This is a spot I’m lucky to visit often in the winter; a photo never does it justice, but I think this is enough to let you know it’s pretty stunning. There are mountain vistas, surging peaks, deep, saturated hues of blue and green. When the sky is clear, the sight from this point is striking and gorgeous; I can gaze ahead and pick out mountains in the distance we’ve climbed on warmer days.
It’s one of my favorite moments on the mountain in this season. You crest the peak on a chairlift and just as your feet hit the snow, you’re greeted by this incredible sight.
But sometimes, standing in that same spot, it looks like this:
The appearance is that there is nothing ahead. A void. Not a thing to be seen beyond the first few scattered rows of trees. It looks as if the world drops off just feet ahead.
When the fog is thick, it appears there is nothing on the horizon—that the fog is the end. It’s difficult to imagine anything different—that there is anything other than what can be seen right now lying ahead.
But the vistas are still there.
The alpine lakes and striking peaks and cliffs and paths and trails? They still exist. They’re just beyond the fog.
When I’m having a hard time, I remind myself, “Right now is not forever.” When I can’t see through the fog of sadness, grief, hopelessness, or plain disappointment, I rely on what I know to be true from brighter days.
I remember: there is more than this. There is more possibility than this. There is more beyond the fog.
The weather may have changed—the view has not.