Fogged

Driving south on Highway 99 last night, heading home from class, the thousands of us were moving at 65 miles an hour through a nice blanket of fog. In California, this is what we do: maintain or increase our driving speed as the conditions worsen. I stayed in the right-hand lane so the less timid could get to where they were going faster. Ninety minutes earlier one of my students had commented on how much he hates the fog, and he didn't understand why some of us actually like it. "It's easier to hide in," I said, but I suppose he's young enough that he doesn't yet need places to hide.

The local Classic Rock radio station is doing an A-Z countdown, and as I merged onto the freeway Jimi Hendrix's "Are You Experienced" began, and the song fit the environment quite well. I seldom listen to this station (how many times can we re-listen to music that's 30 or 40 years old, for crying out loud!), so I was glad to have tuned in when I did. Hemmed in by a rather tall concrete median strip (meant to discourage rubber-neckers) on one side and an even taller concrete sound-deflection wall on the other, I felt comfortably hemmed in by walls and fog. The fog seemed to reduce all things visible to bits and pieces of light: headlights and taillights; dashboard lights; exit-ramp lights. Quite enjoyable. Even the green exit signs over the freeway, with their white and occasionally yellow lettering, seemed bright.

As I drove, I remembered other times I'd been in literal fogs. Once, my wife and I drove to Phoenix (partially on Highway 99) in March, leaving town at 3 in the morning. Fifty miles after we started we hit a layer of fog that lasted until Bakersfield in Southern California. She slept most of the way, and in my little Honda Civic I drove the speed limit and tried keep the red taillights of the cars and trucks within sight. If she'd been awake, she (being the smart one) would've told me to slow down, that god knows how quickly things can happen when you can't see. Another drive was on what must have been our first Thanksgiving with our first son. Driving home through California's delta region, I could not see beyond the hood of our Datsun pick-up truck. She was awake, the son was asleep, and I kept my speed down to--what...10 miles an hour? I remember having to use the centerline on the road as a guide. A third experience involved no cars at all, just an excursion to the banks of the American River after some friends and I chewed mushrooms (my only time) and thought it would be a good idea to wander through the woods along the river. Everything that night seemed overly bright, even in the fog. I think I could have walked there forever. We returned to the party a few hours later no worse for wear, and hunkered down to listen to Led Zepplin's album Physical Graffiti, one of the finest rock albums ever. Don, one of my friends at the time, seemed especially pleased with the music, and he vowed then to buy a copy of the album.

Around 4 this morning, I climbed out of the warm bed, dressed in my running garments, and went outside to find that the fog I'd hoped for hadn't lingered. Still, the dark was enough to hide in, and "Are You Experienced" kept rolling through my head, especially the final 3 lines:

Have you ever been experienced?
Not necessarily stoned, but
beautiful.

Not sure exactly why I remembered those lines, but they seemed a good way to end a relatively pointless entry here....