A mirror-still glacial lake at dawn, mist rising, dark evergreens reflected on the surface.

Glass-still at dawn, copper at dusk, frozen by January.

Glacial-fed, remarkably clear, and quiet enough to hear your own oars. Here the only clock is the light moving across the water.

The lake gallery

Across the cycles of the sun and season.

A weathered wooden dock extending into a misty, silent lake at dawn, wood silvered by age.
A lone green rowboat tethered to a small jetty on perfectly still water reflecting the forest.
A wide sunset over the lake in deep copper and amber, sun dipping below a jagged ridge.
The glacial lake partially frozen, translucent ice plates on dark ink-colored water.
The lake during a gentle rainstorm, rings from raindrops texturing the surface, low clouds on the pines.
Clear lake water over smooth multi-colored river stones in ochre, slate, and charcoal.
The lake in autumn framed by desaturated gold and orange deciduous trees among dark evergreens.
Twilight over the lake under a star-filled sky, the Milky Way faint above silhouetted mountains.

The ritual of the shore.

There are no motors here. No jet skis, no amplified music, no notifications. The lake is best at three miles an hour — the speed of a steady rowing stroke or a slow swim.

In spring the water is a bracing wake-up for the soul. By August it's a silk-warm embrace. Even in winter, when the edges crackle with ice, it offers a clarity you won't find in the city.

sailing

“The lake is a teacher of patience. It does not rush for you.”

— A local guide, since 1984

Ready to lose track of time?

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