Summer Sun | Mark Lindsay
Head stuff swimming around in the skull—if I don't get out and move, my brain moves around inside itself. Kinetic energy. I've been on the phone too much, blabbing with far-away voices. Recorded voices, technical-support voices, customer-service voices. My brain goes round and round, trying to grasp the post-modern world. It isn't working.
All of a sudden I wake up in the morning and can't stand another day of it. I hit the trail. The Headlands call me. Two days before a nasty little heat wave made everyone cranky. Or was it just me? Then, in came the fog. I felt it in the middle of the night. In my dream I made my plans for the morning.
The Marin Headlands fog is my antidote for telephone voices. Two miles and I was up in the clouds. Wet. Cold. My camera dripped with fogginess. I leaned into the fog wind. I tied my hat to my chin. The cold opaqueness made all the head chatter go away. Condensation dripped from my hat into my eyes. I could barely see, I could barely walk. I was home.