I took advantage of my family’s visit and a little cabin fever to finally visit a favorite local hiking spot for the first time the day after Christmas. Our Rogue Valley had sat under a pall of fog for several days, and we were all more than ready to stretch our legs and breath some fresh — although still foggy — air.

A mere five miles north of my home lie the Upper and Lower Table Rocks, two volcanic plateaus rimmed by sheer cliffs rising some 800 feet above the valley floor. Over the course of human history they have served as sanctuaries for the Takelma Indians, training grounds for troops during World War II, the location of a small airstrip and, now, a popular day hike destination and sanctuary for rare and endangered flora and fauna.

We chose to hike the Upper Table Rock, offering a somewhat shorter trail on this daylight-brief winter afternoon. The path rises through lichen-draped scrub oak, fir, pine and Pacific madrone trees. The twisted branches of the madrone, its bark of smooth red wood gleaming in the gloom, made for interesting images along the way. On a clear day, I’m sure the trail offers a variety of views out over the valley, but we saw nothing beyond but thick, gray, misty cotton.

Besides the crunch of our footsteps in the gravel, we heard only the call of scrub jays and the high-pitched twitter of pine siskins and the quiet drip of the condensing fog off the branches and pine needles above us. As we neared the top, the condensation appeared as frosted jackets on every surface, delicately outlining even cobwebs strung in hollow trunks. Finally, we could look straight up and see patches of blue sky through the shifting fog, and rays of sunlight began piercing through the crystallized forest. The tempo of our soundtrack increased as the sun hastened the melting of the frosty layer, speeding up the drip-drip-drip to a rapid patter.

At last we burst out onto the flat summit, stretching away as a rock-pocked gray meadow to the south. The brilliant sunshine instantly warmed and cheered us, causing us to shed our gloves and hats and unzip our jackets. We headed cross country to the southern end of the table to drink in the views. The vistas over the fog-filled valley to Mt. McLoughlin

      to the east and the Cascades and Siskiyous stunned our gray-accustomed eyes. Even as we watched, though, minute to minute we could see the fog rising and spilling over the surface of the plateau, ready to reclaim this ethereal territory as the sun began sinking to the west. Reluctantly, we turned back, afraid that if we waited too long we would become lost in the fog and unable to find our way back to the trailhead.

The damp quickly enveloped us as we made our way down, and by the time we reached our car in the lot, darkness was fast approaching. Our brief time in the sun had recharged us, and the vigorous hike had worked its magic, clearing the fog from our brains and providing memories to warm the cold gray days ahead.

— Patty Vanikiotis, associate editor/copy editor