Some habits die hard. When you’ve spent a formative part of your life on the run and living incognito, with one parent or another running from the law, you tend to drive straight through. Although I tend to think that maybe I just like getting to where I’m supposed to be going.
So even though Biosecurity put the sniffer dogs through my car, they forgot their check in my boot and under the hood. That’s another story.
I was coming down off the mountain. All of a sudden the valley opened up and it was all in mist. I had not seen fog so dense, then all of a sudden my emergency light goes on and a snowflake two inches wide flashes over my odometer screen: ice on the road. I always sit on the limit, so I’m doing 110 down a steep hill toward a semitrailer. He’s swerving and bucking, trying to stay in his lane.
This isn’t any ordinary mist, it’s a snow cloud.
I’ve got a good car. She holds her own, I slow her and we’re okay.
Everything is coated with hoary rime. Every blade, every twig is frosty.
I overtake the semi and go back up to 100; she’s a curvy road, and the mist is so thick I cannot see anything. It’s like it’s the end of the world. Sign posts come in and out of view like ghosts. A car passes like an escapee. I don’t know what I am in for.
Then the sun starts to break through, and everything sparkles and is still muted in all the water still heavy in the air. It’s dreamlike.
I just left the southern most beach and am now on my last crossing for a few days. Here is a view from the ferry.
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