first frost, morning run

I hear the rain pattering on the roof during the night, know I will wake up to a grey fall morning. When my alarm buzzes me awake, I venture from my warm bed and shiver into my running gear, opting for the full-length leggings, as well as headband and gloves, then step out my back door into the chilly damp air. The rain has stopped, and there are hints of blue sky in the northwest, though fog has settled in the valley’s crevices. We had our first fall frost last night, but our backyard, protected on all sides by fences or plants, is a little micro-climate—the air near the ground stayed just above freezing, and even our heat-loving pepper plants made it through the night. But our most enthusiastic squash plant, the one that climbed up and over the lilac bushes and dragged them down with the weight of its tea-kettle-sized fruits, did not fare so well; its huge leaves are drooping and withered.

I run my now-familiar route—east down our alley, across Park Street, down the alley behind the fire station, instinctively avoiding the larger stones underfoot and the rain-laden bushes that reach out, dripping water. My breath condenses in the air. East on Burlington. South on Thames, east down the alley that comes out behind Dairy Queen. Long lines of traffic roll down Higgins, but the cars stop for me almost instantly today, and I barely have to pause before dashing across, faster than my usual pace. By now I’ve settled into my breathing pattern—breathe in, one-two, breathe out, one-two, breathe in . . . breathe out . . . . This has become my favorite (and hardest-won) part of running, this ability to breathe easily, not gasping, my lungs smoothly drawing the air in and out as my legs propel me forward.

I continue zigzagging my way east and south, down streets and through alleys, hearing the occasional staccato bark of a dog defending its territory, leaping over a puddle here, around a muddy patch there. I turn east once more, onto Sussex, running down a block that lacks boulevard trees and reminds me of the wide streets in the town of my childhood. Just a few blocks ahead rises Mount Sentinel, its outline barely emerging from the swirling pale fog. Its shape darkens, solidifies, as I run closer, and I am, as always, surprised by how high it looms above me, the strength of its presence.

South again, across South Avenue, and up the Sentinel trail above the golf course. It’s steep, and I slow to a brisk walk, pulling the air deep into my lungs, feeling the stretch of calves and quads and hamstrings. When I reach the gate that marks the end of the private land, I pause, as always, to look out over the city. Thick fog pours into the valley from Hellgate Canyon, covering most of the university neighborhood and trickling west, though most of Missoula is clear. Up the slope to the horizon, the tawny autumn grasses are covered with a fuzzy layer of frost. To the west, Lolo peak is invisible behind low blue-grey clouds. My eyes are drawn by a beam of morning light to the south that suddenly gilds a house set high on the hillside. For a brief, radiant moment, I am held by the fog, the frost, the sunlight.

Then the sun rises farther and the light falls past the house to the hills beyond, and I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my cheek and the cool-wet air against my skin. I turn, slowly, and the gravel crunches beneath my feet as I run back down the hill, descending into the fog.