At the first peals of saxophone, Amy cranks the Jeep’s radio. Sure, George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” debuted before half the passengers were born, but that doesn’t stop us from crooning along at the top of our voices. By now, the interstates have narrowed to one-lane highways; the towns have dissolved into dense pine stands. It’s like we can feel how close we are to a weekend of fun, sun, and water—and we’re pumped. Then, the first brilliant silver flashes through the trees. The lake!
We park and, abandoning the groceries in the trunk, hurry out to the tip of a little peninsula. The setting sun lights up the pristine reservoir in neon pinks and saturated peaches. Kerry, a photographer by trade, is already clicking away behind me. Way to roll out the red carpet, Lake Martin, I think to myself.