I should have known. Never judge a day by the lack of promise the morning offers.
Between the time I arose to slight drizzle mixed with fog, and now, when a steady rain beats a percussive tattoo on our skylights, I had a photographic adventure. I owe it all to my beagle.
The intent, when George and I left for our after-lunch dog-walk, was to simply circle the immediate neighborhood and head back inside. But as we we started to pass the departure point for more ambitious walks, Lady put on a burst of speed, her nose aimed determinedly down the road.
“I think we’re taking the loop walk,” George said, hurrying to keep up with the dog.
“I suppose so,” I muttered, less than enthused, focusing on the gray-smeared atmosphere that was sure to make photo prospects less than inspiring. I did have my camera with me, though, as always.
Our loop walk swings down along the bay, which plays peek-a-boo with us through the trees as we meander at Lady’s sniffing pace. It was a quick glimpse through those trees that caught George’s eye.
“The fog is REALLY rolling in,” he said.
Roll was the operative word. As soon as we could make our way to the shoreline, I was entranced with the thick, cotton-coated waves of mist undulating along the surface of the water, shrouding parts of the shoreline and stranding other parts like Brigadoon islands. Shipyard boats and a resort lodge lay mired by the mist, while the twin steeples of the Catholic church valiantly held their heads above the brink.
I tore my camera out of its case and snapped, then snapped again as the scene changed minute by minute. Like a silent attack against the shore, the white swirled, circled, and moved forward, toward the sturdy steel bridge that that could barely hold its own in the visual assault.
But the fog was only part of the experience. In this silent, wet world, things began to emerge. Near the shore, the articulated skeleton of an entire turkey, its bones picked clean, lying as if taking an afternoon snooze; a collection of leaf stems without the leaves, like brittle bird legs tossed aside after some unseen eating orgy. And in the water, close to shore, the shadowy shapes of dying salmon, spending the last of their energy with lethargic loops and swirls, occasionally breaking the surface with a fin or two.
We reluctantly turned our path toward home, knowing the fog would thin as we left the bay behind. Neighbors huddled in their homes, blinds and curtains drawn, televisions and computers on, eyes focused firmly indoors. Not a one knew about the show going on at the shore.
But we did. Thanks to a determined beagle who wanted to take the loop walk.