North of Montreal River, Lake Superior – August 27, 2013
Fog shrunk the world to a few hundred feet of white, black, and grey. The air hung still and the water barely moved. Cliffs and trees faded in and out of existence, their color drained, their shape nothing more than outlines shrouded in mist. Everything became shades of shadow and light. Even the sun disappeared.
I glided across the water, pressing against the dark shore that rose over my right shoulder. It loomed above me like a ghost, sometimes drifting high, holding out black, shadowy trees, sometimes sinking back, curving away into nothing. I clung to it, afraid to lose sight of it as if the world itself would slip away and disappear.
Only the water had color, piercing blue and clear as glass. I stared into it like it was the last real thing left. Car-sized boulders slipped underneath me, transformed into emeralds and sapphires that rose and fell as the boat flew over them, soaring and flying off hidden cliffs over the deepest blue.
Time seemed still, meaningless, almost forgotten, but the day wore into the fog, the sun ate at it, burned it away in shades. As hours slipped past, the shadow of land stretched away, still black and colorless, but growing bigger, lengthening into cliffs and bays, spreading, fading in from the imaginary.
The sun broke through in the early afternoon. It clawed toward me, glowing white in the grey, pouring light in from above to fill the landscape, to paint it with color. Black rocks turned rose, silver, and white, trees evergreen, the water sharper blue. Shadows retreated into the spinning mist and disappeared. The world snapped into focus, sharp and beautiful, cliffs and ocean stretched out to the horizon.