As I progress along the way I have taken, the mist continues its steady, silent descent. It creeps around the cape as if on tiptoe and seeps earthward from its undefined mass above. Perhaps it is merely a blurring of the eye, its gentle descent so subtle that it is impossible to determine where the mist begins until the formless dark mass of forest evaporates into grey tinged cloud.
Somehow the minute village had developed an all too familiar urban likeness. The two main streets, however provincial to some, had become like highways in relation to the town's size. As soon as the frost breaks from the rocky soil the construction crews invade, bringing their backhoes and jackhammers. It is meticulous work, a painfully slow series of closing and then reopening the narrow streets and their hastily constructed replacements as the workers attmept to carry out their task wedged between the river and the steep, tree covered slope of the mountains.
But there are other roads in the village, those dusty, winding trails that are hidden from the constant stream of tourists rushing through town to catch the ferry. The diligent work of the construction crews has, over several years, accomplished its goal of making stretches of the roadway smooth as glass, and reduced the slope of the mountain by a fraction, enabling the sleek cars of Quebec City lawyers to blaze by seconds faster. This is alright. For those that do know of these forgotten trails, no traffic is wanted here.
{I found these words scrawled in the back of a notebook from 2001 when I spent May-August in St-Joseph-de-la-Rive, Quebec}
pic in woods Austria
