The fresh air smells like a mix of mucky water, and of hamburgers and hot dogs cooking on a grill outside. A calm breeze sweeps across the lake as soon as I step onto the dock. The view of Platte Lake is all around me when I jump on the rusty, old dock. Off to the side of the dock next to a tree sits an antique paddle boat. Old stickers cover the boat, but most have peeled off like paint chips off of an old fence. The back of the boat is spattered with dismantled cobwebs and spiders crawling nearby reconstructing their homes from every time someone uses the boat. Water from the lake seeps into the boat from the bottom, where the pedals situated. Looking back at the lake, there are boats, preferably in the one spot I call my “hot spot” which
“I’ll get the paddleboard on the rocks,” I called up to Mason. He was already halfway up the stone stairs that led up the hill. I leaped up onto the first stair, and bounded up the hill, jumping two stairs with every stride. I was overjoyed to be in Northern Michigan on Long Lake, the largest of the twenty inland lakes in Long Lake Township. My hockey teammate, Mason, had invited me up to his amazing lake house.
Greasy Lake “Greasy Lake” by T. Coraghessan Boyle is a story about a 19 year old young boy, the narrator, who learns that his bad boy image is just an image. Describing himself and his friends, Digby and Jeff, as “dangerous characters” (Boyle 77), he soon realizes that he may not be ready for such a title. Out with his friends one summer night, the narrator, Digby and Jeff head to Greasy Lake in hopes of getting into some type of “adventure” (Boyle 78). Thinking that they have spotted their friends car on Greasy Lake they attempt to play a joke on him and his girl. Once the young boys approach the car they soon realize that the car belongs to some other “bad greasy character” (Boyle 78).
The view from the road of the lake during the afternoon in a quiet town gives the reader a sense of solitariness. The narrator describes that “Norman Bowker followed the tar road on its seven-mile loop around the lake, then he started all over again, driving slowly, feeling safe inside his father's big Chevy, now and then looking out on the lake to watch the boats and water-skiers and scenery” (O’Brien, 137). He feels safe in his car, silently protected from the terrors of the world. At the same time, though, it is beautiful and peaceful as he watches the scenery. Bowker drives for quite a long time.
My favorite places all have one thing in common, time seems to slow down when I’m there. One such place is Sebago Lake, specifically, during sunrise. Every year my family visits Sebago one week during summer, and on the second day, my dad and I wake early to put our boat in the water. On that morning I have to get dressed in the dark. I pad downstairs, grab a box of cereal, and hustle out to the truck where my dad waits, the boat trailer hooked to the back.
The fog over the lake was enough to make any skilled sailor turn around, but Heather and Jane moved further away from the marina with every stroke of the oar. There was a slight breeze in the early morning air. "It sure is a nice day for relaxation," Jane chirped. Heather 's head nodded I agreement. They were several hundred yards away from shore, out in the calm water.
Chirp! Splash! Tweet! How was I supposed to sleep with all the different noises that nature produces? Spending time in the wilderness was not something I thought possible.
Kiefer and I looked at each other confused when we realized a boat was zooming toward us. In a panic, we attempt to scramble out of the way because since the bottom of the seadoo was black, a ship wouldn’t be able to see us and potentially chop us into bits. Since we couldn’t move the seadoo fast enough, we had to profusely wave our hands back and forth for the boat to see us. It looked like the boat was heading our direction, full speed ahead, when last second it swings around us, avoiding us by a thread, and then proceeds. The only remains of that experience were the four-foot waves that swamped us and the seadoo, once
I started my life in Lino Lakes. A cute little suburban town, just north of the twin cities. The streets are lined with houses of varying sizes. My house fell in the middle, it fit my family perfectly. My house consisted of two floors, with 3 bedrooms.
The problem with Lake Erie is that it is infested with this toxic algae making it hard for the people of Toledo to drink it. The causes of the bacteria didn’t start in Toledo. It stated hundreds of miles from Toledo. The algae are fed by natural and commercial fertilizers from the watersheds, farms, livestocks, and city sewers. All of the waste from those sources form in the shallowest part of Lake Erie, and when the water warms the bacteria spreads.
With most of the area covered with grass and mud, the best way to see hard to reach places is through an airboat, as the boat moves through a fan rather than a
Oh my gosh why are they dumping trash in Lake Erie! Did you know that in the 1960’s Lake Erie had an algae problem like it does now. “By the 1960s, Lake Erie had become extremely polluted” (Michael Rotman). In the 1960’s Lake Erie was heavily polluted by industrial pollution from Cleveland and other cities with large or small industries.
With more than half of the world's population now living in urban areas compared to less than 40% in 1990, But still people want to spend their vacation at natural relaxing places. Wisconsin Dells may be known as "The Waterpark Capital Of the World!", but world famous indoor watermarks aren't only reason to visit there are scenic tours and thrilling attractions also. How to get there Fly Fly to Milwaukee or Madison and rent a car to drive Dells.
I originally thought spending thirty minutes outside alone without any technology, friends, or distractions was going to be extremely difficult for me. I do not consider myself an outdoor kind of person. So when I first read the assignment I did not really want to do it. I decided since I had to do this I would go some place that is really nice in hope that it would make it easier for me to tolerate being there. I went to Lake Wauberg here at the University of Florida.
Smooth, oval rocks lined the bank of the secretive lake. Discarded and neglected; overlaid with spongy moss and choked by fallen, decaying leaves from the unclothed and withering trees above. As the lake swelled around the ashen boulders, icy, black water lifelessly lapped against the long, thin beams of wood holding up a rickety pier. The structure was covered in splinters and ragged, iron nails, and as it reached out into the centre of the sombre lake, it became more and more distant. Half-cut beams lined the sides of the pier, as nettle patches hissed from the shore when the water drew too near.
“What a great day for a boat ride,” I thought to myself. It is a cozy warm, shorts and short sleeve shirt day at the time that people are arriving onto the big bulky catamaran. The sky is light blue with some dainty see-through clouds and a slight warm western breeze. I am located on one of the tropical islands of Hawaii, Kauai. The glossy white surface of the boat is blinding because of the reflection from the early evening sun.