Ah, another foggy morning.
I decided to make the most of it and hopped on my hybrid bike, the kind that's just perfect for navigating the roads and hills of this mountain range that thinks it's a major metropolis (yes San Francisco, I'm talking about you). My mission? To cross through the fog of the Golden Gate Bridge and hopefully land myself in a patch or two of sunshine, then hoof it up and over into the Marin Headlands for some possible coyote voyeurism. Coyotes are a common site there, and they are often so tame that they'll sit on the side - or in the middle - of the road and watch visitors with well-fed boredom. Despite the posted signs and constant admonitions of park rangers, tourists continue to feed these wild animals with a spare cheeseburger here and half of a dried-out Clif bar there, bringing them dangerously close to tameness. Oftentimes, this comfort around humans leads to the coyotes' injury or death as they wander into roadways or wander off with Twinkle the chihuahua. A little fear on their part is good. I tell myself that every time I see one, I'll watch it a bit and take my photos and notes, but when I'm done I'll cause a general hootin', hollerin', and rock-throwin' ruckus to scare the little guy away. The coyote will crouch down in shock at the noise before scampering hurriedly away, no doubt with one last glance over its shoulder and some parting words. "Geez, you humans are crazy %$&$*s! So much for your doughnuts and turkey sandwiches - I'm outta here!"
Maybe it's the wind-blown wildness of the headlands they prefer, or perhaps it's that coveted view of the city and bridge that those Marin County coyotes are guarding. (When the sun finally shows itself, I'll trek it up to the Marin Headlands lookout and snap a couple of killer shots for the Q4CK Blog, and you'll know why property values here ain't cheap!) Whatever the case, they make a nice mammalian addition to the park, and unlike their handful of cousins that actually live in San Francisco, these coyotes fill the night air with their ethereal yips, yaps, and Dwight Yokam-ish yodels.
That was my plan when I headed towards the Headlands on bikeback. To get to the Golden Gate from my home requires a bit of inner-city navigation, which is exciting for the novice cyclist but downright frightful for anyone who has come face-to-face with the front fender of a careless driver. Myself being of the latter group, I take the route through the Presidio whenever I'm pedaling northbound. Circuitous though it is, it offers awesome views of flora and fauna with the added bonus of being an occasional coyote sighting spot. I kept one eye peeled for the 'yotes as I zipped down to the Marina, but didn't see so much as coyote track or scat, so I just kept going until I reached the most challenging obstacle of all: the Bridge.
Oooo-wee! No trip to San Francisco is complete without a ceremonial walking of the Golden Gate Bridge, or if a tourist is feeling slightly more adventurous, he'll give his dogs a rest and rent a clumsy trek bike to make the ride across in efficient style. Of course, this presents hazards for the local bicyclists (myself included), namely in the form of stalled picture-takers in the right-hand lane coupled with ambling toddlers in the left. I once bumped a guy with a baby as I avoided his camera-wielding wife. Today's obstacle course was no different, but at least it is a good exercise for my reflexes, even if it does slow me down a bit. And I must admit, I even fell into the camera gawker camp as I stopped mid-bridge to snap this shot of tugboat and tanker emerging from the mist.
As I rolled into the Marin side of the Golden Gate Bridge's span, the sun was just starting to emerge as the banks of fog burned off over the hills. I soaked up some Vitamin D before turning my bike towards the fog source, that Heart Attack Hill that would get me up and over and into the heart of the Headlands. I downshifted and made a few determined grunts as I battled bursts of wind and one of the longest sustained uphill climbs in the county.
Here is where I must give the fog its due. Nowhere else but in the counties of San Francisco and its hippie sister, Marin, have I seen such awesome displays of foggy majesty. In my honest opinion, fog is the only thing that truly gives wind a visible shape and form. It's like what happens in those spy movies when the jewelry thief sprays that aerosol stuff onto laser beams so she can see the web of security thwarting her museum heist. I have seen this effect of the fog several times here, and many times as a little girl growing up in Central California, but today it reached a new level of coolness.
As I biked up to the mountain peak, I climbed right into the fog cloud. Car travel was light and not a biker was in sight, so the solitude provided by the fog shroud was even more stunning. A little spooky, too, I'll admit. Even the sound of my breathing was muffled; all I could hear was the wind washing down the south face of the mountain in its eastward descent, an invisible waterfall of damp, chilly air pushed by the ocean "breeze." It wasn't until I rounded a bend and pulled myself back around the south face that I saw it. The fog was riding a current of wind from one peak to another, just over my head, rolling and spilling and sweeping like a galloping herd of ghostly horses, vaporizing into gray nothingness right before my eyes. I kept riding and was caught up in the herd, felt the fog settle into mist as it condensed on my warm skin, heard the rush of the wind in my ears matched by the rush of breath from my mouth. I closed my eyes and imagined myself lost in the smoky breath of some ice palace dragon, the kind who burns intruders with the sting of dry ice rather than with fire. Later that afternoon as I lay in the sauna of Kabuki Spa, I would have a vivid flashback of that moment on the mountain, except this time I would be lying in the searing, parched mouth of the ice dragon's desert brother. I think I have my recent interest in Chinese Astrology to blame for my dragon visions . . . or maybe just my overactive imagination?
Dragons aside, the ride was an intoxicating one, especially the daring drop down Hawk Hill . . . but alas, no coyotes in the flesh to be found. But, I did snap a shot of yet another coyote warning sign (who should we really be "warning," the humans or the coyotes?), this one located near the tunnel that connects the Headlands to the main road leading to Sausalito. Yet another snippit of evidence that coyotes are here, alive and hopefully well. I suppose it's a good thing that they're learning to keep their furry heads hidden during the day . . . but I hope I get to see one before I leave this Shangri-La. Wouldn't it be cool to say I saw I coyote within sight of one of the grandest cities in the world?
ht it warranted a renewed interest on my part. Even though I never followed the trend in the early 90's of hanging a silver angel from my rearview mirror, I certainly don't mind sticking a bronze road-tripping coyote pin to the visor of my vehicle now. I'm even adding the inscription of "never drive faster than your coyote can accelerate" to keep with the tongue-in-cheek theme of a canine angel on my shoulder. Am I committing a major sacrilege? I don't really know. But I’m banking on a decade of Catholic school to atone for my playfulness. The coyote is called "God's dog," after all. So there. *Pfffftt!*
