The Boathouse

On a rainy afternoon, I drove out to Buntzen Lake. I had a few frames left on a roll of film and was looking for somewhere to spend them.

I wound my way through the mountainside neighbourhood; upwards I climbed while the engine groaned until the road evened out and trees swallowed it whole. Rain fell from the branches in fat drops that popped on the windshield. The wiper blades whined across the glass.

As I stepped out into the parking lot, the gravel crunched beneath my boots. The elevation turned my breath into a cloud. I hung my camera over my shoulder and stuck my hands into my pockets, hiding them from the cold.

Walking along the lake, I listened to two old men fishing talk about the coming weather. Rain echoed on the surface of the water. I did not know what I was looking for, but I knew I had not found it yet.

As I turned to take a forest path, I took one last glance behind me. A single boathouse floated silently under the drifting clouds; its reflection slowly shimmered like a dream. I exposed the final few frames and headed home, swaggering like a hunter with their prize.

Originally published on Physical Grain (now defunct).

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