The tent caterpillars hatched in early August, perhaps in an attempt to remind me of the inevitability of renewal (something lost on my soul during these months). Jeff and I were driving home from the bar late one night when it happened. Every parking lot with fluorescent lights was filled with the eerie invasion. The orgy of white moths flew into each other, into the ground, into the lights, into cars, into lamp-posts, into people's headlights. They have a 24-hour life cycle during which time they need to mate and this was it. By the next morning most of them were dead, the ground littered with their carcasses. A few late bloomers hatched as the weeks progressed, banging into windows, looking for a partner. I imagine the late ones died of loneliness, the others of too much sexual exertion. Experts predict next year's infestation to be worse. By the time the moths hatched, the leaves on the trees had begun to grow back. The usual lush foliage was still patchy but many of the grey areas had been filled in by second growth leaves trying their best to fill the void. The caterpillars had never been at the camp and the moths never came either. The Jack Pines stood strong all summer, avoiding the fire, avoiding the caterpillars, avoiding change. The lake may look different every night, but I imagine she stays the same. Stable. Cold. I'd kept myself so preoccupied with controlling the uncontrollable, I barely noticed when September arrived--turning the newly lush trees brilliant shades of autumn. The masquerade of color served as a distraction that almost kept me blinded to the desolate season about to come. But the lake remembers. Autumn storms have now taken her over--storms that erode beaches, knock down docks, sink ships. I don't go to the camp as much anymore, and when I do I'm shocked at the line of driftwood and polished glass and fishing line that the waves have created--closer and closer to the camp each time I visit. What once felt so stable suddenly feels threatened. My images of the lake deteriorate. The debris line from the waves gets close enough to remind me that the camp is not permanent, that the lake is not easy, that just because I can see again doesn't mean it all makes sense. The lake has turned cold, grey, violent, just as she does every autumn. The ritual continues. Soon winter will be here, turning her colder, icy, slate blue, silent. Only in the coldest winters does she freeze over completely. Instead, mounds of icy snow encompass the shoreline. As winter progresses, the crystal blue mounds reach further into the lake, making it harder to see. The mounds are filled with shards of ice, appearing as though someone shattered millions of snow globes on the snowy heaps. As a child I loved to climb out onto the mounds, testing how far I could go before it felt dangerous. I never got to the edge. I would always stop 3 yards shy, sit on a frozen knoll, and stare into her icy depths. The view was never what I expected, never as clear as it was in the summer. The sky and water blended together in a confusing mix. The silence of the lake only bewildered the view. I sat and collected ice shards with my woolen mittens. Once I gathered a pile, I began throwing each shard into the cold water. It was as though the lake was somewhere between water and ice--a peculiar plasma state that slowly ate up the ice pieces. The sharp edges of ice cut into her murky gray surface. She slowly covered each piece until the hard edges were gone, pulling them under, bringing them back to water. I never counted my pile, never counted how many pieces I returned. Perhaps I already knew it wouldn't add up.