This morning’s sunrise was beautiful, supremely lovely, beyond words to describe. The water was still and clear, not a person or a building in sight, and it was cold, so there was mist rising from the water. Enough of a breeze that the mist was drifting by quickly, a fast-paced cloud, and behind it, through it, over it, the sun was slowly changing the color of the sky. It was a pastel rainbow reflected in the water, so beautiful it was literally breathtaking. Surreal. Like being inside one of those scenic photographs that I skeptically think have probably been Photoshopped to death.

And there was a noise from behind me, not quite at the same time, but so loud and so weird that I thought some strange steampunk vehicle must be coming my way. It turned out to be a flock of tiny birds, shadows of black against the sky, spiraling up and away, and squeak, squeak, squeaking like tires desperately in need of some oil.

A huge spider — seriously, huge — had built a perfect web at precisely the distance from the walkway where I could admire how beautiful and precise it was without being completely freaked out by having a huge spider near me. One step forward and it disappeared, one step backward and it did the same, but at exactly the right angle, right position, I could see the fine lines of silk against the backdrop of blue sky.

The water had lily pads, lots of them, but also water grass, and the water grass looked like it ought to be out of some movie about the Jurassic. I’m calling it grass because it was shaped just like grass, flat stalks tapering to a point, but it was huge, probably at least four feet high, and thick as my arm, colored red and green, and when the sun finally rose high enough, golden as the sun hit it.

I should probably just grab my phone and go take some pictures. But it’s too late for the sunrise, and photographs, mine at least, never capture the real beauty of a scene. It would be missing the cool breeze, with air brisk enough that my nose got chilled. And the morning stillness that can encompass noisy birds, rustles in the brush, the occasional splash in the water, and yet still feel silent. And nothing about a photograph would ever convey the sense of awe I felt, the wonder.

Or, for that matter, the growl of my stomach and need to pee that finally motivated me to turn my back on the water and head home to the camper. Although I guess that’s probably just as well, although the idea of virtual reality photographs that convey the biological needs of the photographer really amuses me for some reason.

Anyway, beautiful, beautiful sunrise and Lake Louisa is a spectacular state park. I was only here for the night, but I’d love to come back here and stay longer while the weather is still cool. I was planning to get out of Florida as soon as I finished up some responsibilities and spent Thanksgiving with family, but it’s finally starting to get nice here. Maybe I’ll spend some more time wandering around the state parks instead.

I am staying at the nicest campground I have experienced in my entire journey. It’s nicer than the state park in Pennsylvania, which was really pretty spectacular, and it’s nicer than the lovely independent campground in Vermont where I was so content, and it’s actually prettier than the state park on the beach in Florida that was recommended to me by multiple people. It might not be prettier than the beautiful campground on the coast in Maine, though.

But! The campsite is dramatically better. Better than all of them. It’s unequivocally the best campsite I’ve had in the past three plus months. It’s got a grill (would that I had charcoal) and a firepit with benches (would that I had firewood) and a view of the water. At the moment, I can’t hear anything but chirping birds and the sound of my fan, but there are also chattering squirrels and the occasional clunk of an acorn hitting the roof of Serenity. It’s serene and mellow but also efficient and ready for fun. I really do wish I had both charcoal and firewood, so I could grill some burgers and then sit around my comfortable fire after it gets dark. This being Florida, I suspect there are probably an insane number of mosquitoes after dark, but I’d pull out the heavy-duty insect repellant, because it would be so worth it. The benches by the fire pit look out over the lake and it’s probably incredible with firelight reflecting off the water as the sun goes down.

Here is a lovely irony about this campground: I’m only here because it’s really close to my dad’s house. When I check out on Wednesday, I’m going to find out how to make reservations for longer periods of time (today I just showed up) and I’m going to do my best to wind up with two weeks here (the longest you’re allowed to stay) at some point in the nearish future. It feels like a very good place to write a book.

And I have just wasted much time trying to upload a picture of the view from my window, but my internet is not obliging. So imagine trees draped with spanish moss, water with spiky grasses and a reflection of grey sky, and two sturdy benches around a fire pit. And I’ll stop wasting my time arguing with the internet — why, oh why, must you be so slow, oh internet? — and move on to writing my real words for the day.