An unsettling fog rolled over the mountains at night, turning tree branches into crystal chandeliers and freezing my windowpanes shut.  At least the snow had subsided.  I put on boots and stepped outside to check for an unobstructed flue, the fog chilling my bare legs and chest.  Clear flue, cleared to add fuel to the stove.  I wondered if even the smoke would be able to penetrate this fog?  

I’d set out for my high camp on a mild and breezy Wednesday afternoon. The snow drifts and narrow trails were impassable this time of year with all but a snowmobile, and mine had been in pieces in the garage for the better part of two years now.  I liked snowshoeing into camp though, cold air filling my lungs, testing my legs on the winding ascent.  Besides, machines are unreliable in the freezing temperatures and wet snow.  

A hair over three miles later and the A-frame was in site.  Plenty of game tracks on my way in, but nothing too close to the cabin.  Squirrels had nestled into the firewood shelter when they couldn’t break into the cabin.  No sign of humans tampering with the place or trying to run off with the split wood.  The start of a great long weekend.  

As happens in the Rocky Mountain high country, a twenty-five percent chance for snow turned into a three-day dump.  I can’t say that I minded too much.  This was meant to be a retreat from the grind of work and the busy streets in town.  Hiking, reading, writing, and quiet.  The hiking mostly got replaced by shoveling, keeping a path cleared for the necessities:  The flue, the outhouse, and the firewood.  

Now it’s a foggy Sunday morning.  I have enough rations to make the hike back down to the trailhead today, but if I stay another night, I’ll just go hungry in the morning.  The fire in the old stove is burning bright, the A-frame warm and cozy.  Choices, choices. Pack it up and set out for home at noon?  Stay stripped up here, fasting, listening for words of wisdom?  I don’t feel like getting dressed yet.