One recent Sunday, as I stepped out to the porch to have my morning coffee, I opened the front door and walked into a fog so thick I could almost lean on it.
I decided to head to Poet’s Seat Tower, hoping it might be above the fog, treating me to a rare view of hilltops rising like islands from the mist.
But it reached from the ground all the way to the sky. I could only see about halfway down the sheer western face. A few trees flaunted fiery foliage between me and the wall of water vapor.
For all I knew, everything beyond that had ceased to be. I snapped a few pictures, then climbed the tower to see what else I couldn’t see.
As I climbed, I saw a single crow along the cliff’s rail and thought of Poe’s raven. From the top, it truly looked like the rest of the world had vanished into the gray nothing.
With Halloween right around the corner, I decided to go ahead and let my imagination run wild as I peered into the void. What would the fog reveal when it finally rolled out? Would it be the world I knew, or a new landscape, strange and frightening and full creatures from some Stephen King or Tolkien book?
From my stone turret, I listened for the war drums of an advancing Orc army, or the groans of the undead. I heard nothing. Looking down from the tower’s edge, I saw that my car was still there, at least.
I climbed back down and took a few more photos. Eventually, I switched to my long lens, in hopes that the crow would return to perch on its rail and stare into the abyss.
I was just about to give up waiting, when I noticed that the world was starting to ripple out before me. The sidewalk on Sanderson Street was the first thing I noticed, a silver streak shining through the mist.
Soon, I could make out the tennis courts at Beacon Field, and a swimming pool in a Gerrett Street backyard. But still, I saw no moving cars or other signs of life besides the occasional crow.
Other landmarks began to appear in the mist — the hospital, the middle school, CVS. The bricks and steeples of downtown started to appear; the golden arches of one McDonald’s, then the other. The jumble of rooflines that make up the Greenfield Community College campus appeared.
Through my zoom lens, I saw the Staples sign at the Big Y plaza and an American flag in front of Home Depot. The Green River and Interstate 91 were below the treetops, but I could mark their path by the line in the mist.
Bright spots began to appear on the ground, where the sun had managed to burn clear through. Above them, patches of blue sky. Clouds began to take on definition as they lifted. In the distance, I could just make out the ridgeline as the fog retreated west, out of the valley and up the hills. The mountaintops that would make up the horizon were still shrouded, and I imagined they’d stay that way for a while.
About an hour had passed since I came to the hilltop, and from this far out, things appeared to be back to normal. But the world had an eerie quality from the fog that clung to its corners. I got back into my Jeep and headed in for a closer look — just to be sure.
David Rainville is a former reporter and editor for The Recorder, who now works as a machinist. He enjoys hiking, kayaking, biking, and finding new ways to explore the outdoors. You can reach him at daverain82@gmail.com