I woke up with a slap in the face. It was my own hand, unconsciously doing what it had been doing all week, slaying mosquitoes. I wrapped my fleece jacket tighter around my head and tried to fall back asleep, but the damage was done. I peeked through a burn hole in my jacket and saw molten gold rays filtering through lodgepole pine. I staggered out of my sleeping bag, still swatting at mosquitoes, and went to the beach. The sun was rising over the Gros Ventre range. To the west, jutting out of the water, Mount Bivouac and Mount Moran were glowing a rosy pink. The whole island felt like it was buoyed by light.

I blinked twice, trying to focus on my watch: 5:30 a.m. Thank god, I thought. I might have a few minutes to myself. Then I heard the telltale slap of a toilet lid on the groover and knew I wasn’t the only one awake. I stuffed my sleeping bag quickly and headed toward the kitchen.

Gina and Jeannie were milling around the kayaks, “You’re so cute when you’re sleeping,” Gina said. “You’re squirmy.”

I laughed. “I guess you’re glad you had a tent.” She nodded fiercely.

At 8 years old, Gina was fearless, but she clung tightly to her comforts. The day before, I watched her run across a log bridge while it was snapping in half below her. She fell in, waded to the rock she wanted to climb and then instead of waiting for a piggy-back ride to shore, she took jumped back into the water thinking she’d have better luck wading than trying to cross another log.

I filled a big pot of water and set it on the blaster to boil for coffee. Gina and Jeannie talked softly to each other as I assembled the kitchen. Assemble knife bag, commissary box, spice kit, utensils, and lighters. Open supply rocket and set out breakfast condiments: cocoa, creamer, sugar, oatmeal, tea. All pieces of a giant puzzle that we take apart and put back together every day.

Once the coffee was set out, Becca strolled into the middle of the tent group and bellowed the OARS wake-up call, “Gooooooood morning campers! We’ve got coffee, we’ve got cocoa, we’ve got teas from around the world!”

As I clutched my coffee and caffeine worked its way into my bloodstream I felt supremely happy. Guests came rolling out of their tents, hair rumpled and eyes crusted, grinning as they took in their first morning on Grassy Island.

“I can’t believe how well I slept,” said Mark, filling his mug with coffee and more sugar than I’ve ever seen a grown man consume. “It’s just so quiet out here.”

Being comfortable outside doesn’t happen overnight. Our clients were also learning how to assemble their own puzzles. Tents that had almost brought one mother to tears were now pitched and disassembled with confidence. I could hear the clacking of fiberglass rods being broken down and hiss of nylon on nylon.

It may take a day or two, but everyone eventually settles into the rhythm of the lake. I love that moment when the guests finally relax, when time slips away and they stop worrying about the weather or the miles we have to paddle. Suddenly, living an exposed life isn’t so scary anymore. A wild place feels like home, and they don’t mind defecating into a metal box in the open air.

Later that day, after a long day of paddling and hiking as we lounge around a campfire in our “living room” on Grassy, I saw the same contented grins. Now, they nursed beer instead of coffee. Talk eddied back to the beautiful places we’d seen.

“I feel like I’ve always lived on this island,” said Josh, perched in the curve of a twisted lodgepole.

Ty nodded sagely, “I know what you mean, man.”