The journey to the foothills is wet. Ridges of slush, ready to suck you unexpectedly from your lane of motion. Visibilities length moves in and out like focusing a camera lens.
A crappy day to take pictures. Opportunities marred by the darkened day, shots through the windows and sporadic explosions of bright sunshine.
Tufts of grass surrounded by white create the illusion of not staying long. Ascending the next hill conjures up visions of Christmas and sledding. The blanket of white rain thick on the ground, only to disappear from sight at the next corner and appear haphazardly from no where a few miles down the road.
The gentlemanly way to drive is being observed by most who join us on this stretch of road. To the right, cattle and horses graze fields. Their aloofness indicates the storm will pass with little consequence, other than the few motorists ignoring the need to slow down. Outings ending with a quick ditch bound soiree.
Higher we climb. Clouds and fog shroud the hills we pass through. Off in the distance a break shows the sun reflecting on the wet road. Will it be there when we arrive? Its warmth removing the whiteness left earlier in Mother Natures trail of wintery reminders?
Click, click, click. Another turn and once more we head south onto the next to last leg of the journey. Still no mountains to greet our vision, only streaks of sun showers finding their way through the clouds off in the distance.
Click, click, click. Brrmda. Brrmda. Brrmda. Crunch. The welcoming sound of the cattle guard and gravel under the wheels. Slowing to accommodate the mudded road, watching for cattle and maybe some wildlife.
Brrmda. Brrmda. Brrmda. That's number two. Brrmda. Brrmda. Brrmda. Number three.
Click, click, click. Brrmda. Brrmda. Brdrmda. Number four reminds us we're almost there. The sight of the buildings welcome us from across the field.
We are here!
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life