A ridge walk in fog
The ridge trail is about seven miles out and back, climbing steadily through second-growth forest before it breaks out onto a long, grassy spine. On a clear day you can see the coast on one side and the valley farms on the other. People drive a long way for that view.
On Sunday I could see about forty feet.
The forecast had promised the marine layer would burn off by ten. It did not. I started at eight in a fine, cold mist that beaded on my sleeves, and by the time I reached the open section the cloud had settled right down onto the ridge. Every so often a gust would thin it enough to show the dark shape of a fir, and then close up again.
Without the view, the walk became a collection of small things:
- Spider webs strung between grass stems, every strand loaded with droplets, dozens of them in every square yard.
- A pair of ravens talking to each other somewhere overhead, close but never visible.
- The sound of my own footsteps, oddly loud, and the way voices from another group carried long before I saw them.
- Lichen on the fence posts, bright green and almost glowing in the flat light.
Fog takes away the distance and gives you back the foreground. It is a fair trade more often than I expect.
I ate lunch at the cairn that marks the high point, sitting on my pack to keep dry. It was 52°F with a light westerly. Two other hikers arrived, looked around at the white nothing, laughed, and sat down to eat as well. We agreed it was the best possible weather for not getting sunburnt.
The descent was quicker. Just below the treeline the cloud finally lifted, and for about five minutes the whole valley appeared below us, green and wet and lit from one side. Then I was back in the trees, and the moment was over.
A few practical notes for anyone heading up there: the cairn junction is easy to miss in poor visibility, so take the left fork at the split rock. The open section has no shelter at all, and even in May the wind can make it feel ten degrees colder than the trailhead. I was glad of a hat.