I water-taxi to Dead Lake’s North Bay. As I set off from my dock, I feel as though I am taking my dog to the vet to be put down. I hope the wind dries my tears before I reach the access so no one will know this silly woman cries when she says a seasonal good-bye to her pontoon. Around every cluster of reeds I navigate and every downed leaf I pass along my liquid road, I grow closer to the boat access and our Quonset hut where the pontoon will hibernate until it’s “ice out.” Last year, the…

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