Morning Fog

As I stepped out of the cabin to load our gear into the truck, I was taken aback by the change in temperature from the morning before.  At 32 degrees, the mercury had plunged nearly 30 degrees in less than twelve hours.

Crossing the driveway, Moose hurried past, anxious to take her spot in the truck. While my own enthusiasm was tempered by the early hour, it was clear Moose was ready for birds on the wing. “Settle down”, I cooed to her, my breath rising into the morning air, illuminated by the light of the full moon overhead.

My little boy, barely awake sauntered past, his head hung low and tilted drowsily to one side.  Despite the morning chill, he sat there with his coat strewn over his lap.  “Buddy, we have a half-hour 'till we get to the boat, take a little snooze.”  He didn’t need much coaxing. With his jacket quickly whisked over his chest and his chair eased back, he was off to sleep.

The path to our boat is a series small county roads that grow continually smaller as they snake around the Whitefish chain of lakes.  As we drove by the Manhattan Beach Supper Club, I was surprised to see a thick bank of fog sweeping over the building closest to the road, enveloping the entire top floor in a complete haze.

“The path to our boat is a series small county roads that grow continually smaller...”

The sight was so impressive, that having reached a clearing in the woods, I stopped the truck to take a longer look. The fog, or possibly steam, extended across the bay creeping into the fringes of Trout Lake.  It was a remarkable sight, hanging low like a blanket, silhouetted against the predawn sky illuminated by the ethereal light of the moon.

Continuing on, Charlie and I made our way to our little lake off of our little road.  The moon was our companion for the better part of the morning, allowing me to load our boat and cross the lake without any need for a flash light.  The sky was so clear, the moon shown so bright, and not a breath of wind to rock our little boat.

Navigating to a little pocket in the back corner of Arrowhead, the water emanated that familiar steam.  It was a gentle reminder that the mornings temperature was colder than the water below.  While not as impressive as the fog blanketing Manhattan Beach, our little lake steamed for hours as the morning sun dispatched our strident moon.

And while our routine was so normal, so practiced in a tradition from years before, it was somewhat different.  The unfamiliar whine of emergency sirens driving hurriedly in the not so distant countryside pierced the typical silence that would otherwise consume us.

Other than the sirens, our morning slipped by without any other disruptions.  In spite of all of our good intentions, the birds had decided to take the day off or had seemingly vanished from this part of Crow Wing County.

Conceding that the birds were not to be, Charlie and I stood up and started packing up the boat for the journey home.

Charlie surveyed the lake before him, “Daddy, how did you even get us back here?”  I could not help but laugh aloud. While push-pulling the boat has always been a daddy activity, Charlie slept most of the morning and missed our venture through the rice.  Looking around Charlie said, “Daddy, we’re gonna have to wiggle a lot to get our boat out of here”. And wiggle we did.

“Daddy, we’re gonna have to wiggle a lot to get our boat out of here.”

Driving back to civilization, we retraced our mornings route back to the cabin.  As we came to a bend in the road, we approached Manhattan Beach Supper Club.  This time, there were policemen in the road slowing traffic.  I assumed a car accident, but as the Supper Club came into view we were shocked to find the majority of the Villas attached to the main building had been ravaged by a terrible fire.

A gaping whole in the roof exposed what was left of the multi-level structure.  I knew instantly that what I had seen earlier that morning was not fog, nor was it steam. It was smoke billowing from a raging fire within.

I learned latter that day via news reports that no one had been injured in the fire.  I was so very grateful.  Charlie and I had driven past Manhattan Beach forty-five minutes before first responders received their first call for help.

Other than the moon, I never saw the flicker of a flame nor did I smell the acrid stink associated with a fire.  For me, that morning was only a blanket of fog and moonlight.

When given the opportunity to make a difference, I could not help but see the beauty instead of the danger.  Rather than questioning what I saw, my head was lost in the stars above, with little thought to the realities below.