THE AIR SMELLS SWEET and sticky; it smells of soapberries, though they are mere green blobs right now, so all I smell is a promise; I like it, it has a tinge of humbleness to it. On my right, as I walk the trail, the lake surface is coated in sunshine and parts of it look like liquid gold. White puffs of clouds are pinned to a perfect baby blue sky and their reflections are so clear you could almost scoop them out of the water. This is a gift; all of it.
The path is lined with the small bright suns of arnica flowers; there are red columbines, tenderly shaking their star-shaped heads as if to disperse the relentless cloud of mosquitoes; slender light purple lupins and prickly rose bushes loaded with pink fragrant flowers. There is buzzing and barely audible water noises, until fish break through the liquid ceiling of their home and find themselves sun-kissed for a second.
It’s hard not to stop to take it all in properly but I can barely afford this luxury as mosquitoes are landing on me as soon as I slow down, hungry and merciless, doing what they ought to do to keep on existing.