290 Union Bay 



where it would not be hit by others. I stumbled about among 

 the canoes and succeeded in rapping my fingers against the 

 side of the rack. I was nursing them when the manager came 

 down from his living quarters. 



"It's you," he said. "You're the last man I'd expect. I 

 thought it might be some drunk floundering around and I 

 wanted to herd him away from the water. You aren't going 

 out." 



"Why not? I've been waiting two weeks for just such a day. 

 I want to find out what goes on in a soupy fog." 



"I think you'll find it quiet, though I guess the animals 

 have to rustle for grub in bad as well as good weather. Any- 

 way, you certainly picked the right day. The fog's heavy 

 enough to hold up a canoe. Be sure you don't leave the lake 

 and wind up with your outfit on some dry street on the hill." 



He launched the canoe and held it close to the float until I 

 was seated. Then he dropped a couple of pillows on each 

 side of me and threw over a light blanket and canvas. 



"It will keep you dry and warm in this drip," he said. "Stay 

 out of the main channel or a powerboat might cut you 

 down." 



It required only five paddle strokes to carry me from all 

 sight of shore. The canoe was surrounded with a circle of 

 water, black and oily close to me, grayer each foot away, 

 until it grew more and more unlike water and more like the 

 enveloping background. The canoe moved in an inverted 

 bowl, the surface of which was formed by the dehseness of 

 the fog. 



What could I do in this fog? One thing was certain: I 

 could not rely on sight. The other senses must be my main 

 source of new impressions. I had not pictured anything quite 

 so dense. It made me think of a friend of mine. I apologized 

 for my slow driving one thick morning, and he drawled in 

 his southern manner: 



"Sure is tough. You can't see much and what you do see 



