Cue Modest Mussorgsky‘s Night on Bald Mountain. Here’s a link.
A glissando of rain lashes down. Wind blares through the trees, shaking limbs, rattling. Darkness and cold settle.
On the top of Big Bald mountain, no trees block the wind, so its ferocity slows none. The rain is semi solid, gluing itself to surfaces it touches. As it drives in from the west, it turns the western side of every twig, each branch or rhododendron leaf ghostly white. A cluster of rhododendron leaves tremolo in the wind, icy tips clattering.
The thickening layer of ice on these surfaces reflects not a uniform sheen in the city light scattered through the cloud but a sharp, shadowy pattern. It’s a staccato splatter of crystals and droplets, rugged yet delicate. The fog lifts from the ground, thickening like soup. It begins to freeze on all surfaces, on the fallen leaves, the ghostly branches, the clattering rhododendron.
A trill of wind rushes through. Then peace, A few sparse snowflakes softly float to the earth.
Fortunately, this was not a scene I was direct witness to. I saw only its aftermath after a night I spent under the tent shelter at Nature’s Inn near Sam’s Gap, snuggled in a warm sleeping bag, protected from rain and wind by elevation, shelter, and tent. As I began hiking, the sun pierced through a few gaps in the layer of stratus that lingered after the storm.
I will let the photos communicate the rest.
Surreal. Great photos. The last one in particular says the most to me about the beauty of the morning.