My friend, Fog, showed up again.   I haven’t seen him for about a year and a half.  He’s probably been skulking here and there but not in front of my camera until last Saturday.  That afternoon I drove to the shore for an overnight getaway.  As I left the mainland at Manahawkin  the temperature dropped and the fog appeared.  The Ocean County Sheriff’s office had been warning about this, and they were right.  I dumped Pearl at the house and headed to the beach.  Here was the scene at about 5:30.

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It was still light enough to see what was happening but the approaching mists were clearly on the way.  Just to the left of this walkway leading to the beach I was also welcomed by blooms of bayberry.  I don’t remember seeing this profusion before.  They were enjoying the moisture of the mists.

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As the evening progressed the mists crept further into the town, bringing the usual mystery, silence, and dimmed lights.  There is no motion as though the mist absorbs anything that dares move.  I wonder as I write this about the connection between the words mist and mystery.  It’s there.  Later, the view through one of the windows brings out the same feelings.

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At the docks at the foot of the street the fog had also taken charge.  Nothing moved here either except some shimmer.  Even the in-residence Purple Martins were anxious and just hanging out on their perches.

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The next morning the drive to Fred’s Diner was a matter of cleaving through the fog.  At Fred’s there was breakfast and life.  Friends reappeared,  my last view of them having been on Labor Day.  Materialization from the fog?  No, snap out of it.


After breakfast, a drive south to the tip of Holgate on the edge of the wildlife refuge.  First sight was this sentinel, also a residue of last year.

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The jetty there was taking a beating.

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Down on the sand, the swells were impressive.

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On the other side of the jetty the dampened swells provided only a modest challenge to this young boy, ready for a day on the beach and the fog be damned..

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Fog is fascinating to me.  For my earlier posts on the subject click on the blue titles below:

Fall Fog at the shore – November 2013

Fog, A Little Before Breakfast – December 2011

Fog Blog, A – Beach and bay scenes – September 2010

Foggy Fall Days at the shore – Ole October – October 2011

Fog Fix, A – July 2011 -Beach and bay scenes, Charon fishing, Pearl Street pavilion, Sandberg’s “Fog”.

Fog, Fall at the Shore – November 2013

Foggy Farewell, A farewell to Charleston Moor – November 2011



I had read of a Pinelands hike into the Harris Paper Mill ruins for last Saturday.  I was itchy to get off of the beach but not enough for a five mile hike.  Marty Lou and I found the ruins in the early sixties when we were young and carefree and following the trails on the topo maps.  In those days there wasn’t any fencing around the ruins.  Oh, well.  Nevertheless I was beckoned so I drove to Harrisville Lake and walked along the shore for my size of hike.  It made me want to find that topo map and maybe try again sometime.  Here’s a view of the lake.

Harrisville Lake

Discussion:  Dark and no particular “wow” factor but it survived the cut because of the interesting clouds and their reflections, and the presence of two triangles in the composition which they tell us pleases the mind’s eye.  The peaks of those triangles draw the viewer’s eye upstream to … where??

Spillways are like magnets for me.  Here’s a view of the spillway below the Harrisville Lake dam.  The grasses running toward the top of the image drew me in.  The whitish puffs?  Perhaps cotton balls…..too early for snow.

Harrisville Lake dam spillway.



The recent full moon, September 12th, occurring closest to the autumnal equinox is known as the Harvest Moon.  With the data from Stellarium, my astronomical software, I was on the beach and set up well before moon rise.  My fantasy has always been to capture the disk just (or slightly after emerging) with a golden trail of light dappling the surface of the ocean on its way to my lens.  Well, I need not have hurried.  There was a cloud bank offshore that kept the moon from appearing until some 20 minutes later, and it was hazy.   But, we keep trying.  The beach at twilight was lovely while waiting for the moonrise.  There are three ghosts of sanderlings skittering in the foreground for some dinner.

The beach at twilight in September.

With the moon up sufficiently I still couldn’t get my golden trail but the waves on the jetty gave me a nice balance.

The Harvest Moon Above the Jetty.

Finally, when it had risen still higher I was losing the “big” disk but there was my golden trail.

I was so glad to see the golden trail that I tried a little video to watch while I’m hibernating in my cave this winter.


Talk about beautiful summer days and the next thing you know there’s heat and oppressive humidity and …. FOG.  I enjoy Carl Sandberg’s work (yep, a fellow Scandanavian), and particularly his short poem, Fog.

The fog creeps in on little cat feet.
It sits on silent haunches,
Looking over harbor and city,
And then moves on.

Well, that happened here last Wednesday night and into Thursday.  The fog crept in Wednesday at twilight.

It was wet and thick and ripply.

But there was a dedicated fisherman, shrouded against the extreme damp.  (Charon on vacation?)


The next morning wasn’t much of an improvement.  I don’t think we’re sailing this morning.


The beach was a little worse.  How’s this for a vacation day morning?  Is there a movie we can go to?


Want to take a beach walk?  Just don’t stray off the trail.


And just to finish off with some color here’s a white (alba) Rosa Rugosa or beach rose or Nantucket rose.

Click here for some more images from the evening and the morning.


It has been a few days of unpleasant weather.  Starting with high wind and drenching rains, we are now beginning to see some sunshine, a typical September nor’easter.  The sea has been angry.


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One can see the spray and the brown spume blowing through the air, and the waves, gradually giving up as they climb the beach’s slope but still strong  enough to undermine my tripod legs.  Such storms always bring watchers (and here I am), drawn to the drama of the pounding waves. 

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 My late friend, LeRoy (a psychoanalyst),  once told us that we are drawn to the sea because we have a deep memory of the sloshing waters of the womb.  Whatever.

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