The last few days have been full of fog, great rivers of undulating white streamers of fog crashing up the banks of the Columbia River Gorge like big waves at the beach during times of high tide and winds.
Driving around the Bald Mountain turns on Highway 141 out of White Salmon tonight was like driving through split pea soup. It reminds me so much of childhood when we would have a lot of fog. My dad would call it split pea soup so thick you could cut it with a knife, he said. When a car comes to wards you through the thick fog, you hardly see them at all until they’re almost level with you. The fog travels in fingers of undulating White up from the rivers below, and you will suddenly break out of the fog into perfect clear, then dive back into white so thick it’s hard to see your hand in front of your face. There is something so mysterious and beautiful about fog this thick, as though you could come out of the fog bank into a different time or place, a different world