Twin Peaks

“You can’t even see anything,” exclaimed the disappointed Asian tourist upon stepping out of his car atop Twin Peaks.
 
Twin Peaks is perched high above the city of San Francisco. It’s the kind of location that would beacon tourists and travelers from all corners of the globe, promising sweeping 360 degree views of the hilly city below. One might expect to even be able to see from the TransAmerica Pyramid at one end of the city all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge on the other.
 
All of that may be possible if it weren’t for something else that the city is famous for. Fog.
 
Fog creeps in from the north and slowly blankets the city in a deep, seemingly impenetrable grayness. It may be sunny when you leave the office for lunch, but by the time 5:00 rolls around, the fog has already begun its descent.
 
Having spent nearly three years in San Francisco, I grew fond of the summer fog. Its dark, ominous presence slowly engulfing the city like the outstretched fingers of a large hand. It became synonymous with San Francisco in my mind. It was as much a part of the city as cable cars, sourdough bread, or hippies lining Haight St. 
 
Don’t get me wrong: sun-soaked days were always a welcomed occurrence in the city. They offered the chance to finally sit on the beach in bathing suit or leave your apartment without a jacket or sweater in tow.  But for me, the fog is helps define the city.
 
We awake our first full day in the city to cool temperatures, gray skies and low visibility. While you can see a block or two ahead, your vision hits a wall shortly thereafter.  It’s perfect. Jahkedda has a few hours of work to take care of that morning, so I take the opportunity to take in the fog in all its glory. From our apartment on the edge of the Mission, it’s about a 2 mile hike to the top of Twin Peaks. While I have been to Twin Peaks before, it has always been by car. I had never taken the opportunity to conquer the route on foot.
 
Following the rainbow flag-lined portion of Market St past the restaurants, gyms and cafes of the Castro District, the street begins its gradual ascent towards my destination.  The bustling commercial neighborhood slowly morphs into the quietly residential.  The modest single-family houses gradually become larger and more expansive as I make my way further away from sea level.
 
About halfway to the top, I check my map to verify the route. The streets are quiet and the fog is dense. A slight mist begins to develop. Up ahead, a couple appears in the middle of the block and heads in my direction.  Curious of where they came from, I inspect the break in the wall from which they emerged.  I find a steep staircase that leads to some unknown destination. There is no sign, no indication of public or private property, and a low overhang obstructs my view beyond a few stairs.

 I decide that the stairs are roughly headed in the direction of Twin Speaks and I take the plunge. The path leads through a very long, narrow, and seemingly out-of-place park dedicated to a local celebrity. Brightly colored flowers and imposing trees line the hill on either side of the staircase. The stairs continue, seemingly endlessly. The gradation becomes steeper the higher I climb. Continuing forward or turning back are the only options.  I go forward.
 
I emerge from the park in the center of an upper middle class neighborhood, slightly disoriented.  I head towards to the closest visible street, not knowing exactly where I am. Fortunately, it appears that the staircase provided a short-cut through the circuitous route displayed on my map. A sign at the corner points me in the direction of Twin Peaks. 
 
The fog is dense. The street is quiet. There are no people. No cars. No signs of life.  I start to feel that I’m all alone in the world. The sidewalk disappears. I hug the edge of the road as the path snakes its way to the top. A car of tourists emerges, slowly making its way back down the hill. I continue forward.

 Opting for the steep makeshift trail up the side of the hill instead of following the winding road to the top, I reach the nearly 1000ft summit a bit winded. There are already a few people there that morning: a few tourists frustrated by the fog and 2 or 3 men alone in their parked cars waiting for someone or something.  
 
There is an observation deck replete with coin operated telescopes, whose presence seems almost laughable in a fog so dense. The only thing to see from that vantage point is the nothingness that exists just beyond wherever I’m standing, an impenetrable wall of gray.

Vans of tourists come and go.  Workers tinker with the telecommunication station on the premises. Individuals sit with their car doors open smoking a cigarette, perhaps as a way to escape the hectic world below, if only for a few minutes. The fog remains.  The foreign tourist was right: “You can’t even see anything.” 
 
But maybe that’s exactly the point.