Frost Mist Rising in the Valley of the Elk

We left our intrepid backpackers yesterday evening watching the nearly full moon rise over the Valley of the Elk, and jamming out to some awesome tunes. As the sun set, we put on just about every layer we had with us, for it was about to get quite cold!

Exhausted, I lay my head down on my pillow around 9:15 p.m. and was out like a light. The overnight low in Quehanna ended up being around 24 degrees F in the pine stand where we camped. It was probably several degrees below that out in the open valley itself.

For those who may be interested: it is still daylight until around 8 p.m. in these parts now, and you can still see well enough to set a tent up at that time. The sun rises shortly after 6:30 a.m., and I awoke around then to see the first streaks of dawn light painting the sky with gold and pink.

Zip, boom, bah! I was up and out of my sleeping bag quicker than toast out of a toaster, for I wanted more than anything to watch the sun rise over the valley. It was quite cold. I hoped against hope: Would there be frost mist?

And what a delight: I walked out to my rock overlooking the valley and saw the field below was covered in silver sparkles. A hard frost had come overnight, and on several of the tiny bushes around my rock, it left hoar frost that crumbled at the lightest touch.

As anyone who chases the frost mist can tell you, the first moments of daylight are the best. When the sun hits the frost, the frost turns into mist and rises into the light like angels. So down into the valley I went, down along the stream to where the frost mist grows.

I was not disappointed, for there in front of me, along the stream, the golden mist was rising. I took quite a few photos, including the one above. What a treat it was for me to see such sights in April, for the frost mist is often a phenomenon of just the cold-cold mornings of deep winter.

The sun was well overhead by the time I finished my stroll down along the stream, and all of the mist that was going to rise, had done so. So I walked back up the hill to my rock, where I sat and enjoyed the morning, my daydreams, and some tunes.

Yes, I had my tiny pink iPod shuffle with me, and it did liven up my morning. I greeted the frost mist to a delightful 80s soundtrack, for the most part. It was around 9 a.m. by the time I made it back to my rock, and I was singing along to Jennifer Warnes and Leonard Cohen, all about Joan of Arc.

And who are you? she sternly spoke
To the one beneath the smoke.
Why, I'm fire, he replied,
And I love your solitude, I love your pride.

I liked the song so well that I played it again, and by the end of the second time, my husband had come out to join me on the rock. We spent as many more hours there as we could before packing our campsite up, bag and baggage, and walking out in the middle of the afternoon to head home.

Temperatures rose considerably, and by the time we hiked out, it was approaching 70 degrees F, and some pretty wild salamander follies were taking place in the puddles along our path. And so it was that we walked into the back-country on a snowy winter's morning . . . and walked out on a summer's afternoon.

You may see in the extras a side path that is lovely, but that we did not take. Life is never long enough, is it, to follow all of the paths we want to go on? But it is long enough indeed to spend some precious moments in the morning sun, watching the frost mist rise, and listening to Leonard Cohen.

The soundtrack song is the last song that I listened to on the rock and loved, and that almost broke my heart: Jennifer Warnes and Leonard Cohen, with Joan of Arc.