Pogo Nip
A unique western American weather phenomenon shrouds the land with a rime of ice that is both beautiful and deadly.
Pogo nip flocks trees grass, sagebrush, and wild horse ears with a rime of Death.
Pogo nip, a Shoshone word meaning white death, is a dense fog that occurs in the western United States. Slightly different from hoar frost, which ices the trees under clear skies, pogo nip forms when frozen surfaces touch the moisture in dense fog. Hovering over the landscape, it produces an eerie beauty that can also have devastating effects on mental and physical health. It stings the throat and can damage lungs.
When Jeff was interested in photography, we ventured into the farmlands near Fallon, NV for a day trip. He found lots of fascinating subjects. I had the opportunity to look more closely at this unique weather phenomenon, seeing how rime builds up lacy crystals on everything. It was a remarkable outing. It was also depressing. After a couple of hours, I was more than ready to head home where the sun shone brightly.
Around that same time, I attended a lecture by poet Carolyn Duferrena. She lives on a ranch in a northern Nevada valley she claims has no name. One winter, the pogonip lasted six weeks instead of the usual one or two. After ranch chores were done, she told us most people hunkered down by the fire with books and hot beverages to wait out the fog. It closed in, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere that caused irritation in those who had no engaging activity to occupy their minds. Dufferena bolstered her sanity by writing a book of poetry.
I was working on my novel, Paradise Ridge, at that time. Learning how people endure this wearisome weather, I incorporated her information and my experience with pogo nip into the plot. It created quite a conflict that pushed the story deeper into the characters' conflicts. Here's an excerpt:
"A few rainstorms recharged the streams and transformed the roads into quagmires. Holiday events became sparse flashes of gaiety sprinkled through the winter’s hard, lonely work. The storms only served to increase everyone’s isolation.
After the rains stopped, the air chilled, freezing whatever moisture floated in the air. The seasonal pogo nip had arrived.
Usually, this dense fog lasted a week or two at the most, covering the barren trees and willows, fence posts and barbed wire, even blades of grass, with a coat of rime. Everything glistened with an eerie beauty.
Gloomy as the fog could be, Lucy was fascinated at first with how the crystals piled upon each other, forming sculptures of ice that grew like fur upon every surface it touched. Weeds became ornate lace. Leafless trees etched against the dreary sky with stark black limbs. Lucy loved the pogo nip for a day or two. After a week, though, it buried her in despair. This year, the pogo nip lasted six weeks.
Everything acquired a ghostly aspect. People stoked up fires and nursed themselves with hot drinks and whatever music they could coax from fractious radio waves. Books from ranch libraries transported the more literate to sunnier places and adventures far from this pall.
As the pogo nip closed in around her house, Lucy’s stock of songs and stories thinned until she had little to sustain her. All she could do was watch from her rocking chair as Jeremiah kicked and crawled about the rug. Despite his joyful babblings, she felt imprisoned whenever she glanced out the windows.
She didn’t want to go for a walk for fear of getting lost in the deep mist. The frigid air stung like an invisible claw scraping her throat. Unable to spend any time outside, where her wild spirit could express its liberty, she fell into a sullen inertia.
Usually a shelter in foul weather, the little straw bale house became a tomb. No sunshine broke through at all; darkness siphoned whatever sense of wellbeing she could muster. Flat grey hues blurred the line between heaven and earth. She wanted to dive under her wedding quilt and hide until spring.
Even Leandro’s voice, his calm forbearance failed to enliven her. He too was drained of energy as, each morning he headed outside, pecking her with a weary kiss goodbye. Lucy would pull his neckerchief up over his nose and mouth to shield his lungs from the killing frost that her kaku called white death. With one more hug and glance into Leandro’s listless eyes, she sent him off and watched him and his horse dissolve into the fog. Later, what time they spent together hung in muted suspense, as if they waited for a spark to quicken them."
photos by Sue Cauhape
If you enjoyed this post feel free to explore other poems, essays, and stories in the Ring Around the Basin Archive. I also love to read your comments, so please share your thoughts. Let’s start a conversation. And if you wish to support my writings, please consider subscribing or upgrading to a paid subscription. It’s now only $50/year. Even better, I would appreciate it if you could share Ring Around the Basin with your friends. Thank you!
All my books, Paradise Ridge, When the Horses Come and Go, and Ghost in the Forest are currently available on Kindle.
Ghost in the Forest, is also available in paperback for ten bucks. Paradise Ridge is out-of-print, but the Kindle version is re-edited and better quality. Hard copies of “When the Horses Come and Go” are gone unless that dusty box in the corner still has some.
Book Review of Ghost in the Forest:
"Ghost in The Forest" is a great read! Take note People. If you love stories about environmentalism and nature, its clash with urban mindsets, as well as personal transformation, this is the book for you!
"Ghost in The Forest" is a quick 126-page read. It's the story of Dori, a woman trapped in a mix of grief over parental loss and refusing to accept how her hometown and her friends have changed over the years. Because of this, Dori has become a recluse and a self-imposed misanthrope who finds more comfort amongst the hiking trails around her hometown of Morristown than in her dealings with the raw reality of other humans.
The book, in some ways, resembled Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire” in that the story follows a protagonist's love of nature and angst about humans encroaching on it. In this case, it’s how Morristown is transforming into a mountain biking destination where cyclists run rampant on trails and nature.
However, a tragedy involving said mountain biking becomes a major pivot point for Dori, leading to a series of events that eventually bring about personal evolution and discovery.
If you're a nature lover, this book is a must-read. It beautifully portrays the clash between environmentalism and urban mindsets and the journey of personal transformation. The book's vivid descriptions of nature and the protagonist's love for it will surely intrigue you.
Paradise Ridge Review by western author D. B. Jackson:
If you draw circle roughly around an area that includes northern Nevada, southern Oregon, and southern Idaho, within that circle exists a culture and people who live a lifestyle largely untouched by modern values. These are the "buckaroos" and Basque characters author Sue Cauhape brings to life in her literary novel, "Paradise Ridge".
Leandro, the illegitimate seventh son of patriarch Xavier Arriaga and his mistress, Gisela, is at the center of this intriguing story that travels exceedingly successfully at both the personal level of the characters, as well as the compelling level where the story is told.
Cauhape writes in a literary style that reminds me of Annie Poulx. Paradise Ridge, on the surface, appears to be an upscale Western novel...once inside the pages, you will soon discover a potential classic waiting to be discovered.
I rated this book a 5...because that's all the stars there were.
In less modern times people in Northern MN would get Cabin Fever during the long winters. Fog was s problem too because of the warmth of the huge water mass of Lake Superior. Sometimes when on my 29' sailboat I would climb the ladder, push open the hatch and look forward. If I couldn't see the bow I shut the hatch and made coffee as I wasn't going anywhere.
So evocative, Sue. Your detailed description made me go over to the basket and fish out the blanket to wrap around myself here in my chair. Brrrrr. In Santa Cruz we have a huge system of hiking trails called the Pogonip. In the early 1900s, it was the location a rather exclusive private club for golfing / swimming / carousing for the wealthy. No one ever seemed to know the meaning of the word pogonip. You have cleared up a mystery.