It has been a most amazing 24 hours. Only yesterday, at 6:30 am, we were sitting in the parking lot of a cafe in Oquossoc, Maine (after having seen our first moose), wondering where to begin. We were looking for a needle in a haystack.

This story goes back to my first job out of college, when I worked the night shift. My friends in those days were people who slept in the morning, worked in the evening, and stayed awake all night. We knew where to find the all-night restaurants, all-night grocery stores — even places where you could buy clothes or craft supplies or greeting cards in the middle of the night. I once bought a pair of roller skates, complete with purple wheels, at 3 am.

Over the years, I lost track of my nighttime friends, Pat, Kevin, David. But David, in particular, stayed lodged in my memory, because with him, I’d had the most marvelous adventures, hatching crazy schemes, walking on railroad bridges, taking my then-new car on midnight drives. I wondered what had become of him and what he was doing with his creativity and brilliance.

I tried “googling” him, but no luck. Someone with a fairly common name, who could work in any field he chose, whose last known address was New York City, is simply ungooglable.

I had one tiny clue: A lake in remote Maine, where his parents had a vacation cabin, 20 years ago.

Barry and I have never been to Maine until now. We discussed where to go, what to see. “Mooselookmeguntic Lake,” I said, explaining the connection. He was immediately curious, having never met David. “We can go,” he said, “but only on one condition: We have to try to find their cabin.” We both thought spending a few days at this lake in Maine, asking after someone, was a good excuse to meet some local people, even if our search was totally in vain.

So at 6:30 am, we started at the grocery store, the only place in town that was open. The clerk was friendly, but didn’t know of the Watsons. After a few minutes, a fellow came in, wearing plaid. The clerk asked him. “Aye-yup,” he answered. “Over behind the Dunns’ garages, and they’re here” he said.

It couldn’t be this easy. Since it was still only 6:40, we waited a few hours. Around 9 o’clock, we drove up the narrow dirt track and banged on the door. No answer, but a car was parked nearby. Maybe an extra car, and they were already out for the day? Back in the van, we got ourselves stuck in the driveway. Lots of tire-spinning and swearing, engine revving and noise before we made it out.

At the head of the road, we asked around. The fellow in the store knew my friend, said he’d just been there a few weeks ago. He said there was somebody up there now, probably a relative. “Summer folks sleep in,” he said, to explain why they didn’t answer the door. “That can’t be,” I said to myself, thinking of the racket we’d made in their driveway.

So we headed up the road, looked up the permanent address on the tax records. If there was nobody at the cabin, at least I could write to them in New Jersey. A while later, we decided to try again.

This time, we parked in a safe spot, and I got out and looked around me more carefully. Through the trees, only its roofline visible, was another cabin. But there seemed to be no way to the front door. We picked our way through the woods, over a path-that-was-not-a-path.

Nestled so well into the trees as to be almost invisible was a pair of small cabins, joined by a sweeping deck over the lake. Earlier that morning, we’d been Knocking at the wrong cabin.

A woman came to the door, her face curious but open. I was nervous, unsure how to explain myself. I uttered about ten words before David’s sister Suzanne threw her head back and just started laughing and laughing. Somehow, I’d made it into family legend as “Margaret from Ohio,” and after almost 20 years, she and her mother, neither of whom I’d met, knew exactly who I was. They invited us in for coffee, and for the longest time, Suzanne and Patricia and I just kept looking at each other and laughing out loud, as if fate had always meant for us to meet in this remote place, in these unlikely circumstances.

We talked for hours, getting to know each other. David was the connection, but not the only topic of conversation. Patricia, who’s battling cancer in her 80′s, has been a police reporter, socialist activist, and ad agency executive. Her life has taken her from Saskatchewan to Ohio to New York, which is the place she likes best. She lost her husband, whom they called “Big” David, just seven years ago. They’d had this cabin for 30 years; it was built over a hundred years ago. In the Maine style, they call it a “camp.” Only recently, they found out from a historian that the camp was originally known as “The Crow’s Nest.” Suzanne is ambivalent about having a name for the place, thinks it pretentious, but can’t argue with a name that actually goes back a hundred years.

Suzanne lives in New York, too, and recently has been taking care of her mother full-time. She’s lively and energetic, full of stories about New York, friends, books, movies, music, and things they’ve done at the cabin. Eventually, she called David and we talked on the phone for the first time in almost 20 years. It was not the easiest conversation; where do you start, and what do you talk about after all that time? Meanwhile, Barry and the other two were having a grand time getting to know each other as new friends. On her leash, Prussia came down the path to the house, then spent a few hours sticking her nose in all sorts of corners and making herself at home.

Barry and I took a swim from their private beach, admired their sailboat and canoe, enjoyed dinner and Bananas Foster, always talking, talking, sharing stories and experiences. That night, the moon’s reflection glittered over the black surface of the lake. We slept in the van in their woods, awakening to a misty fog and chattering chipmunks.

All day, I was sort of numb with shock. I couldn’t believe the Watsons still owned the cabin. I couldn’t believe that we’d found it, an invisible place on a vast lake. I couldn’t believe we’d connected with Patricia and Suzanne on the one day before they returned home. Mostly, I couldn’t believe they knew of me, and remembered who I was.

When the morning started, all I had were some memories of an old friend and one 5-syllable name, Mooselookmeguntic. Now, I’d not only found my lost friend (who may or may not prefer to stay lost!), but I’d added 24 hours of irreplaceable memories with his surprising and wonderful family.