We crossed the Oregon border just after dawn. Mist still lay thick in the valleys, and the frost layer is so heavy I couldn’t tell at points whether it might even be a light dusting of snow.
Pines with frost on them look like Christmas decorations. Earlier we were passing some firs that had that perfect starburst of long, soft needles with two thick pinecones nestled in the center. You could almost smell the craft-store artificial cinnamon scent.
Now we are running alongside a river, rippling between frosty banks, with pine trees on the hills to either side. Intermittently we’ve been traveling through thick fog and clear sun, but it all looks cold. This is prime Don’t Tread On Me country, and I must confess that despite my utopian leftist anarchist beliefs, I personally want to buy a cabin in the forest and be left alone by everyone. That’s much more due to my own personal damage that has made me incapable of functioning socially than due to some contempt for the general mass of humanity though.
The foliage has grown more lush, and we are climbing up through the mountains. Pockets of snow lie in the shade of the pines. It’s absolutely enchanting. To the other side, a lake shows through the thick trees, serene, and beyond, mountains shrouded in mist. This is the stuff of epics.