FOGGY MORNING RETURN

There's fog along the river this morning—not a lot, but enough to make everything soft and indistinct. The vernal world seen through a misty veil. The forecast says a fifty percent chance of rain. Seeing as how there was a light shower moving through when I got up several hours ago, I say it's already one-hundred percent, though the weather pundits declare such matters in mysterious ways, bending words and definitions into meanings I've yet to figure out. 

Tomorrow is supposed to be partially sunny, then showers for the all of next week. The wildflowers and burgeoning greenery, certainly the toads, peepers and their kin now calling from the bogs and backwaters, will doubtless appreciate the long drink. Personally, I wish it would hold off a bit as I'm just now easing back into the swing of things, outdoorwise. After more than a month of severe pain that ratcheted up and down by the hour, wrecking my sleep and ability to rest, turned typical two-hour writing stints into all-day ordeals, and worst of all, kept me from getting out and about to explore the wondrous progression of my favorite of all seasons—and the reason I finally had to take a hiatus from blogging—finally…finally!…I seem to be getting better. 

Heretofore I've managed—by gritting my teeth and popping pain pills, and usually sweating bullets as I tried to keep my mind focused on the task at hand—to keep up on meetings, work, doctor appointments, and necessary errands. With only a couple of exceptions, I mostly pulled it off…though just barely. But attempting any fun things beyond an expedition to the rocking chair on the deck or the side yard flower beds, was out of the question. Yesterday, however, I was able to get out and poke along one of my favorite nearby trails, enjoy the wildflowers, make a handful of photos. I didn't have the energy for more than an hour, but at this point I'll take whatever I can get—and the best part is that I didn't pay an excruciating penalty afterwards.

I've missed posting, missed your comments and conversation—missed sharing my little corner of the world during this most glorious time of year. Consider this my foggy morning return…and yeah, it sounds like the title of a bluegrass tune. 

———————

DANCE MOMENTS

"…an ethereal silver gauze that hung

above the water like a ghostly naiad…"

There was fog along the river this morning—an ethereal silver gauze that hung above the water like a ghostly naiad, indistinct, translucent, softly mysterious. The sound of the riffle was muted to a murmur, as if for the time being, the river had chosen to convey its elemental secrets in a whisper.

"…The sound of the riffle was muted to a murmur…"

On the gravel bar across from the cottage, a handful of Canada geese preened in the tenebrous blue-green light. Used to my presence, they never lifted their heads from their ablutions as I picked my way down the stone steps.

"…a handful of Canada geese preened

in the tenebrous blue-green light."

The fog was born from the temperature differential between water and air—a clear night and deep chill which had bottomed out near the freezing point after several eighty-degree days. I'd ignored the weather service's warnings and not covered the plants, but luckily, there didn't appear to be any frost damage.

"…I became aware I was not alone in my river-watching."

As I stood on the platform near the water's edge, I became aware I was not alone in my river-watching. Across the channel, in one of the island's sycamores, a turkey vulture sat on a limb twenty feet above the pool below the riffle, alternately keeping a thoughtful eye on both me and the water. They usually don't sit this low so early in the day; you're more likely to see them perched high in the very tops of the tallest trees, wings spread wide as they warm their bones in the first golden wash of morning sunlight. Of course, the sun was still hiding, working it's way to the top of the little hill to the east and expected to make an appearance any moment.

"Eventually, the sun found its way above the hill."

Today I am another year older; one tock closer to the final chime which eventually tolls for one and all—though not a thought I want to dwell on on so glorious a May morning. At best age is a general measurement, a number that often says little about where we stand as individuals, our lives, development, worth, even its expectancy. We all know folks who are "young" or "old" for their age, mature or immature in their outlook and restraint. Some of us get older but refuse to grow up.

"Warm yellow light glimmered through the greenery…"

Eventually, the sun found its way above the hill. Warm yellow light glimmered through the greenery, and varnished the tops of east-facing sycamores downstream. Their white trunks fairly gleamed. A robin sitting under the picnic table found encouragement in this glorious unfolding drama and began singing. A fish rose in the pool. Beginning to feel encouraged myself, I decided to get a rod and see if that bass and I might engage in a morning waltz.

"A robin sitting under the picnic table…"

Life is filled with moments for dance…and I don't want to miss a single opportunity to enjoy my allotted whirls.

———————

FOG FANCIER

A fog which formed and disappeared within the space of five

minutes a few evenings ago, right at dark

—hence the bluish light.

Since moving to this riverbank, I've become something of a fog connoisseur—that is, I've learned to recognize and appreciate fogs in all their diversity. I'm not just talking the difference between wispy-thin fogs and pea-soup-thick fogs, either. I mean a whole gamut—distinct, dissimilar, ranging in density, apparent color, height, and duration, to name just a few variables.

Does that surprise you, strike you as odd—the notion that not all fogs are alike?

At the most basic definition level, fog is simply a massing of tiny water droplets suspended in the air near the ground. Technically, the only difference between fog, mist, and haze is that fog is denser; the only difference between fog and a cloud is that fog is simply a cloud that touches the ground or, say, the tops of trees. Weather specialists differentiate between fog, mist, and haze on a scale of density based on visibility, plus the difference between mist and haze also compares relative humidity.

Dawn three mornings ago, looking up the hill

toward my neighbor's yard.

Yeah, I know, this scientific hair-splitting is about as interesting as watching eggs coddle. I'm not even going to mention such yawn-inducing matters as condensation nuclei, hygroscopic particles, or thermal radiation. Suffice it to say that most fogs, mists, hazes, and clouds form when the relative humidity is at or near 100 percent. Moisture (humidity) gets added to already damp air, or the air or water suddenly changes temperature—all this revolving around the dew point. Okay, no more weather jargon, I promise.

What I find interesting—and most enjoy—is the look of the fog/mist itself, and the way it changes my view of an otherwise familiar landscape. This has partly to do with how thick or thin the fog is, how high up from the ground or water it extends, and whatever light might happen to be shining through.

The island across from the cottage yesterday morning.

Some fogs are so dense it's like being surrounded by a soggy gray blanket. I can't see the island across from the cottage, and once or twice haven't been able to see the big box elder a dozen feet beyond the front door. Other, thinner fogs only lightly veil the world around. Still other fogs are so thick you think you could walk upon them, completely obliterating whatever is below—usually the surface of the river—yet are only two or three feet high…a puffy, silver-white carpet from bank to bank.

Midday a couple of days ago, when the river

was at it highest; it has since gone down.

Illumination is the real show-stopper. Fogs at dawn might be pink or gold, while those at dusk blue, purple, magenta. The fog might be snowy white, glowing spectrally, like a congregation of ghosts. Or pale yellow-green, like sickly protoplasm in an old 1950s horror flick. I've even seen fogs with swirls of color, caused, I suppose, by the rainbow-like prismatic effects of sunlight shining at the optimum angle through those suspended water droplets.

Some fogs take a long time to form or hang around half the morning; others appear and disappear within a matter of minutes.

Unpredictable, ethereal, spooky, ephemeral, mysterious, mesmerizing. I am indeed a fancier of fogs.

———————

AN INDISTINCT WORLD

Yesterday morning, a misty fog magically erased all separation between earth and sky. Instead, one became the other somewhere in the midst of a luminous white veil caused by cold snow cover and warming air. It was visually impossible, no matter how hard you strained to see, to say where one began and the other ended—everything was muddled, indistinct, an atmospheric mystery both oddly comforting and deliciously disquieting.

I thought it was also a nebulous world of soft, glowing beauty, where a pair of towering elms near a two-rail fence were like faded image on an old black & white print, or a young maple seemed suspended, almost floating.

Oaks in a grove up the road from the cottage looked more ephemeral and less sturdy, not at all their usual indomitable stalwart selves. Why, at any moment, they might simply fade away…even that vigorous youngster which had, so far, failed to give up a single one of last year's now-brown leaves.

Alas, while the photographer in me wanted desperately to spend the morning making pictures, there was no time. I had places to go, errands to run, appointments to keep. My time on this day was not my own. A quick look as I drove along was the best I could do…well, almost. I did have my camera on the passenger seat, and I did stop once or twice, roll down the window, and make a few snaps.

Drive-by photography isn't my thing, but sometimes it's all you can manage.

REPORT WITH WOODPECKER

It has been a lovely November day here along the river.

The morning came slipping in like a shy bride behind a veil of gauzy fog. For the first half hour you couldn't see the trees on the island directly across from the cottage. The river appeared mysteriously from an indeterminate place in the white mist wall, slowed in the upstream flat, poured silently over the broad riffle, paused again in the Cottage Pool…and quickly disappeared downstream, a passage more apparition than earthly.

After a while the fog began to thin and lift. The trunks of the island's trees materialized, and a few minutes later, the lower branches. The high, leafless crowns of the big sycamores and basswoods stayed hidden another quarter hour—though along the upper reaches of the island, the lower two-thirds of the trees remained fog-bound and only the topmost branches could be seen above the cushiony mist, like fingers of drowning victims waving frantically above the surf.

Once the fog had evaporated the sun beamed down—and it kept beaming down the remainder of the day. Unfortunately, I couldn't go out and play. Or even go out and work and call it play. A writing deadline loomed. I finished that about noon. Then I had to have some blood work done, meaning a trip to the nearby satellite hospital. After that off to the library to drop off books and books-on-CDs, and check out a fresh batch. Next a trip to the bank. Stuff which looks easy enough—and was—except it ate up most of the afternoon.

I did get to amble around the yard with Moon the dog for about fifteen minutes before heading inside to put some brown rice in the oven, and do a stir-fry of marinated pork shreds, onions, ginger, black beans, and tomatoes for later topping. Somewhere in there, while I was busy in the kitchen and starting the first few chapters of one of the borrowed CD books, the sun set. Whether it was a pretty sunset or not, I couldn't say.

When I was out with Moon I did notice that all the leaves on the island's trees are now down, and for the first time since early spring, I can now see the river's opposite bank. This unfamiliar long view looks pretty strange and will take some getting used to, I think. It is now possible to watch the pileated woodpeckers flapping from tree-to-tree over there, where before I could only catch the odd glimpse.

The photo is of one of the red-bellied woodpeckers that regularly visits the feeder beyond my desk window…and doubtless slows my daily progress with interruptions to watch his brief battles against a belligerent nuthatch. I love his checkered plumage.

At any rate, that's the day's report. But any report that ends with a woodpecker can't be all bad…right?

QUESTIONS…

This second day of November began with fog along the river—restless swirls of luminous white mist that hung over pools and riffles like leftover ghosts from Halloween. The view upstream was softened, the familiar scene transformed, given an aura of mystery, as if time had been shifted back to a moment just after creation. Water and sky merged. Sycamores leaned thoughtfully, like white-robed Druids.

The only sound was that most ancient language of water purling over stone. A muted whisper; a voice of secrets. What was it saying?

During the small hours of the night, I had awakened and arose from my bed. An odd light seemed to be filling the front room. It took me a moment to identify the light's source as a nearly full moon, diffused by a thin screen of clouds, now coming through the room's high-set triangular windows as a pale, silvery wash.

Perhaps, I now thought, that hadn't been clouds beyond my river-facing windows, but the first shimmery breath of this fog which hushed and altered my streambank world. For a long time I stood beside the moving water, listening to the silence, wondering what lay beyond that veil of fog.

A fellow I know recently told me he was trying to quit asking questions. Why? Because, he said, the older he became, the less he liked the answers. He may be right. Could be some questions are better left unasked. After all, curiosity is said to have been a fatal flaw to the cat. But I can't imagine ever reaching that point where I don't want to know, to learn, to find out what's beyond that veil of mist.

And I want to know, too, what message the river keeps repeating to my untuned ear.

MISTY MORNING…

Early morning, long before the sun slips up from the east, I stand on the deck and look across the Cottage Pool toward the island. The river wears a gauzy veil—a mist thin and silvery, translucent as it diffracts the light amid slow swirls which sometimes merge with the movement of the river’s warm currents, loosely cojoining the two elements, water and sky, though always their borders remain ambiguous, unclear.

Looking upstream from the deck.

There’s an innocence to such mornings that I adore, a Garden-of-Eden illusion that is both mysterious and comforting. I can sense the newness of creation. Forget, if only briefly, all the ugliness and turmoil, grief, sickness, and trouble of the world. What I see before me is it, all there is, everything…and the mood is filled with gentle peace and quiet joy. A great blue heron fishes in the shallows at the upstream tip of the island, alert to my presence the moment I stepped into view. I wonder if he’s caught anything for breakfast. Yesterday’s on-off showers have freshed and roiled the stream so that it is neither muddy nor clear, but rather a nebulous shade that’s more a dull olive…still fishable if I were of such a mind today. The only sounds I can detect are the slow whispers of current against the rocks, and from somewhere behind, a titmouse calling its usual peter, peter, peter. The turkey vultures which roost on the island are invisible in their treetops; they likely won’t reappear for another hour—depending on the mist’s longevity. Even then, they’ll probably just reposition themselves to catch the burgeoning light, then sit around a while warming damp bones in the rising sun, waiting for that moment when whichever of them gets to decide such matters, finally launches from his perch, catches on outspread wings, flaps once or twice to begin a slow lifting into the morning. I have yard work to do today, things I’d hoped to get finished over the weekend but couldn’t manage because of the rain. So I need to fix my own breakfast and get started. But for just a few minutes longer I linger…savoring the diffused green light, the sweet cool breath of morning against my cheek, the magic of the moving river as it appears from some unseen, secret source, gains clarity as it glides sibilantly near my feet, then fades and disappears again into the unfathomable mist to continue its enviable journey.

FOGGY MORNING

It is foggy along the riverbank this morning—a delicate world seen through a gossamer veil, at once both insubstantial and strangely primeval. I might be the first to ever lay eyes on this diaphanous land. The river is muddy and up perhaps a foot, muted, sliding in soft murmur between wet green walls or dripping brush and vines. The sycamores have their root-tangles in the flow, leaning affably like white-robed Druid priests enjoying a Baptist foot-washing. The goose on the island across from the cottage honks, telling me it’s times for his breakfast. I take a scoop of cracked corn from the barrel on the front deck and toss under the nearby hackberry. That’s when I see the long-stemmed mushrooms which have sprang up overnight around the tree’s base. I love foggy mornings. The light is dim, diffused, yet shot through with a silver pearlescent. Colors are saturated. Sounds seem more rounded and louder in the muffled quiet. On mornings like these my eyes are drawn to the near, the close-up…to those things we pass a hundred times a day and seldom notice—yet are now transformed. Droplets of water on leaves. The bright colored lichens on chunks of firewood. I know practically nothing about lichens, but after a night of drizzles and amid the subtle light of a morning's fog, they are as pretty as any wildflower. There is always great beauty waiting to be discovered if we only look. But really, isn’t that the way it is? It isn’t life that fails to offer us beauty; rather it is we who fail to see—to slow our pace, focus or eyes, open our heart and appreciate all those marvelous things placed before us. Each day is a gift, a blessing. It has never been before and will never be again, but is all ours to enjoy—right now, amid the sweet soft light of an April fog. And I am so, so grateful….

MIDNIGHT…

Midnight, or nearly so. I’ve been dozing in front of the TV for the last half hour. Must have been the full day of yard work on my winter-softened body. Every muscle aches; my joints feel rusted and inoperable, stiff, swollen. Who would have thought shoveling, hauling, and spreading a dozen wheelbarrow loads of topsoil and perhaps twice that many of mulch would have wrecked me to such an extent? Not only am I no longer the man I used to be…I’m beginning to doubt I ever was. In less than a week I’ll have another birthday. Tonight, I feel about a decade older already. I obviously need to go to bed, which presents the problem of standing up. Two attempts and a couple of pitiful groans later, I’m vertical…more or less. I switch off the television. Just pushing the remote button hurts. As the room is suddenly plunged into darkness, I hear Moon the dog hop off her snoozing spot on the end of the other couch facing the fireplace. Time to take her out for her final constitutional—providing I can shuffle to the door. The dog and I step outside, onto the side deck. Moon makes a quick snuffle-check under the end of the deck for any errant raccoon or possum that might be hiding there, then trots off into the darkness to complete her doggy rounds. The air temperature can’t be more than a degree or two above fifty—if that; I’m wearing shorts and a tee shirt, so I quickly come fully awake. There’s a cloistered feel to the night, due in part to the light cloud cover which has blotted out all stars and dimmed the nearly full moon to less than half power—its wane light smeared and strangely colored as it slips through the topmost branches of the greening sycamores. Sound fills the darkness…the reemerged voice of the river, missing these last few days because of the high water. In the scant light I can just make out the whiteness of broken water above the riffle. The actual riffle is still a foot or two underwater—but the new hydraulics of water hitting stone is pushing waves to the surface. It is these waves, playing out upon the current, that fill the night with their muted roar. A friendly sound to a riverman…the sound that says my stream is returning to normal. I step off the deck and walk across the yard, trying to remember where I dug those new planting beds so’s I don’t fall into one like a stumbling drunk. The clouds have now completely obscured the moon. There’s a bench on top of the little hillock at the edge of the property, and for just a minute I take a seat—enjoying the cool solitude, the sound of the river, and the feeling I get just looking at the shadowy bulk of the cottage. Somewhere not too far upstream a great horned owl hoots, which sends an involuntary shiver down my spine…though maybe it is just the cold air on my underclad body. Moon the dog comes snuffling over, possibly wondering what I’m doing sitting up here in the May darkness. I pat her head. In dog years she’s about the age I feel. Okay, enough of these self-pitying, maudlin thoughts. I hoist myself up, stifling the urge to groan, and head back to the cottage. I think we’ll both feel better after a good night’s rest.

TOO BUSY? NAAAHH-H-H!

Well, here it is less than a month since I began this blog, and already I’m remiss in my self-made promise to post something—even if only a few lines—daily. With Thanksgiving just around the corner, there’s been an unusual spate of grocery shopping and other holiday-related tasks to get done—and, of course, not enough time, energy, or money to accomplish everything in one fell swoop. But that’s no excuse. And neither is the fact that from well before daylight until long after dark, I’ve been working, dashing about, fretting or sulking…and at the end of it too exhausted to do more than tumble into bed somewhere close to midnight. Even today, I ate lunch standing at the kitchen counter. Yet it wouldn’t be honest to claim I wrote nothing because there was nothing of interest to report. The world beyond the windowpane didn’t pack up and leave town for the weekend. The past few days might have been unusually harried, but the lack of material more accurately reflects on my failure to observe—and really, to simply see what was always before my eyes, in plain sight, had I taken time to look. Instead, I got caught up in the mundane to the point of being unaware of, and therefore unresponsive to, the world around me. I certainly couldn’t have asked for more varied weather, since the past few days have given us a bit of everything here along the river. Snow one day—though nothing ever actually stuck for long, even when flakes came down thick and furious and the ground turned temporarily white. The following day was one of brilliant sun. Cold though, with an overnight low of 13 measly degrees…the lowest temperature of this fall-heading-to-winter. Then a day of clouds, and some wind. And finally today, which began in light rain, which became light fog and heavy overcast, before again turning back to rain. About noon, before making run to Sam’s to pick up a turkey and oysters for the dressing, I took a shot or two of the light fog—really, almost a heavy mist—upstream from the cottage. An hour later, having successfully bagged my final ingredients for Thursday’s feast and returned home—I looked out at the same upriver stretch, now without the misty fog, and saw a small flock of mallards feeding in the riffle. Fifteen in all, seven pairs plus an additional drake. Was this odd male a bachelor, widower, or just an unlucky ol’ duck who couldn’t fill his dance card and is doomed to spending the holidays alone? Or perhaps part of a waterfowl ménage à trios? Actually, mallards aren’t to common along this particular stretch of river—at least not during the three years we’ve lived here. More likely to be seen are woodies. And a male wood duck, in full feathered regalia is, in my humble opinion, one of the most astonishingly magnificent birds around. Though the first year we lived here, smack in the middle of winter when the river banks were arctic white and the pool and riffle area directly in front of the cottage was filled pale green water and rimmed with ice, six goldeneyes appeared one afternoon and hung around in the pool for the next couple of days, giving me ample opportunity to watch the three pairs, diving and feeding, for long periods at really close range. And I thought then they were perhaps even prettier than the wood ducks. We also have some semi-resident Canada geese—and several flocks of Canadas which pass over the cottage daily on the way to and from their chosen feeding areas and the shallow pond in the nearby park which they call home. I expect today's mallards might be travelers—for their behavior during the time I watched them certainly struck me as that of wild birds. I do hope they stick around a while. And I'll try and be more faithful to watching and writing...