By Merisa Sherman
It’s 4:20 in the morning and I am woken up to the sound of the birds chirping with the oncoming sunrise. I move in my sleeping bag, trying to stretch out my body from what could pass as a comfortable night. Opening my eyes, I look out through the tent screen and can see the pinks of the sunrise just starting to take over the sky. The water is almost deathly still, weighed down by the morning mist. It’s going to be a perfect sunrise, if only I could drag myself out of the comfort of the tent to really watch it.
I debate taking the canoe out for a spin or doing true sun salutations as the morning begins. But it’s so snuggly in the tent and the air is just a wee bit too chilly to make me want to get out of my sleeping bag. I look down at my feet and Vespi is snuggled up so peacefully, her little nose resting on my shins. I cannot move without waking her, so I just lie peacefully, gazing out through the bug screen of the tent.
It’s this pre-dawn moment that makes the night of sleeping on a 2-inch-thick sleeping pad so very much worth it. Over the years, I’ve actually taken to laying my yoga mat underneath the pad as well. It’s certainly not a luxurious feather mattress, but it’s better than being stabbed by a root or rock for the duration of the night — that is, until the night it deflates because you are just unlucky.
But last night was perfect, and this morning even more so. Vespi moves her golden head to focus her dewy eyes on me and I know it’s finally to time to unzip the sleeping bag and head out into the cold morning air. I grab the toiletry dry bag and slide the zippers along as quietly as possible, rolling back the tent fly. Now comes the part where we see how well the sleeping pad worked, as I attempt to crawl out of the tent without falling over. Agile as always, Vespi has already leaped out of the tent and is now staring at me as I struggle with all my aching limbs. As I finally stumble forward, she shakes her head and heads off into the woods for her morning constitutional, leaving me fumbling with all my human trappings.
We meet at the food, hanging from a tree away from all the mice and squirrels and bears and whatever other animal might have interest in Vespi’s dog food and our breakfast. She is waiting for me, her golden retriever mind as always focused on any and all food. Frustrated with how slow I am, she gives me a dirty look of impatience. It’s her favorite attitude to display. I untie the knot and slowly lower the food bags to the ground, as Vespi’s entire body begins to wiggle in anticipation. It makes me wonder if she loves me or just the food I provide her.
We drag the bags to the waterline and I get out the little camping stove, priming and pumping until the thing resembles a Bunsen burner from high school science class. I set up the filtered water for tea and look over at Vespi, who has her face resting on her two paws out in front of her. She is miserable, staring out at the water and waiting — impatiently — for me to fill her bowl with kibble. She won’t even look at me, waiting until she hears that shaking noise of the food being poured into the bowl before scarfing it down in less than 60 seconds.
And then we sit. Me, sipping my brewed tea and her, lounging next to me as we both look out peacefully across the water. We sit, me petting her head, while we both wait for the grogginess to wear off. With the water so still, we are reluctant to move even the slightest, trying to blend in with the wilderness. We hear the morning cry of a loon across the water and just take it all in. The bald eagle flaps his wings directly over head, and we can hear his feathers rustling.
The sun finally makes it’s way into the sky, a big red circle floating up from behind the mountains. I shake out my yoga mat as Vespi does her own downward dog before wandering down to study the fish in the water. I stand in mountain pose at the edge of my mat looking out over the reservoir and take a deep 360 degree breath. It’s time to greet the day.
