Fog Walking
By May Lattanzio
20 Dec 2008
Fog Walking �
I live in a place with three unmistakable seasons. Summer begins not at solstice, but somewhere around the end of April. By Mother's Day, everyone is wearing shorts. The heat is intense and sometimes suffocating. In August, the change is subtle with the colors on the roadside; dog days have descended. Fall is on the way. The majority of wildflowers are in bloom then and that continues, changing from white to yellow, lavender and pink through the first week of November. This is butterfly season, and the flowers lead to the coast for the migrants. Now there is color in the trees. The cypress trees turn rusty and begin to drop their needles; poplars turn to gold; maples and gum to scarlet and crimson. Winter begins around Thanksgiving. Bradford pears, a species of fruitless pear tree that turns to flame claims a few tasteless fruits of brown, small as pearls. This tree is the harbinger of winter. The last bright hurrah of autumn.
There are few days of freezing temperatures in winter when the "P" warnings are out for people, pets, plants and pipes, but for the most part, the weather is clement. On many days, we are back to shorts. The last time it snowed was in 1989.
From December to April, we are often visited by dense fog; that ethereal, other-worldly shroud of thick, dense mist that hushes sound and envelops life in shades of silver, black and gray. It begins at night. I can tell by taking that last walk around the yard with the dogs at 11 p.m. I see it against the street light; feel the mist on my skin; the leaves drip on us as we wander around. If the dogs bark, their voices are muffled.
Deep fog smothers sound like the first snowfall. It blankets silently. In the morning fog, spiderwebs turn to garlands of crystal droplets or pearls, depending on the light. Orb weavers and doilymakers have been busy all day and night, but you notice their webs now because they hang bright against the dark foliage. Droplets glitter on grass blades and leaves, and shoes become sodden.
I love this time. The short walk to the creek across the street, or down the street and around the corner to photograph Bear Creek from the bridge or the curve that runs along the water is fascinating. I am up before the commuters, but not before the fishermen, who are putting in at the fish camp. The water looks black and thick in their wake.
The sun, trying to burn through the blanket of gray, is a bright disk. You can look at it. It has no real color yet; it does not blind. The fog is damping its light and its heat. Sometimes it is a just glare behind the gray curtain. Even the outboard motors have been quieted by the moisture-laden air.
There is no noise. The water in the creek has no voice, not like a mountain stream. These creeks run silently. The birds perch. They do not call. Feathers are wet and heavy so flight is short if at all.
They are patient. Somewhere, the black vultures on the communication towers are awake now and spreading their wings out to dry. The same is true of my elusive anhinga, who I spied in a cypress, wings spread, waiting for the sun to burn away the fog and dry its wings, too.
It is a magical time. It is a perfect time to be alone but not lonely; to see what you don't see normally or often enough. While I have come to know a bit about this swamp, I will never know the whole story. When the world is sleeping in the fog, waiting for the sun, it is eery, populated with ghost trees, cloaked in wisps of fog, semi-concealed, or completely hidden and each one draped with unmoving hanks of Spanish. The air is thick and still, but clean. Fog transforms the world in neutral color, just like snow with its brilliance.
What is "out there" beyond my vision? What is stirring? My eyes cannot see behind the mist. There are no details. All is blurred and soft.
The fog softens sharp edges and sound, removes color from the world it touches. I am fog walking; stepping into a black and white photograph with all its gradients, while the world around me waits for the sun and the colors that paint the day.
9 responses
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David de London gave props (20 Dec 2008):
Great story Mazie...photos add that last touch...love it. David
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Ray Kenn gave props (20 Dec 2008):
Nice job, perfect title :-)
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MB Photography said (20 Dec 2008):
I can relate. I like how you described the sun, that is exactly how it is.
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John Linton gave props (21 Dec 2008):
Hell...Yeah! It rocks!
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Norman Caldwell gave props (21 Dec 2008):
Great series May! And you tell a wonderful story with an excellent writing style. JPG....publish this story.
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Charles Conti gave props (23 Dec 2008):
Beautifully done! Rock on!
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Pat Merino gave props (31 Dec 2008):
Nicely done!
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Jane Zielenbach gave props (22 Jan 2009):
Yeah! I want to read more!
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William Garvey gave props (7 Feb 2009):
Great story and wonderful photos.
