Day 357: The "drizmal" season has arrived, and already I'm longing for the backcountry, oppressed by rain and grey skies. It was just a week ago that I was stepping out among the brilliant colours of autumn, hiking in shirt sleeves to delight in the crispness of a September morning. The grey had not yet turned gray, a distinction in spelling which I employ to differentiate soft, comforting hues from those of gloom and foreboding so persistent in our Pacific Northwestern winters. An absence of sunlight does not bother me; born-and-bred Washingtonians regard the sun's shine as intrusive and painful. We revel in our overcast, despite the fact that our fellow photographers from elsewhere in the country invariably accuse us of having "blown out the sky," not understanding that white or grey are normal and blue is a rare exception. Neither do short days bother me to any great extent, but being penned indoors by cold, soaking rain pushes strongly against my tolerance for inclement weather. It came too fast, this shift to the dreariness of October, as if someone threw the switch and locked the doors behind Summer.
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