I love the overexposure of fog and the mysteries it reveals the closer you try to grasp ahold of the dense moisture. I love the way it holds the sunrise in itself and amplifies the sun's raise to make the golden light intensify enough to create a hyper-reality. The earth's own natural image filter. I watch in envy San Franscico lap up their residential fog into perfect moments captured and told to the world. I have to wait until the cold winter takes over my happiness and turns it into rare moments joy that make it unfulfilling to pass the time. On occasion the wet fog will make an appearance, enough to make it a treat, not enough to make winter enjoyable. For the most part of winter Melbourne is wet, and the Antarctic brings with it a painful definition of wind chill factor. It's cold but never has been cold enough to snow, much to everyone's frustration. Why I don't relocate closer to the equator still has no sense or justification.
Goose and I headed east for four hours as the heavy rains made some of their first appearances of the year. It cleared for a few moments outside Morewell to allow us to pull to the side of the road and roam through a bed of very tall, very thin, very frequent burnt off gum trees that end at the point of where the clouds begin. It had recently been a hot summer, accounting for the cosmetic condition of the area and I imagine now it is not the same.
The direction lead us to the hidden town of Metung, running parallel with Victoria's 90 Mile Beach, doing exactly as the title implies. I have enjoyed Metung since my grandparents first moved in 1989, mind you the activities on offer are fishing and not a hell of a lot much else. North of East Gippsland is where the adventure directly correlates with fulfilment. At the base of the summit of Victoria is the town of Omeo baring similar atmosphere with most north east Victorian establishments. Ice-fresh air surrounds 19th century styled log cabins, iconic typography, and beautiful rusted saw mills for the acres of pine, though the locals would not know it. Goose and I spent the briefest of moments taking in our new found love for winter, from here the only direction is elevated to the pleasure of cyclists and their capacity to enjoy every ride as potentially their last. The road becomes narrow and winds at a circumference that defines the word unknown.
Should you make it over the peak of Mount Hotham, having taken in several stunning mountainous horizons, you eventually descend upon the 2,508 km river that separates Victoria from New South Wales. The Murray really was base camp for the having just made it through the Great Alpine Road. We woke to heavy fog shrouded landscape, the only source of light still attempting its upmost to penetrate the thick layer. The end result an amazing impact of golden haze vacuuming the tips of the trees into oblivion.