Fog at the Slough
To see the fog lift, you've got to start in the fog.
My publication cadence fell apart starting in July.
I asked myself an odd question: “What would happen if you didn’t write at all?”
Turns out, not a damned thing.
It spiraled from there. It felt, until just a few days ago, that I’d lost my taste for words. I wasn’t writing, and nearly everything I read turned to dust in my mouth. I know this metaphor makes no damned sense, but that’s how it felt.
And then, just about a week ago, I read something that lit me up. It set my mind spinning. It kindled a spark.
What a relief! I had wondered what it would be like if I lost my taste for words forever, me a guy who has spent a minimum of two hours a day reading his entire life. I didn’t like the looks of it.
But I find it’s coming back, my thrill in reading, my desire to write. The only problem is, right now I’ve got no time for it. I took on this short-term project for a local agritourism business, helping them set up a foodservice operation. It’s been all-consuming, and will be until the end of October.
By then, we’ll be deep in fog season … so it felt fitting to republish this piece I wrote nearly a year-and-a-half ago. It will be new to the vast majority of you.
Fog at the Slough
It’s easy to head out to the Slough when the sun is shining. The payoff is guaranteed … but it’s predictable and thus a little boring.
It’s not so easy when I look out the window and see the world socked in with fog, as it often is during the fall and winter around here. (Why, you wonder? My favorite forecaster, Cliff Mass, can explain more, either in his great book or his blog.)
One thing I’ve learned is that if you want to see the fog lift, you’ve got to start in the fog. So I often drag my butt out the door when it’s cool and misty, hoping that I’ll get to see the mystery of fog transforming before my eyes. And sometimes it pays off.
The photos here were taken over the last two years out at Fobes-Ebey Slough Dike Road Trail (it’s on my interactive map of the area, if you’re interested). Most of these shots were taken in the mornings between September and November, with a few spring shots as well.
Sometimes the fog whispers atop the water.
More often the fog smothers the light, pulls the world in close.
When the fog breaks up and lifts, it’s magic.
When spring comes, you see what winter has done. That’s Whitehorse on the left, Three Fingers on the right, in case you’re curious. Both are eminently climbable.
Lastly, a tip of the hat to my fellow Northwesterner, Fog Chaser, whose music often lingers in my mind when I walk in the fog.