Driving back to the Mountains just now was like driving onto a Hollywood movie set, wherein the set has been lit and dressed for maximum nighttime atmosphere. Fog. Frozen fog, hanging low, illuminated by headlights. And in my driveway, I parked and walked to the mailbox to check the mail, and as I did, I heard some seriously wiggy sounds right above my head.

Crispy crackly crunchy grindy squeaky sounds. For a paranoid moment, I thought there was, like, a mountain lion or a bear or maybe even a chupacabra in the trees above, rustling, positioning itself so that it could fall down onto me and chomp me into tiny bits.

And hey, I live in the mountains, so while unlikely, it's within the realm of possibility. I was spinning around, looking for the source and meaning behind these sounds that were seriously freaking me out and I realized it was Spike, the weaponized tree, glowing ghostly white in the light of the front porch.

Spike's limbs and giant thorns are coated in frost, still, and in the breeze, they were rubbing and squeaking and grinding against each other, creating a creepy symphony I have never ever heard before. And am not keen to hear again.

::shudder::

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11/28 '15 4 Comments
Um yeah, that would probably freak me out too.
Beth Adele 11/29 '15
Yup! Freaky!
Rachael 11/30 '15
I love that you named your tree. You are so in touch with your wilderness. Are you really a dryad? You look and sound like one, or at least like I like one would sound like, having never met one before.
My goodness, am I really a dryad? I look and sound like one? What a lovely thing to ask me. :-) Seriously, that's...that's so cool that you said that. As far as I know, I am not!
Rachael 11/30 '15