When Jodie and I were on our country drive, it was a very foggy day -- at least on this side of the hills. We traveled through the damp, overcast skies, and deep into the woods on winding roads. She and I both find solace in a cathedral of trees.
Down near the road, the trunks were brown and wet and branchy. But look just up the hill, just up into the canopy, and witness the embrace of the cloak of mist.
On the south fork of the Alsea River, moss-covered branches stretch toward the rushing water.
On the way back to civilization, on the fogless side of the hills, spread layers of foliage: scraggly leafless deciduous trees in a carpet of soggy leaves, the stark white of birch bark, backed by sun-kissed pines.
Jodie spotted a sign for an old cemetery and her car went into auto-pilot. We find immense peace within these timeworn fences, among these stones, beneath the umbrella of ancient branches.
By the end of our sojourn, the trees had replenished our souls. We could return to ordinary, pandemic time without it swallowing our creativity and obliterating our sense of whimsy.
(It didn't hurt that we found three geocaches along the way!)
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