Alison Schrag: Misty Horizons at the Edge of the World
Alison Schrag suggests that the day began with a tide that breathed like a living thing, a steady hush that slipped across the pebbled shore and pulled back with a rattle of stone. Mist hung low, thick enough to soften distance but thin enough to tease what lay beyond. The map called this place the edge of the world. Locals just called it the headland. Either way, Misty Horizons felt right. The fog rolled in pulses, revealing a fishing skiff, a black spine of rock, then nothing. Every step along the wet sand left a perfect stamp that the sea smoothed into a suggestion.
The path climbed from the cove to a clifftop meadow flecked with tiny white flowers and saltstiff grasses. Gulls rode the updrafts, holding position with patient wings as if measuring the light. Clouds thinned to a pearl glow that made the ocean look metallic, ripples shining like hammered tin. The lighthouse ahead appeared and vanished in the mist, a simple tower with a weathered lantern room and a door scarred by years of wind. Its bell rang faintly, not an alarm but a promise that people still tended the light when storms arrived without warning.
Down on the lee side, a trail traced the rim of basalt ledges. Tide pools rested like small galaxies. In one pool, a sea star splayed its arms across pink algae. In another, anemones closed and opened with slow patience, as if tasting the air that never quite reached them. Kneeling to look closer, I saw the shore in miniature. Barnacles formed neighborhoods. Snails grazed like tiny cattle. Even the patterns in the sand felt like a script I could not yet read. Misty Horizons grew larger the smaller I looked, each detail adding to the sense of boundless place.
By midday, the fog loosened into ribbons, and the sun warmed the stones. A seal surfaced beyond the kelp, eyebrowed and curious. Farther out, whales breathed in calm intervals. Their exhalations rose as white feathers of vapor, then vanished. The air smelled of iodine, damp shale, and wild thyme crushed underfoot. A fisherman on the rocks waved hello, a brief meeting of travelers who understand that conversation at the edge of the world should be simple. We spoke of currents, lucky days, and the respect the coast demands. He pointed to a cut in the cliffs where a pocket beach hid from view.
Reaching that beach required a scramble through a cleft where water dripped in silver threads. On the sand, driftwood lay stacked like a forgotten sculpture garden. I found a place to sit, the sort of seat the ocean builds over time. Lunch was bread, sharp cheese, and an apple that tasted almost floral after the sea air. The only sound was the slow gathering of an incoming wave. It rose, curled, and slid up to touch my boots with cold fingers. I watched the foam recede and thought about how travel is less about escape and more about arrival within yourself.
Late afternoon turned gold. The lighthouse beam flickered alive even though sunset was still a rumor. A thin wind lifted, and the temperature fell, reminding me that edges often ask a price. I pulled on a jacket and followed the cliff path back, pausing where the view opened to a kaleidoscope of headlands. Light caught the ridges of swells and sent them marching toward shore. In that glow, the phrase Misty Horizons felt like both a place and a mindset. It suggested patience. It suggested the courage to move forward when the path is clear, only a few feet at a time.
Evening brought the fog home. It crept in from the lip of the sea, muffling the bell and dimming the world to a soft gray room. The final climb reached the lighthouse again, where a keeper’s log lay open on a desk, each page filled with weather, wind, and tide notes in neat pencil lines. I added a line of my own about the seal, the whales, and a pool of anemones that opened like green flowers. Then I stepped back outside and let the mist take me. The horizon had dissolved, yet the way felt certain. At the edge of the world, you are never truly lost. You are invited to pay attention.