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FogDecember 29, 2007 It rained half the night and most of the morning (where was all this rain when we needed it last summer?), then cleared in the afternoon. Just before sundown the fog appeared. It didn't roll in, exactly; I looked out the tackroom window and there it was, hovering in the front pasture. I was determined to go for at least a short ride, even though it was almost four o'clock -- sunset these days is about 4:20 p.m. but on a clear day there's light in the sky for about a half hour after that. So I tacked up and headed out. By then the fog was thicker and the light was heading west: I couldn't see the boat barn, at the far end of the back pasture, till I was almost halfway to it. Rhodry and Chamois tagged along that far, then Allie (as is her almost invariable custom) stopped to pee and I (as is my invariable custom, as long as I remember the goods) tossed each dog a cookie. The dogs returned to the barn. Allie and I headed into the woods, Allie snorting at everything, right, left, and center. I couldn't blame her: in the fog and waning light everything was eerie, strange, not quite solid. Tree trunks disappeared just above the ground and reappeared about 12 feet up. A car came out of Takemmy Path and headed away on the Stoney Hill Road -- not only could I barely see it, it made hardly a sound, and its taillights were invisible before it had gone 50 feet. Allie trotted smartly up Takemmy Path, a dirt road with good footing except during sustained dry spells, when it turns almost as hard as asphalt. The world's nastiest golden retriever and her yappy little sidekick didn't come tearing through the woods to bark us off. Allie had settled down (the difference between a bouncy jib and her customary power walk) and it wasn't that dark, so instead of taking the shorter loop toward home we turned left into the woods and took the Dead Truck Trail in the direction we don't usually take it. Taking a familiar trail in reverse turns it almost as strange as the fog: dipping into one little hollow I thought for a moment that the dead trucks (which had been there forever when I first laid eyes on them 20 years ago) were gone, but no, there they were, down in the next hollow, which holds them in a natural amphitheater. Surveyor's tape has appeared along the trail, however, and I'm told the developer of the co-housing project further down the road plans to add another 29 units back in these woods, so the days of the dead trucks may be numbered. Approaching the Old Holmes Hole Road (a path wide enough for any 4WD vehicles that can handle the ruts and monster puddles) we met a Labbish-looking dog who'd stopped to scratch just ahead. He came out of his crouch, took one look at the centaur appearing out of the gloom, yipped, and tore off in the opposite direction. I heard voices but didn't see anybody. We headed back down "the trail that leads to the left fork." By now most of the light had leached from the sky, but some was left behind wrapped in the fog, which seemed to mark the edge of the known world. The known world might have shrunk, though, but my sense of direction had vanished along with it; good thing the path is well used and clear. The challenge was to spot the low-hanging twigs and branches before they poked me in the eye. In case anyone asks, this is the best reason to wear a helmet when you ride: so you won't get beaned by the branches. Coming out of the woods I could barely make out the back fence of the back pasture, and the construction site just to the right was almost invisible. Not until we passed the fence corner could I see the lights from the barn, which at that point couldn't have been more than 50 feet away. Light easily penetrates dark; it has more trouble with fog. Closer to home what looked like a ball of coalesced fog greeted us with a familiar "Woo-woo-woo!" and turned out, of course, to be Rhodry.
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