I remember standing by the pool in Pope Valley, an early morning cup of coffee in my hand, gazing out across the dropzone. A large hanger with two DC-3s standing majestically shrouded in a damp fog. The pure white fog absorbing all sound now appeared like a blank canvas just waiting to be painted on. As the sun rose over the ridge to the east, the warmth of its rays would begin to heat the valley. This would cause small patches of fog to thin exposing an opaque picture of the valley beyond. The first to become more clearly defined was always the hanger and the 3s. After that, it would be Pots Peak off across the landing area with its many oak trees scattered across its slopes. A few sips of coffee later, the far end of the long valley would slowly sharpen into clarity. By the end of my second cup, the sun would be shining in a clear blue sky, the painting complete with DC-3s in the foreground, the runway pointing down the valley. With that, the silence would be broken by the first call on the loudspeaker

 “Push the plane back!”

 During the day the view of the valley was mostly from above. As we would climb to altitude, looking down on the valley of Pope, it would appear as an island in a sea of fog, the rest of California still engulfed in whiteness. Off to the west, the two red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge poked up out of the blanket of white acting as reference points for the city of San Francisco somewhere below. As the day came to an end, the sun sinking below the western horizon, the valley would again slowly be consumed by the foggy dampness. The canvas wiped clean. 

Then next morning with coffee in hand…