Surreal

"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down"

I have absolutely no idea what this childhood song means, but it seems strangely fitting.

Yesterday, while out ice climbing I looked over my right hand shoulder to see an ominous cloud bank steam rolling our direction. It looked like fog - the real thick kind - but slightly darker, and definitely stinkier. Within minutes the smell of melting snow and decaying bark transformed into the smell of hot springs ... spring became sulphur and snow became silt ... as a gritty grime fest engulfed the valley.

According to the authorities (and Joshua ... who is thoroughly amused with my excitement over the ordeal), Anchorage's ash dusting was a relatively minor phenomena. It lasted little more than a half hour and left but a sheen behind ... but regardless ... how often do you think, "that must be the volcano?" ... not much.