The Leaving Journal

The trail turned sharply left, away from the highway. Within moments, the roar of passing trucks was muted, then swallowed by the heavy fog that engulfed the Chamonix Valley. The forest floor was a carpet of wet moss over boulders, an undulating sea of green. An unsettling silence on a delicate watercolor, swaths of orange and yellow peered through earthy tones. The trail steepened. I sipped my cold coffee, it's very human heat leeched out into the mystically chilled morning. My core warm and my legs burning with uphill effort, I climb out of the low hanging cloud to find early sunlight hitting the cluster of mountains to the north, the roof of the valley's fog looking firm enough to step on.