Misty Sunrise in the Valley of the Elk

It is morning, and I awaken snug inside my tent. It was a quiet night, with no sounds of animals at all: no elk, no coyotes, no birds. I suddenly remember the moon, and how I watched it through one of the side panels of my tent in the middle of the night. I know it is early, but I sit up and look down into the valley and spot something new, something I've actually never seen here before: a thick ground fog.

The light hasn't come yet, but it will be here soon. And so I slide out of my sleeping bag, grab a few things, get ready to head down the hill. I have been sleeping in my sweat pants and a t-shirt overnight, the pants I wore on the hike in airing out on a makeshift clothesline near my husband's tent. I suspect the grass will be damp with dew, so I pull the hiking pants off the line and slide them on over my sweats, feeling pretty slick about the whole thing: the hiking pants will protect my sweats from the dampness, from the endless fields shiny and green with poison ivy.

I grab a few things, tuck them into the pockets of my fleece hooded bunting, pick up my camera bag, and off I go. I head over to our favorite rock, and from there, I scamper down along the creek and disappear into an amazing ground mist that is floating and forming and shaping and reshaping around me - and starting to turn golden as the sun begins to make its presence known.

The grasses are tall along the creek, and shortly I am totally wet; soaked through both layers of pants. Great, and I realize that now both of the pairs of pants I have along are soggy as dishrags. They are draping against my legs. An inconvenience, but not a tragedy. I keep going.

As I reach the corner, I stand by a tree whose shape I love. And I look back and watch the light begin to shine through the morning trees, making golden ribbons of the mist. The ground mist almost seems to glow. I have never seen the Valley of the Elk lit up, enchanted, like this. It is a special gift of this chilly August morning. If I were a person to use words like "magic," I would use them now. I am present when the sun first hits this valley; I am standing by the stream; I am watching the light. The whole trip was worth it, even if just for this. I breathe in, breathe out; try to fully inhabit this moment, make it part of me, so I can carry it in my heart.

I walk a little further down the creek, watching and hoping for elk. I try to imagine how it would be to stand here as they run by, big as horses, galloping through the mist. I've seen elk in Quehanna, but at the other end of it, not this one. They are big creatures, surprisingly fast for their size, intimidatingly big up close. I think for a second; realize I would have to vacate the trail for them, lest I be run over in a slurry of hooves.

By the time I'm done, I'm surprised at how far I've wandered. I take some shots further down into the valley: the light hasn't hit there yet and it is nothing but mist. I suddenly understand how you could get lost in it. A wild land, covered by endlessly moving gray fog. When the light hits, it will begin to disappear, these magic moments gone. If you arrived fifteen minutes later, you'd wonder what the big fuss was about.

As I turn back and survey this valley - and I think of it as our valley - I see a small figure on the hill near the rock where we like to sit, and it is my husband, waving to me. I can see that he is drinking a drinkable yogurt shake and suddenly I want one too. I did bring water along, and I have been drinking that, but a little something more sounds better.

So I make haste, and speedily I march back up along the stream, climb back up the hill. And panting with the exertion, I take my place beside him on the rock. We drink our yogurts and watch the mist a little more until it dissipates, and then we head back to camp. We survey my wet pants sadly: I've brought nothing else along to wear, and somehow I have pretty efficiently managed to soak not just the one pair but two. But then I find a black fleece button shirt, and realize that I can slide my legs into the arms, tie the shirt together, and wear the shirt as a makeshift pair of pants while we dry out the two pairs of real pants on a ground sheet in the sun.

Eventually, we will start to break camp, leave this valley, head back to resume our regularly scheduled lives. But I'm not thinking of that now. Before all of that, I steal just a little more time: wearing my fleece shirt as pants, giggling, I crawl back into my tent, scooch into my fold-up soft chair, tuck my sleeping bag around me, and enjoy the view of our campsite, of the valley, from here. Snug as a bug in a rug, I think to myself.

And outside my tent, I hear the sounds of music. My husband has his iPod and little speaker out and he is playing one of the many, many CDs we own. (Yes, in case you haven't guessed, I'm a music lover, and so is he.) And there is a song wafting on the breeze and I suddenly realize it is Van Morrison. One of my favorite albums, one of my favorite songs; a tune that suddenly seems perfect for the occasion. I contemplate this cool and perfect August morning with its special golden mist. And before I know it, I am humming along:

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

The soundtrack to accompany this image is Van Morrison, with Into the Mystic.