Lake of Fog

There are mornings when the fog slides down the western side of the East Bay Hills and into the basin of the San Francisco Bay. I love standing above it in the sun gazing into the misty lake, wispy around the edges as the fog sinks lower into the creases of the hills, hiding the houses, freeways and bridges beneath a fluffy white surface.

In the park the wildflowers of Spring have given way to hardier, spikier plants, which rely for their survival on bristles and burrs for a free ride on passing people and animals. It requires constant vigilance to keep them out of paws and ears, socks and pant legs. As the plants that nurtured them die and turn into the signature golden hills of California Summer, the seeds (those that don't wind up in the washing machine or the vet's surgery) lie dormant until the first rains when the hills turn vibrant green again.

We didn't realize how fortunate we were when we bought our house eons ago to be so near a network of regional parks that runs along the hills behind us. As our kids grew older and we acquired dogs, we began to explore the trails and the variety contained within these parks so close to home. Some are volcanic, some are sylvan, some are quite wild and one contains a little farm, a steam train and a beautiful old carrousel--old fashioned pastimes that continue to delight children and their parents alike. There are even several swimming lakes with beaches and lifeguards. If we go early in the morning, Ozzie can retrieve sticks from the lake until he drops. This is his true calling--a tennis ball (or any ball) is an object of scorn.

While we continue to contemplate a permanent move to Sonoma County, I cannot really imagine leaving this magical urban wilderness.