The strangest thing I’ve noticed about the weather over the last couple of years is there hasn’t been much fog. As a child growing up in rice country, I hated the fog. It would move in like some sort of thing about late October, hugging our house, clogging up the roads, covering fields and orchards like cotton batting. Grown-ups didn’t like driving in it and we kids didn’t like tramping around in it – it gave us a feeling of loss and despair, and we’d hightail it to the house when the school bus dropped us off at the end of our driveway and disappeared into it.
Now I’m glad to see it, it tells us the ground is getting a good soaking. I’ve watched a thin mist move in around my house in Chico the last few mornings, but when my family took a trip out Highway 70 recently, we saw the real stuff.
It was weird, driving into it, like a solid block of fluff. As a child living out in rice country, it was depressing sitting in the house watching it take over the fields and roads around the house. It was eerie to walk out into it, cross my grandparents big driveway and wander into the walnut orchard, and turn to see the house had disappeared!
But as we drove along, passing near the Feather River and up and down out of little hollows, the fog broke into patches, and sometimes the sun would come burning through.
It’s nice to get out on the road, but we’ve been doing a lot of travelling lately and I’m glad to get home.