Escaping the miasma

 It's like a Bermuda Triangle of frozen fog here in this part of the Willamette valley, every day adrift in a windless, cold, thick cloud that swallows the distant mountains, the trees, the people, the animals. It's the kind of weather pattern that sends people with seasonal affective disorder diving under happy lamps, and those who can afford it head off to Hawaii or Arizona.





The nights are cold and any puddles left behind by past rains are now frozen hard in the morning, ripples and all.

 The morning landscape is enshrouded in a ghostly white coat.

 Every blade of grass dressed as if for a wedding.

 

 The cobwebs I hadn't noticed last week are now in plain sight, threaded with ice. The spiders are busy here in the winter and I hardly knew it until now.

 

 Every drop of water transforms to a bead of ice, sparkling in the dimness like a little light.

 If you have the legs for it, you can drive part way up nearby Mary's Peak and hike the 3 miles to the top.  We saw a few other people there, and one of them asked "Are you escaping the miasma?"

 And there it lay below us, the dark vapors of winter covering town,  a pale beautiful cloud-lake, with Mt. Jefferson beyond.

 Blue sky above, clouds below. It's good to remember how close the sun is.

 Today when I walked the dogs in the woods I thought it was beginning to rain, but it was the lichen's little chandeliers of ice turning into water again, pattering on the ground beneath. Valley weather.

 This afternoon it has begun to rain in earnest and it's probably snowing atop Mary's Peak. I must create my own light. A fire in the fireplace. A candle perhaps.

This felt luminary was made by my niece, who would be happy to teach you how on her delightful blog.

A little light to ward off the miasma.