The rhythm of the car rattling over frost heaves on Livingston Lodge Road clues me into my proximity to the lake and excitement begins to flutter within me like a butterfly crawling out of its cocoon into the warm breeze of summer. Beyond the pine-lined driveway the Little Log Cabin beams into my view. We are here, at the one place that has been a constant in my life. I cherish Mascoma Lake—its beauty, its tranquility, its wildness with an admiration that floods like its own waters—like the long-loved place that it is for my family. My bare feet press the jagged edges of the gravel and prompt me to scamper onto the deck of our home, like the squirrels running tree-to-tree. I open the rickety screen door to have a gust of musty, mothball-filled air welcome me after a winter of being away.

It is time to open the porch windows and allow the wind to soar through like the bald eagle whose presence graces us—speaking to the ambiance of adventure that awaits to be restored. The warmth of the sun’s rays cast encouragement for me to journey beyond the Charlie Brown tree and onto the hand-crafted, splintery docks built by the previous generation. The intricacy of this familiar path brings me to the water sports that my family knows as emblems of belonging. We swim through the slimy lake-weed, we build sandcastle towns on the beach, we fly across waves on tubes, skis, or wakeboards in toe of the boat, we jet-ski to the Baited Hook Restaurant for ice cream, or we kayak around the enchanted islands.

At the age of nine, the structures changed and the Little Log Cabin evolved into my grandmother’s dream dwelling—the Lake House. The lake and people continue to fuel my sense of wonderment and stand against the fleeting figures of construction. Our family is anchored here, in the rise of the mountains and the sink of the lake.