I’m at my computer, working, hardly noticing the world with now predawn light.
Finally, I look up. What’s this? It seems awfully undefined out there.
Fog. I go up on the condo roof to see how thick it is. Doesn’t look too bad from up there. But is it coming or going?
By the time I set out for campus on my bike, I know the answer: it’s coming. It’s a chilled pea soup out there. I notice there’s a light patchy frost on the ground. My camera is dripping as if it had been hit by a shower. I’ve never biked through fog before.
It’s biting, but manageable, except on the descent. Then I feel like I’m plunging into nothingness. Not too many hills though. When you approach the isthmus, things level out considerably.
And by the time I'm on the path to Picnic Point and the lake, I see that the battle is done: the fog made a grand entrance and a speedy, wimpy retreat.
I can pick out distant buildings. Loons in the foreground, the Capitol, somewhere there...
Yeah. Looking back at Picnic Point I see that the day will be ok.
Today, I’ll take "ok."
Those are some spectacular pictures, Nina. I love the one with the color-changed trees on the left and fog on the right. Absolutely gorgeous.
ReplyDeleteAs for settling for "ok", I find that doing that occasionally is a fine thing, but when you feel like your whole life is simply "ok" it gets a bit tiresome.
I walked the dog around 6:30am and it was dark and clear enough that I could see two women walking through the high school field. I walked around the block to cut back through the same field just as dawn started to break and all of a sudden there the dog and I were in a bowl of fog. It was quite extraordinary.
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