Tents and trailers of all shapes and sizes lined the narrow road, tightly knit together, like packs of sardines.  Sleep-deprived adults and children still lay nestled in their sleeping bags, tired from the restless night before.  The campfires that were once filled with dancing flames, were now only dark piles of lifeless ash. The soothing harmony of crickets and frogs filled the cold air with a tranquil chorus; their songs echoed through the woods and past the lake.  In a matter of hours, their delicate songs would be bombarded by wailing children and the booming chatter of adults -- silence’s worst nightmare.   

Myesha and I were the first campers awake as we walked on the familiar long gravel road surrounded by dewy grass that had led us to and from the lake numerous mornings before.  Myesha, the person who trips over her own feet and accidentally drops numerous things on the ground, walked calm and graceful with a fishing rod firmly grasped in one hand and bait in the other -- careful not to wake the sleeping campers with any unwanted noise.  We sucked in the crisp morning air that began to awaken us slowly.  We walked in complacent silence until we arrived near the dock that we now thought of as one thing: home.  The chirps of crickets and croaks of frogs became louder now as we approached closer to the water, their soft commotion rang through our ears like a symphony.  The sour smell of fermented fish guts and scattered fragments of bait greeted our noses as we stepped onto the rickety dock. Condensation still covered the rugged surface of the structure that was surrounded by clouds of fog that eerily lifted from the water.  We began to prepare our lines with bits of leftover hotdogs, skewered them onto our hooks, and then quickly started to cast our lines out to the middle of the lake; we awaited our first bites. One cast quickly led to the next. We repeatedly celebrated our triumphs and soon forgot our defeats if one had outwitted us and slipped off the line.

A woman who lived on the campground would watch and listen to our calm morning ventures as we fished for hours on end, glued to the dock.  She sat perched in a rocking chair like a hawk beside her rusted trailer as she smoked a cigarette and drank her morning coffee -- a mixture that you could smell from miles away.  She wore a tattered flannel jacket paired with frayed pajama pants; her tangled brown hair tainted with grey whisps was pulled back into a low bun. Only in the instance that Myesha and I discovered that a hook got burrowed into one of our catches by mistake, would she detach herself from her trusty rocking chair.  When the problem arose, we would give her one of our we-are-terribly-sorry-but-we-need- your-help looks, verifying our inexperience. Instantly, she would set down her coffee mug next to her tin ashtray and make her way down to the dock. Her rugged face enveloped welcoming eyes as she put her strong, calloused hand into the fish without hesitation and unhooked it with ease as the other hand grasped her burning cigarette tightly.  We would thank her as she made her way back to the rocking chair where she would begin to light a new cigarette and sip her coffee.

Before we knew it, the sun began to wake up along with the campers.  We packed up our tackle box that consisted of our miscellaneous fishing supplies: rusted hooks, leftover hotdog bits, and a pair of mangled pliers.  As we made our way up the hill and past the rusted trailer to merge onto the gravel path, the woman shouted up the hill from the comfort of her shabby wooden rocking chair to Myesha and I.  “In all my years of living,'' she said with a smirk across her face, “I have never been more excited to get up in the morning. Thank you for giving me something to look forward to waking up to.  I am truly grateful.” We beamed in appreciation and waved goodbye as we told her that we couldn’t wait to see her again the next morning. That was the first time she had spoken to us, but it wasn’t the last.    

  We began to trek our way back through the tightly knit rows of trailers and tents as we followed the long gravel road that seemed to last forever.  Our feet brushed up against the once dew-covered grass that was now baked dry from the intense summer sun as we walked off the road, near the camp.  We were soon surrounded by the bombarding chirps and croaks of campers who had finally woken from their long hibernation to prepare breakfast for themselves and others over lively fires.  The peace and quiet had disappeared without a trace. If only we had stayed on the long gravel road. Maybe then the silence wouldn’t have ceased to exist.