home too. The mountains stand taller than the clouds, the lake is a sanctuary for life, and the woods are a shelter in the night. It is the place I go to isolate myself from the rest of society and the place I go to bring myself into unity with the nature around me.

One time during the summer, twelve-year-old me decided to get up at five in the morning, about a half hour before sunrise, in hopes that my father and I could go fishing. I grabbed my sweatshirt from my bag, unzipped the tent door, and slid my sandy flip flops on outside the tent. I walked over sleepily to my parent’s tent and whispered for my father to wake up. He carefully grabbed his things and closed the tent door zipper. The air was still and the forest was still dark. I grabbed a couple of granola bars from the picnic table, slid them in my pocket, and followed my father down the trail to the boat.

Along the way I peered through the trees towards the lonely, desolate town. It was engulfing the lake and all that it holds. Its buildings were rotting in the summer heat. The only things left in town were the Deli covered with pink pig decor, the Indian Lake Restaurant, and the old movie theatre whose name remains unknown to me. How people get there groceries is beyond my knowledge. The for sale signs lined the streets of the town, ripped and torn from the wind and loss of hope. I hated the sight. It made the land look hideous.

When we made it out of the woods and onto the rocky beach, everything was silent except for the shifting rocks beneath our feet. I slid off my sandals right before reaching the water and dipped my feet in one-by-one, sending shivers up my spine. Trudging through the water, I could feel the slippery sand beneath my toes. The ripples we formed disrupted the calm and still water as we stepped closer and closer to the boat that was anchored off in the distance. We got into the boat and I sat still, waiting for my dad to start the motor, eager to catch a fish. The engine roared, and we slowly made our way to the narrows -- a part of the lake well known for catching bass. The water was absolutely still, capturing a perfect reflection of the sunrise. A layer of pink and orange cast across the water. It seemed magical, almost surreal. I got goosebumps along my bare legs from the cool morning air. My tangly hair blew in the wind behind me as we glided across the silky water towards our destination and away from the outcasted town.

Finally, we entered the narrows. The trees began to close in from the sides, and my father slowed the boat so as not to disrupt the land with its wake. We floated down the narrow until we could find the perfect spot to get set up. The trees cast shadows across the water, making the air cooler and crisp. The air smelled of evergreen, and I knew this was where I belonged.

I glanced back and noticed the small, beaten down town in the distance. I hated to see so much destruction surrounding so much beauty, but the rotted wood on the buildings could not be compared to the pines that skirted the rim of the lake.

We grabbed our fishing poles out of the boat seat compartment and began to put the worms on the hook. I climbed to the front of the boat and took a seat. My dad joined in a moment later and nodded the “ok”. I put the pole over my shoulder, being careful not to hit the hook against anything. Throwing my arm as swiftly as I could, I guided the hook forward and out over the water where it plunged into the shadows of the evergreens.

As I sat quietly in the silence, waiting for something to bite, an eagle appeared from the trees and flew out into the early morning sky. It  swooped down towards the water, getting closer and closer towards my father and I. About twenty feet in front of us its talons plunged into the water, disrupting the lakes surface just as we had when walking through the water to our boat. As the talons reemerged I could see the fish punctured by the claws of the beast. The eagle soared in circles, living freely in the crisp and clear morning, just as we were doing.  Its silhouette swam across the water as it flew away, over the trees, through the mountain, and passed the old, broken town off in the distance.

After that moment, the town didn’t matter. The chaos and destruction didn’t matter. The camping and the lake and the eagle mattered. Year after year we went camping on the lake, but we never went back for the town. We went back for the peace. We went back for the unity. We went back for the happiness. It was never really the town that endured our love and satisfaction, but it was the secrets of beauty and nature that it held beyond its boundaries. After all those years, I had always thought that it was the town that surrounded the lake, but it was really the natural beauty that surrounded the town.