Frost Rising from Russian River

On an early morning trip to the Russian River, the frost advisory in our car beeped, alerting us to the fact that the temperature was 37F. Crossing the Laguna de Santa Rosa, the vineyards were bare, the vines reduced to trunks and wires, all the old shoots having been pruned off. At the lower spots, the roots were immersed in water. Further along the road we drove into the tunnel formed by the towering redwoods on either side of the road, which was icy and coated with frost.

Many kinds of moss and lichen had fallen from the trees trees, carpeting the ground with green, sage and grey. Signs of how high the river had risen during December's storms began appearing next to the trail in the form of dammed and piled branches. When we got to the river itself, the beach had disappeared beneath the still receding water.

The frost, warmed by the rising sun, rises over the silty river in a diaphanous cloud. The colors are soft and muted. Bushes, stripped of their summer foliage show their bare brown skeletons, and grass and foreign objects hang from their branches further testifying to the volume and power of the water at its peak. Across the river, the branches of the trees are hung with the same lichens and mosses I had seen on the trail. The conifers growing up the hill behind them provide a lush green backdrop.

Ozzie, undaunted by the freezing temperatures, tore into the river with his stick log over and over, with little cries of pure excitement and pleasure as OilMan, who had forded a stream on a couple of precariously balanced sticks, threw it for him in the deeper water. Unwilling to risk getting my feet wet frozen, I stood on the opposite shore with my camera.

The fun only lasted a short time as it was too cold to stand in the shade with wet hands, so we headed home, stopping in Forrestville for a loaf of bread, which we consumed on the way home.