It is the fog that I miss most about Sonoma County, and it's the fog that calls me back. The last time I visited here it rained, and clouds seated themselves upon the tops of the hills for hours. One of my doctors worried about me camping in the rain, but I love it. The steady thrum of the raindrops against my tent's rain fly was melodic, like the rhythm of soft bongos, and easy to fall asleep to.
Some of my fellow campers were less lucky, and found themselves caught unprepared, despite the forecast of 100% rain; packing their gear, loading their children, and leaveing the campground in the middle of the night.
During this stay there's no rain, though the fog is thick, and hangs so heavily in the trees that when the wind blows the moisture falls against my tent almost like rain. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Then the frogs add their grunts and chirps to the evening sounds from safety of the creek that whirls along the eastern border of the campground. And the crickets chirp. And if one is still, so very, very still, in between the other noises one might even hear chortle of the creek itself from within my tent, and that is when I know that I've come home.