In a fog no longer ~ September 15, 2004

David Heiller

It’s interesting what a change in perspective can do to something as simple as fog.

The view from our home in southeastern Minnesota.
Under that cloud is the Mississippi River. 
On the horizon is Wisconsin.

When I was a kid growing up in Brownsville, fog would roll in almost every morning at this time of year. I never gave it much thought.

It meant Dale Besse would drive the school bus a little more slowly up the mile grade. When I went to Fruit Acres to pick apples, the drive would take a little longer, until the old 1964 Chevy broke through the clouds above La Crescent.

Then I would see the river bathed in clouds and I would pull off at the scenic overlook, and something would tug inside of me.

Beauty like that is a gift, and I have carried that vision in the back of my mind for decades since.

Now the vision is here to stay, and it hasn’t lost its luster.

It snuck up on me a couple weeks ago, at our ridge overlooking Heiller Valley. (Hey, it used to be filled with Heillers, so Heiller Valley it shall be.)

Clouds on the river.

Sometimes they lie low like a fat wide snake. Sometimes they billow up like cotton candy. Always different, always moving, but more slowly than the eye can see.

Sometimes Wisconsin hills peek over the top, sometimes the clouds cover the whole horizon.

The Wisconsin hills turn mauve in the
right conditions in the afternoon.
My friend Sara sent me this photo.

At first, when the alarm clock rings, the river valley is a dull gray. But If I can’t see the yard lights three miles to the east in Wisconsin, I know the clouds are waiting.

Then the sun rises from behind, setting the edges glowing pink and orange. Fringes of color appear, and finally the good old sun, like a red neon ball.

For a few minutes, seconds really, you can look at the sun, and that’s fascinating too. Then it breaks free of the mist, and you have to avert your eyes to the brilliant light. That’s when the clouds jump out in all their glory.

It’s hard to describe. If you’ve ever looked down on clouds from an airplane, that’s what it’s like. Too beautiful for anything but a “Wow” or a “Geez” or a “Cindy, look at this.” Or often just silent wonder.

Then the sun breaks up the party. The fog lifts. Sometimes we can watch it slink toward us, up past the spirit of all those Heiller kids, from Dad on down. Then we are in the clouds, and it’s just dull old fog again, so thick that all we can see is the cottonwood tree below the house.

The road to the Reno Quarry.

The clouds on the river are sheer beauty, and they are something more, a reminder of the good old days on the way to Fruit Acres, and the good old days that are here to stay.

I think of that often in our new home. The beauty of the valley, the sunsets over the old Oesterle farm across the road, the Reno quarry catching the last golden light.

Moonlight bouncing off the roof of the barn, so bright you almost have to put on sunglasses. The Milky Way straight overhead.

Owls calling back and forth. Coyotes yipping. Flocks of blackbirds that blot out the sun. Tree swallows lining the electric wires.

The list is almost endless.

And the fog. That’s what I used to call it. But one man’s fog is another man’s cloud, and one lady’s mist is another lady’s majesty.