Saturdays seem to hold a unique attraction for the clouds here. I have yet to meet another day of the week where they come to linger so consistently.
Colorado rarely experiences fog like in other places around the country, and we never see the rolling fogs that are such a staple of cities like San Francisco. However, on top of a mountain, the clouds can settle down to roost as thickly as any fog, and our lovely vistas disappear into a mystery of white. Gone is the view of the plains below to the east, or the ever higher peaks further up and further into the Rockies to the west. All that exists is your small island, perhaps a quarter mile in diameter, encircled by the dark outlines of large pines, shrouded in this world of mist. How you feel towards this other-worldly picture determines whether these sentinels bear the face of friendship and comfort, or eerie strangeness.
My heart leans towards the former. The more melancholy and mysterious a scene is, the more I delight in it. Mystery increases the wonder and possibilities all around. Out in that fog, should you dare to venture away from the safe haven of home, awaits who knows what – Lucy’s lamp post or Alice’s rabbit hole, seven dwarfs or a Fellowship of nine companions. Or, if a less fanciful adventure is what you seek, you may find yourself amid a herd of elk, eyes all upon you as they wonder if you’re friend or foe, or find your path suddenly crossed by a flash of orange as a fox slinks back to its den.
It is already noon, and the clouds remain, defying the sun to chase them away. Everything is decorated with a light layer of dew, which is rare here in arid Colorado. Perhaps the Cowardly Golden and I will venture out to see what is to be discovered amidst the swirling tendrils of mist. Or perhaps we will stay in, warm and dry, and simply enjoy the mystery surrounding us.
So yeah, Colorado has been experiencing bouts of fog since Saturday. This is what happens when you make sweeping generalizations. The world seems to go out of its way to prove you wrong.