Into the Valley of Fog

An enduring myth about California is that it never gets much weather. This misperception is fanned in part by our own relentless hype about a golden land of endless summers. Also, there is the Rose Bowl, a New Year’s Day tradition in which snowbound Midwesterners watch with hatred and wonder as football is played under balmy Pasadena skies.

In fact, as most Californians know, the state is loaded with extraordinary weather. For instance, San Francisco has its bone-chilling summers, made famous by Mark Twain. And Southern California has its autumn Santa Anas, made famous by Raymond Chandler. And Fresno has its winter fog, made famous by nobody.

For people who must endure it, this so-called tule fog is both a curse and a source of perverse pride. Along with absurd summer heat, raisins and maybe a baseball player or two, fog ranks as one of the few reasons Fresno finds itself on any map--a true phenomenon.

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Tule fog is not a fog that comes creeping in--as the poet once wrote--on little cat feet. Rather, it comes in combat boots; with a crash and a bang, with a screech of tires and a blare of sirens. The most notorious byproducts of the valley fog are the terrible chain reaction accidents it causes on California 99--pileups leaving 20, 30, 40, even 50 cars twisted and tangled together. In conditions that make it impossible to see beyond the hood of your own car, all it takes is one mistake by one driver.

A combination of factors has established the valley as fog central--an inversion layer, agricultural dust, the depths of the valley floor, the fact that before the dams were built much of the lowlands were swamps and lakes. The fog is created on the ground. During the afternoon, it might lift off the valley floor a few hundred feet. At night, it crashes back down like an anvil and stays all morning.

Valley residents can go weeks without seeing the sun. Such a siege can make some people crazy. “Fog” a psychologist once told the Fresno Bee, “creates the same effect on the brain that standing in a closet does. You can’t see and you feel closed in. That can be upsetting to a lot of people.” Other experts describe the fog as a source of laziness or depression or forgetfulness. Frankly, as a native of this town, I don’t remember the fog ever making me depressed, and I’m a bit too lazy to explore the matter further.

The “goop,” as some locals call it, or old “pogonip,” as others do, colors daily life in many ways. Schools switch to late-morning, foggy day schedules. Body shops and chiropractors thrive. Air travel becomes irregular. At other airports, it’s easy to spot Fresno-bound passengers; they’re the ones gathered grimly at a ticket counter, waiting to be told where to board the bus.

The fog is not without virtue. It provides a natural cooling chamber that helps fruit trees flourish, and offers cover for school kids bent on mischief. In junior high school, we had a coach who’d dispatch us winter mornings on a mile run. We’d chug along until hidden by the fog--a distance sometimes no greater than 40 yards--and then stop. After a nice, long rest, we’d turn around and return to our whistle-master. He thought we were remarkable cross-country prospects.

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Members of the Tule tribe, valley natives who lived among the bulrushes and for whom the fog is named, told stories of encounters with disembodied phantoms. It has been suggested what they actually saw were the heads of people walking about in shoulder-high fog. We moderns tend to tell a different sort of fog story.

A Fresno winter resounds with tales of foggy adventures on the road. You hear talk of people driving blind, head out the window, straining to hear any oncoming traffic. You also hear talk of people suffering vertigo behind the wheel, winding up at Mare Island, say, when they were bound for Patterson, on the opposite side of the state.

I once told such stories myself, with relish. For example, as a kid, I had a winter job that required driving at dawn into the country. The only way I knew when to turn into the driveway was watching the odometer--three-tenths of a mile past the last stop sign I’d gulp and pull to the right. It always worked.

That, however, was a long time ago, and now that I don’t live in the valley I make a point of avoiding fog. I call ahead and stay home when the goop is down. The truth is I’m rusty, and I don’t trust my ear-driving skills anymore.