Somewhere Over the Fogbow

Rainbows are common in Mendocino—I even saw one during a hailstorm. But I’d never seen a fogbow until today. As my husband and I traipsed along the bluffs at Spring Ranch, we suddenly saw a soft, glowing whiteness—like a dome. Even though I had never seen one, and had only heard the term once, I instantly knew what it was.

What lies over the fogbow? A mind-boggling array of flora I am often unable to identify. The ground is dotted with tiny chartreuse “cabbages,” white stars and shiny-petalled yellow flowers. I later discover their names: footsteps of spring, death camas and California buttercup.

Dangling over the edge of a cliff is a type of ice plant I’ve never seen. The flowers are diminutive and lilac purple, with tiny pointed party hats for centers. Midge-sized flies dance in the powdery white pollen.

A teeny, bright flower winks at me from the grass. A caterpillar slinks by then undulates over a blade of grass, its amber eyes translucent and determined. More ice plants flower in impossibly vivid shades of fuchsia and scarlet. The tips of a pine tree are budding out like mahogany microphones listening for the cries of oystercatchers and terns.

The final view is a turquoise cove with a red-yellow log floating on the water’s surface. Seen from afar, it looks like a toothpick, but closer it is gigantic and could be carved into five canoes. I’m quite sure that what lies over the fogbow is the magical beauty of creation—and it’s our collective calling to enjoy it.

All photos © Sondra Sula.