Path into Fog, Marin Headlands | Mark Lindsay

The cloak of summer fog makes the Marin coastline a play land of imagination. High in the coastal hills the chilly stew hugs land like a translucent shroud. One can walk straight into a dream—eyes wide open. It's a short trip to a land of eternal childhood.

A morning of fog excites me like a kid, just the way a sneaky, nighttime snowfall did so many years ago. Waking up to white! There is something about an horizon which fades to blankness that excites a primal energy within. The world is an opalescent land of wonder. Every step reveals something new. One must be patient in the fog, nothing unfolds before its time.

The fog muffles light and sound. Deep in the chaparral there is little but the rustle of brush, the cadence of footsteps, the flutter of bird wings. There is nothing ahead but the silhouette of possibility. Deeper, deeper, deeper into fog—time and light play tricks with the senses.

Twiggy gremlins perform primal dances, twisting as a tangled mass of wooden sculpture. A rabbit appears out of nowhere, looks at me for a forever second and then disappears into the white. A crow decides to startle me and drop a eucalyptus acorn directly in my path. He then laughs with a screech, his wings swooshing in slow-motion. He too disappears into the fog. The dream is seductive. I want it to last forever.

The trance is broken by a tiny ray of light, the sun burns through the dream, searing its way into my reality. Soon a patch of blue sky appears. The fog breaks and lifts. Like when a translucent stage curtain slowly rises, I now see the scene in its cold clarity. I can hardly believe my eyes. I find myself on the top of a gigantic hill, the ocean in the distance, the horizon stretching forever. Colors burst forth. The world is awakening. The fog is gone.