916 flashback

Woke up today to the sight of the Tucson basin filled with fog. It reminded me of the nearly five years I spent in northern California. Heavy fog, known there as Tule Fog, after the tule marshes that formerly filled large areas of the Central Valley, is a frequent occurrence during Sacramento's winters. Here's a satellite photo of a typical day in December or January, just after a winter storm has moved through. You can see the San Francisco Bay, Lake Tahoe, and in between them sit a billion acres of fog.



I grew up in Phoenix, where fog was fairly novel, so novel, in fact, that it became one of my favorite adverse weather conditions, if there can be such a thing. When BeanSS and I moved to Sacramento in late 1998 for my job, we found the greyness of our first winter captivating. Only the most proximate of the city's many trees would be visible, looming ghostlike in the air. I worked in a high-rise building for a short time, and the fog would get so thick that it looked like we were floating on a sea of clouds. I fished for salmon and steelhead in the American River, unable to see beyond the current seam I was working, my fly rod dripping with dew. The most familiar bike trails became new and mysterious paths in the mist. The fog smelled like wheat.

The appreciation of fog steadily wore off. What had been new and different and interesting became monotonous and depressing, for my upbringing in Phoenix, while conditioning me to a fascination with fog, had also instilled in me a need to experience sunlight on a regular basis. There would be week long (and longer) periods where the sun would fail to burn through the murk. I couldn't tell if it was midmorning, noon, or 3:oopm. Everything, including myself, was cold and damp. Moreover, Sacramento's higher latitude relative to Phoenix, and California's adherence to daylight saving time, meant that the days were exceedingly short. I'd depart for the office in the dark, view the dreariness from the window all day, and then come home just as what passed for the last few rays of sunlight petered out. To say that my mood suffered the absence of light would be an understatement.

I eventually learned that while the Central Valley might be shrouded in fog, the foothills and peaks of the Sierra Nevada were, between storms, clear and sunny. With our exorbitant rent pushing a grand a month and gas reaching nearly 3 dollars a gallon at times, our discretionary income was limited and trips to the mountains were few and far between. Nevertheless, each escape from the gloom was an uplifting experience.

I distinctly recall one trip where we spent the day Nordic skiing in terrain 75 miles away, 8,000 feet higher, and with weather a world away from sea-level Sacto. We happily pushed through watery slush in the sun and scraped over "Sierra Cement" in the shade all day. As we drove down the hill towards home at the end of it, we marveled at the impenetrability of the fog. It reached from the Coast Range to the Sierra foothills, and went as far north and south as we could see. Mount Shasta was visible far to the north, and closer in, the peaks of the Sutter Buttes peeked through. I also remember that the crystal-clear skies and the sun's low angle, combined with water vapor emanating from our layers of technical clothing, still damp from sweat and the occasional spill into the snow, were turning the cab of our pickup into a sweltering terrarium. We switched off the heater and yet we roasted. Opening the windows was out of the question; we were going 75mph and it was quite cold outside. I think we eventually kicked on the AC to cool ourselves off. It all ended somewhere just below Auburn, where we crossed a distinct fog line, but the positive emotional effects of the several hours of photosynthesis lasted almost all week.

But back to the situation I encountered on this first day after the Winter Solstice in Tucson; the Rincons are still mostly hidden, but the uppermost heights of the Santa Catalinas are showing themselves. The Tucson Mountains are indistinct, but more or less visible. I have the best of both worlds - my "favorite adverse weather" combined with enough photons of light to keep the serotonin levels up in the normal range. And hey, this is the beginning of the end of the short day lengths. Bully for that! Before I know it, I'll be bitching about the monsoon season's heat, humidity, and squadrons of mosquitoes.