(Twin Lights of Navesink, Highlands, NJ)
Fog drifted past our windows yesterday like thick, white billowing smoke from a fire coming to the end of its’ burn. I could see it rolling in, whiting out the hills, then the highway and then I couldn’t see out of the window to the sidewalk.
Fog is an incredible mood-setter for me. It peaks my interest. Awakens my imagination. I could watch it for hours and not get bored.
I’ve lived inland from here and mostly the fog seemed to hang low to the ground much of the time when we got it at all. Not here. Here it’s down low in the valley and up high in the hills. It swirls along the road and blanks out the horizon. And it’s foggy here nearly every day, at least in the early mornings. There is something very different about the fog on the coast (or in the mountains). It's unlike fog I've experienced elsewhere (except in the mountains).
Mesmerizing to watch.
Comes & goes as it pleases.
Engulfs entire area's down here in gray & white.
Moves to a rhythm not even Mother Nature is familiar with.
Makes large drops of moisture drip from the trees.
Magical. Mysterious. Eerie.
Intimidating and beautiful.
It's as much a part of living here as the Ocean is. Both are unique characters in their own right.
My mind wanders when I see it, wonders what’s out there.
Of course that means I have to stop my mind from picturing some of the creepy parts of John Carpenter’s classic film “The Fog” and not remember Stephen King’s short story “The Mist,” which scared the ever living shit out of me so bad a couple of years ago that I not only couldn’t finish it, I literally threw the book it was in away in the dumpster outside because I didn’t even want it in the house. (Seriously, that’s not an exaggeration. It messed up my mind something fierce, terrified me).