The first whisper of dawn painted the tent canvas a soft grey. Before the full light could break, another sensation filled the small space: the sharp, distinctive scent of naphtha burning steadily on the Coleman stove. It was a familiar aroma, a herald of adventures to come. Perched above the blue flame, an old, well-loved kettle hummed its gentle song as the water within danced and steamed.
Each bubble rising and breaking was a tiny promise of warmth against the coming chill. Outside, the air would be crisp, the ice vast and waiting. But here, in the cozy confines of the tent, with the promise of hot coffee or tea brewing, was a pocket of perfect stillness. These are the moments savored, the quiet prelude to the day’s icy pursuit. It was time. Time to face the frozen lake and cast a line into the depths.
