I HEAR ALL THE TIME FROM FRIENDS who grew up in the Eastern United States that Northern California “has no seasons.”
There is a sense in which that is true, of course. I was stationed in Indianapolis for a few months during my Army tour, and it was my first experience of what easterners refer to as “seasons.” Fall was riotously colorful, winter was long, gray and lifeless, spring was a birdsong-hymned resurrection, and summer was humid, buggy, tropical somnolence lit by flashing lightning.
Winter, especially, made an impression on me. I remember sitting in the barracks one midwinter evening and watching a weather forecaster on the local news saying something like, “Well, we won’t be getting above zero this weekend, but we’ll be warming into the teens by late next week.”
You read that right: “Warming into the teens.”
I learned two things while stationed there. First, that the climate of the rest of the country is vastly different than the West Coast climate I was raised in; and second that after the Army, one non-negotiable requirement for places I’m willing to live is that palm trees need to be able to survive outdoors there.
All that said, I think people who deny that there are seasons in Northern California need to cultivate a sense of subtlety in themselves, and tune in to the rhythms of our distinctive climate.
Most of Northern California has a “Mediterranean” climate — summer drought, winter rainy season. During the dry season, the air is very dry, grasses turn golden (which makes a small contribution to California’s nickname being “The Golden State”) and native trees adapted to the climate send taproots deep to chase the previous wet season’s receding moisture. Away from the ocean, the air begins heating in May, and by July the temperatures are more than 100 degrees on a regular basis, with occasional heat waves sending the mercury north of 110. The only redeeming feature of those days is that the humidity is very low; however, a temperature of 115 degrees is hot enough that coming out of Safeway in a place like Stockton or Redding is a bit of a shock — the superheated air actually hurts your skin.
The oaks, laurels and madrones become stressed at the end of the dry season, the grasses are long-golden and rattle drily in the wind; the creosote and ceanothus bushes are looking pretty twiggy and desiccated in the dry canyons, the creeks have slowed to a few pools and trickles, and a fine layer of dust coats the leathery leaves of summer-dried eucalyptus up on the ridge tops. It is as if nature is crying out for rebirth and renewal.
That cry will soon be doused, as over the horizon in the Pacific the autumn rains prepare to break at last through the last ramparts of summer heat and overrun the mountains and fields
Fall is a time of increasing humidity, as Pacific storms begin their annual assault on the summer high-pressure system over the West Coast. The first shower usually breaches the summer high and tantalizes the parched flora some time in September or October, and indeed, this week we may get the first little hint of the rainy season, as low pressure briefly gains the upper hand against the summer high.
But if this year is typical — and after three dry years, we desperately need a more-than-typical wet season — the dry season will finally release its hold in early November when the first soaking rains fall.
There are some signs that this may be an El Niño year in the Bay Area, which often means torrential rains during the wet season. (That said, it is not guaranteed, so it’s not time to resume taking long showers and soaking our gardens just yet.)
Yes, the rains will have returned like a friend too long away; the native live oaks will drink deeply and joyously of the waters of renewal, the grasses will be preparing the first green shoots, and the manzanita and toyon bushes will release aromatic oils and perfume the air.
The beginning of every rainy season in California is somewhat analogous to spring in the “four-seasons” parts of the U.S.: It is the season of new life.
The winter wet season is our “green” season, as rains revive the grasses on the hillsides and the hills turn a deep, emerald green. Streams rush to life, beavers get to work shoring up their dams and lodges, and frogs and crickets sing. In the cities, commuters scurry for shelter, wipers slide across windshields and the streets are washed clean of their summer grit and grime, like absolution for summer’s sins.
The air is humid, the clouds dark. But the air is also filled with promise — change is happening. Anyone who tells you we don’t have seasons just needs to learn to look harder.
Matt Talbot is a writer and poet, as well as an old Benicia hand. He works for a tech start-up in San Francisco.
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