07/27/2026
There are places that become more than a place. They become your safe space, your peace, your home. For me, that place has always been the Water Bowl.
Tonight the water is perfectly still—like glass. Not a ripple. My fishing pole rests quietly in the water as I float beneath a sky full of stars. The sun slowly disappears beyond the trees while Spotless by Zach Bryan plays in the background. In moments like this, time seems to stand still.
But the silence feels different now.
I miss hearing the laughter from the campers, the conversations drifting across the water, the kids making memories they'll never forget, and seeing familiar faces return year after year. I miss the life that filled this place just as much as I miss the place itself.
More than anything, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't keep it alive the way it deserved. I wish I could have done more to protect something that meant so much to so many people. The Water Bowl wasn't just mine—it belonged to every person who found peace here, who caught their first fish, watched a sunset from the dock, or simply escaped the noise of the world for a little while.
Even though things have changed, the memories haven't. They'll always live in the reflection of this glass-like water, in every sunset, every star-filled night, and every song that brings me back here.
If you've ever shared a memory at the Water Bowl, know that you were part of something special. Thank you for loving this place with me. I miss it every single day, and I always will.
