Most days, the weather is a roll of the dice if you take US 12 to the west and up Marvin Hill. The top of the hill, a town anticlimactically called Summit, is host to an annual Fog Fest and weather that can vary from our home in the valley like night or day. Or like dry and clear or full-on storm.
All in a 20-mile stretch of highway.
Over the weekend, the peak and the valley experienced a role-reversal. We left home in the fog, hoarfrost’s spikes gathering on trees and tall grass in its trademark “You’re beautiful when you’re angry” sort of way.
As we coasted along, Lane mentioned that he’d heard the fog would lift at the crest of the hill.
We emerged from the Narnian white of that thick bank of fog into blinding sun at the peak, the front and rear tires briefly straddling these two stark worlds. I looked back to see the swirling band of fog.
And then I looked ahead to see that the clear blue sky wouldn’t last. We were surrounded by fog at the top of the hill like the swath of hair circling the dome of a monk’s caricature.
In a matter of minutes — five? maybe ten? — we were back in the White Witch’s wintery grip as though Spring had never once batted her flirting lashes.
Metaphor’s grab bag stands gaping open. Reach in and pull something out.
Hoarfrost in the front yard (top)
A 5-7 minute series of photos from the road (bottom 3)
(If I’d been driving, believe you me, the car would have been parked at the roadside a while to take this in a little better. This was the best I could do from the back seat at 65 mph.)