Standing at the top of Baker Bluff early Saturday morning, it looked like we were peering down at water instead of a foggy valley.
As we continued north, we had no choice but to drive right into the fog, just like jet planes have to go through clouds. That was what it was like for just a few minutes, like being alone in the middle of a cloud, hiding, nothing else in the world. Then, the poplar trees, bright yellow as sunshine, came into view again.
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. ~Carl Sandburg:
Chicago Poems, 'Fog'.