Fog Chaser
Volume III


Exploration 005 | Mt. Hood, Oregon | Vol. III, Issue 5

Welcome to the latest installment of the Fog Chaser newsletter.

Here in Oregon, winter’s grip is loosening; soon the creeks will be brimming with snowmelt from nearby mountains. It’s hard to think of this annual thaw as anything but symbolic — a distinct softening of the hard edges that form around us in the darker months. The suggestion of warmth whispered by the sun’s slow shifts, the sounds of snowmelt, and the soft blooms of early Camellias herald yet another beginning.

I wait, eagerly, downstream.

For those who may not know, every song I ever release I share here with you first, well before I consider releasing it anywhere else (like streaming platforms). Some songs may never get released beyond this newsletter.

The one exception is for music I write for film and other media, which doesn’t typically get shared more broadly. However, next month I’m releasing the first volume of the ambient score I’ve been writing for @Elle Griffin’s novel Oblivion on streaming platforms and on Bandcamp.

I haven’t shared these ten ambient tracks before, so I’m very excited to announce the release of Oblivion, Vol. I (Original Book Score) on April 19.1

Pre-save on Spotify

Pre-order on Bandcamp

I really appreciate your time and attention. Thank you.

felled, 35mm

🎵 This month’s piece is in A major.2

📷 This month’s photos were taken in Mt. Hood National Forest in Oregon.3

meltwater, 35mm

I invite you to sit with this month’s song, photos, and poem and make them a small part of your day, whether that’s your morning ritual, afternoon break, or your evening wind-down.

As always, if you feel like it, let me know what you think in the comments. I’d love to hear from you.

Thank you again for being here.

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Dead Stars

by Ada Limón4

Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
                 Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
       the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
       recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.

And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
       Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
       of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
       what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
       We’ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
     No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth,
                 if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

Listening to




These songs are much more ambient than the music I usually write and share here. To check out Elle’s novel, visit The Elysian.


Downstream in A major / Written, performed, and produced by Fog Chaser. Field recordings from Central Oregon. Special thanks to my friend Kevin Butler for his feedback on an early mix. (cc:



Downstream / 35mm film (Fujifilm Superia / ISO 400) / Mt. Hood National Forest, Oregon, USA


From The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018) by Ada Limón


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Fog Chaser
Volume III
Volume III of the original music shared in the Fog Chaser newsletter (November 2023 - October 2024)
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