I'm wind-bound, two and a half miles north of the entrance to White Lake, and the town of Whitehall. From the water's edge, across the 30-foot-wide beach, across 70 feet of dune grass, a bluff rises. I set camp on a trail maintained by the four-leggeds, about 40 feet up. Another 100 feet or so above my perch, at the top of the bluff, is a golf course, maintained by the four-wheelers. My leafy refuge is beautiful. I should take a photo. But the contrast, between the rippling hot silver surf out there, and the cool green canopy I'm under, is too great for even digital media, so I leave it for the mind's eye to remember. It will also want to remember the eagle that drifted by, at eye level, this morning. I was looking out at the lake through the boughs of the little pine at the edge of the ledge, when it soundlessly passed, just on the other side of the tree, within 15 feet of the teacup in my hand. I just went down to the lake to get some water. The waves are about 4 to 5 feet high, and I had to go out a bit to get some that wasn't sandy. The water is warm, maybe 70F or so, but much cooler than the air, which must be pushing 90F. It's starting to feel like fall, though, and it's a cold front that's making these waves. Another sign is the mosquitoes, and the black flies, have retreated. I'm sitting here in the sun-dappled woods in shorts, with shirt and shoes and hat off. Will probably have poison ivy rash in a day or two, but I'm here for today.