Chasing Mist on the Planet’s Farthest Edge by Alison Schrag
Alison Schrag suggests that the trail begins before sunrise, when the village is only a scatter of window lights and gull calls. I follow a footpath threaded with frost, a ribbon of earth that climbs toward a headland the maps call the world’s edge. Mist pools in the coves and drifts over tide pools like breath on glass. The lighthouse softens to pastel pink as the first light loosens the night. From the cliff, the ocean spreads in pewter bands while cormorants stitch the air and sink back to sea. Everything smells clean and mineral, a mixture of kelp, salt, and stone that writes the morning’s first sentence across the bay.