42 Nebraskaland • November 2022
e have all, on occasion, had
our heads in the clouds. I'm
not referring to our tendency
to daydream. I'm referring to
those cool mornings when our world is
shrouded in mystical fog.
On rare occasions, I've been lucky to
have a photo fl ight scheduled on one of
those mornings. In such cases, fog can
be a blessing and a curse. The Federal
Aviation Administration says you can't
take off in fog. The person who made that
rule obviously wasn't a photographer.
It's not that bad, I say. Follow those
runway lights and lets get above it. You
need to be able to turn around and land
if something goes wrong, they say. I
suppose that's wise.
Twice I've waited at an airport for fog
to clear. A few other times, my pilot and
I have taken off and found fog on our
fl ight path.
The view from above shows you that
fog is indeed stratus clouds resting on
the ground as opposed to their typical
low-level altitude that doesn't exceed
6,500 feet. Sometimes fog appears as
a blanket. Sometimes it's more like the
ground is littered in cotton balls, the
space between them varying from some
to none. Other times, it stretches out in
bands across the landscape.
If there's a slight breeze, you can see
how it clings behind trees and hills or
is strung out in wispy streaks. This
explains why, as you move through fog
on the ground, or it moves past you, the
density can vary from zero to pea soup.
Each time I've photographed fog from
above, it has been concentrated in river
valleys, where fog likes to form.
Whatever valley it is in, fl ight plans
are always tossed out the window. We
can always stop for more fuel. I will
chase fog as long as the light is good or
the sun slowly shrinks the fog bank until
it disappears, and it's time to get back to
work. It's always good while it lasts.
N
Wispy streaks of fog blanket cropland
between shelterbelts and trees along
the Platte River southeast of Fremont in
August 2019.
W
