The mornings we live above the clouds

Most mornings up here begin the same way. Overnight the valley fills with fog, and by the time the sky goes pale, Murrieta is gone. In its place is a slow white sea, settling against the lower hills like water finding its level. We stand at the top of the grove with coffee going cold in our hands and watch it move.

The locals call it the marine layer. It rolls in off the coast, pools in the low ground, and burns off by mid-morning. From down in the valley it is just a gray ceiling, the kind of sky you forget by noon. From up here, above it, it is the whole reason we stay.

That view is what built everything else. The grove came first, rows of avocado and citrus holding the hillside together. Then the torii gate, a simple wooden frame at the edge of the drop, set there for no reason except that the spot asked for it. People say their vows under it now, with the clouds spread out below them and the sun coming up gold behind. We did not plan that. The place just seemed to want witnesses.

The animals came the same way. One needed somewhere to land, then another, and now there is a whole easy-living crew of them in the shade of the trees, sleeping through the best part of the day while we work around them.

None of it was a business plan. It was a steep piece of land with a view that stops you mid-sentence, tended long enough that it started giving back.

If you ever come up, come early. The clouds are best before the valley wakes. The gate stays closed unless you've booked it, but that's the point, when it opens, the morning is yours alone.