When I was a little girl, The Hound of the Baskervilles lured me into the bogs and vapors of Devon. It bewitched me into loving the fog … and long days of sopping low light.
When we lived in Seattle, the fog and mist traveled in stealth, like Sandburg’s cat feet and silent haunches. But, it carried across Puget Sound a savage and damp cold. It truly seemed like the fog from which the coal-black hounds and smoldering eyes would burst.
In California’s Central Valley, the tule fog was our white-knuckle, dripping-sweat type of fog … when we’d get caught late at night on that long leg between the Grapevine and San Francisco.