“Another night of blanketing fog was in the offing. A chill southwesterly wind was blowing in heavy curls and twists from the fogbank anchored offshore; the grayness was already thick enough to hide the ocean from the road, though he could hear the distant murmur of surf and the barking of sea lions. The Potato Patch foghorn gave off its hollow moan at regularly spaced intervals. This was a relatively bleak, lonesome section of the city, sparsely traveled beyond the mayor’s lofty estate. The onl...y structure of note between it and Carville was Dickey’s Road House. As he rattled past there and the Ocean Boulevard turning into Golden Gate Park, a long wagon emerged from the junglelike tangle of scrub pine and manzanita that marked the park’s western edge and clattered away behind him into the road house yard; otherwise he saw no one. Empty sand-blown roadway, grass-topped dunes, seagulls, fog … a virtual wasteland. There were no lampposts here, south of the park. At night, when the fog was heavy and the wind blew strongly, the highway would at times be impassable, even with the most powerful of lanterns, to all but the blind and the foolhardy.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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