We glided into the cove with as few, quiet strokes as possible. Halfway around the dappled expanse, we backed our kayaks up against a dead tree and sat back to savor the view.

Hundreds of hot pink blossoms floated along the lakeshore opposite us, waxy green petals touching, undulating slightly as the last ripple from our oars passed underneath them. Tiny dragonflies with gauzy blue wings flitted across the massive floral display, and we sat so still they were soon alighting on us. Hundreds of creatures croaked and chirped, unseen.

A quick dip in the cool water would have felt incredible -- after just an hour of paddling in the late-morning sun, my legs were already a painful red -- but we didn't want to disturb the thick, pulsating calm.

Then we spotted the blue heron we'd been following around the lake. He was just beyond the cove, posted atop another fallen tree. We pushed off, determined to sneak up on him.

The writer Henry James once said -- as remembered by his friend and rival, Edith Wharton -- that to him the two most beautiful words in the English language had always been "summer afternoon."

That makes lovely sense for a chilly New Englander transplanted to temperate Old England, but this Midwesterner transplanted to Pittsburgh prefers a summer morning, before the heat overwhelms. "Summer afternoon" -- the syllables bounce a bit and end with an upward lilt, but "summer morning" murmurs with promise.

Though for us it was a short summer, each day's promise was largely fulfilled. It started with that kayak excursion just a three-hour drive from Pittsburgh, over the Fourth of July weekend.

Then we hit the road twice, wrapping vacations, one long, one short, around business trips to the Northeast. We stuffed the truck with bikes and tent and coolers full of food, traveling on the cheap. We took back roads and we took our time.

We had two purposes -- to see as much of the country as we could, and to inaugurate me into the ways of camping. The latter proceeded fitfully, as the initial campground experience served to reinforce my belief that civilization, with its buildings, bathrooms and air conditioning, is a fine thing.

But I'll do it again, and not simply to cut costs. I saw how camping's rituals set up a different pace for the day. The family of three next to us at a Maine campground had their rhythms down pat: Each found a perch some distance apart, sat down with a book and a steaming mug, and fell into a companionable silence.

That first morning in Maine, my husband and I climbed down the rocky shoreline and waded out to a slab of rock jutting up from the harbor floor. We sat for one hour, then another. The tide went out, leaving tiny fish stranded in small pools of water dotting the glinting granite. I'll remember that morning.

It's been 40 years since my parents hauled us three kids from Kansas City to Maine, but driving up Cadillac Mountain again brought snapshots of memories back. I remembered my dad weaving and swerving intentionally, to make us kids shriek in half-real fear. I remembered the fresh-boiled lobster -- exotic seafood! -- and melted butter and the constant strong wind.

I didn't remember all the white birch trees, dazzling against the green grass and giant firs.

I didn't remember the blueberries either -- maybe it was too early in the season, in June of 1970 -- but they were amazing this time, tiny and intense.

Back in Pittsburgh the farmer's market was bursting with raspberries, blackberries, blueberries -- summer's pucker, tart and sweet. They were perfect with breakfast granola and yogurt, and equally good in a cobbler topped with melting ice cream. I'll think of that in, say, February.

And boats crowded the Allegheny River, hovering near a Sunday afternoon Pirates game. We bicycled the riverfront trail, dodging kayak renters under the Clemente Bridge on our way west, then weaving among for-once happy baseball fans heading home, like us.

Winter will bring the more reliable performance of the city's football and hockey teams, but the joyous weekend boaters will gradually disappear, and the only berries will come frozen from plastic bags.

Last week a second trip east took us to Westbrook, Conn., site of the "National Muster," where thousands gathered to celebrate the country's heritage of fife-and-drum corps music. Friendships were rekindled, tunes played and tales spun under achingly blue skies.

Saturday night, we shared a valedictory dinner of melon and Iberico ham, heirloom tomatoes and grilled trout. We toasted our friends, and we toasted the summer.

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