Olympic National Forest - Seattle, WA
Spur-of-the-moment travel is my favorite. No real plan, just go when the timing feels right.
I book a plane flight.
Jessica books a castle.
There's a Valley of Giants that I want to see and Seattle has always been a favorite.
I start out going the wrong way and sit in Dallas being "grumpy" about my economical choice of airline.
(The kind of grumpy where you're headed exactly where you want to go, at an insane rate of speed, with little to no effort, in an amazing feat of human engineering)
I'm not that grumpy.
I love flying.
It forces you to accept your inevitable death. Look it in the face. And keep walking.
After crossing half of North America in less than a quarter of a day, Jessica picks me up and we leave Seattle to cross the bay.
The ferry is pulling out as we pull up, so we get to spend an hour catching up.
We spent a week or so road-tripping in Mexico ten years ago, and I once described her as "someone who you feel like you have known for a lot longer than you actually have"...
She thinks that's nice.
I can now describe her as someone who (self-admittedly) "regularly kills the car battery" and we almost have to wait for a third ferry to come.
Luckily, the port authority is used to these things and we are up and running, loaded on the ferry, and having a beer in no time.
The ferry floats us through the fog to Bainbridge Island and after a quick pit-stop, we are headed to The Castle.
I've never been on the Olympic Peninsula and I'm a bit star-struck.
It's not long before we are in Port Townsend, and I realize I've been oogling the fall colors and enjoying having real conversation on a road trip.
(Rodney tolerates my rambling but he doesn't usually add much)
So... I don't have very many pictures.
But you can trust the hype.
It's beautiful here.
And there is damn good coffee in every parking lot.
The first night sets the tone of the trip.
Food.
Wine.
Talk.
Stay awake till 5-6am (my time).
Sleep a little.
Coffee.
Drive.
It's a welcome change, and although I miss Rodney every time I see a dog, we would probably still be in Amarillo, trying to get through the airplane door.
He is not a fan of doors, and has a strict no-drug policy, so flying isn't likely in his future.
(Until he learns to do it himself)
It's nice to just sit and look out the window.
The following morning, we walk a farmer's market and pick up enough sausage, cheese, vegetables and wine to last the weekend.
Our stop is a cabin further along the cat tail of Highway 101.
The cabin sits along a river just past Lake Crescent.
Jessica drives and I take naps the whole way, waking up for critical moments.
There's secret beaches tied to the pull-offs here.
And cabins waiting, with yard scenes from Renoir's mind.
The cabin is almost too good to leave, but we have made Big Plans™ to see Cape Flattery.
It is at the end of the continent, overlooking the Pacific.
And as nice as it is to sit in the yard and listen to the river, it's not the Pacific.
On the way, I get distracted and ask Jessica to turn back.
There's a dirt road that I would certainly explore in the Tacoma.
She has a Subaru, so that's not the issue.
I just want pictures of it for now.
We get out and walk down a few yards, until we have left the outside world.
But not far enough to see around the bend.
I overexpose everything, misusing the exposure lock before I reframe and set the focus.
The right side of the path is floor-to-ceiling branches, left boney from the season.
Browns and shadow reaching out, longing for the leaves that dot the mud and the dirt.
The left side of the path is evergreen, standing tall.
Ferns and moss, kissed by filtered light.
That's a lot to say, but it's less than 1,000 words. And all 20 of you can handle it.
Plus, in the time it takes to store that information, we are at the trailhead.
Helpful hint: it says 1/2 a mile, but prepare for 2 and you'll come out of it fresh.
Either way, it's worth it.
The reverence that falls over places like this never gets old.
Humans drop their voices to a murmur for fear of disturbing it, losing it to what lies within themselves.
Old ladies feel safe to go for a walk and wax poetic on the usefulness of a light jacket in fall.
"It keeps me warm, but I don't get too hot."
Exactly.
Ruby Beach is next.
It's the type of place people go to fill an Instagram page with #travel photos.
It's also a beach in Washington, and it is still foggy.
We stay in the car while Jessica's baby sleeps.
We are not really waiting for the fog to lift.
Sitting in Rothko Chapel, your brain begins to feel relieved of duty.
No cars to look out for.
No weather to feel. No voices to interpret.
Just the moment. And the paintings.
The trees are actively pulling the moisture out of the air, and after sitting in the haze for half an hour, everything begins to turn green.
Or rather, I begin to see it... coming forward out of the mist.
Lake Quinault is the type of place I could send my parents.
Separately, it's the type of place you could take someone who likes nature but doesn't want to be "in it, in it".
Lastly, it is the type of place I could live.
I'll certainly dream about it.
There are some large conifers that live in the valley that the lake sits in.
The Valley of the Rainforest Giants, it's called.
We are here to visit the Sitka Spruce.
The path to the Sitka is supposed to be 1/3 of a mile, and that feels about right.
It's enough to warm you, but not so much to make you sweat. A light jacket.
Standing on the foot bridge I think to myself, "Hm... not quite as 'giant' as I was expecting."
Then we keep walking.
And the tree keeps growing.
It takes me 3 minutes to walk around her, moving from one knot to the next, taking pictures.
I don't know if she has a name.
I once sat around a campfire with friends where we independently decided what sounds we would use to describe a tree if we had no language to base it on.
"Brroom-taahhh", I decided.
I'll call her Broomtah.
I book a plane flight.
Jessica books a castle.
There's a Valley of Giants that I want to see and Seattle has always been a favorite.
I start out going the wrong way and sit in Dallas being "grumpy" about my economical choice of airline.
(The kind of grumpy where you're headed exactly where you want to go, at an insane rate of speed, with little to no effort, in an amazing feat of human engineering)
I'm not that grumpy.
I love flying.
It forces you to accept your inevitable death. Look it in the face. And keep walking.
After crossing half of North America in less than a quarter of a day, Jessica picks me up and we leave Seattle to cross the bay.
The ferry is pulling out as we pull up, so we get to spend an hour catching up.
We spent a week or so road-tripping in Mexico ten years ago, and I once described her as "someone who you feel like you have known for a lot longer than you actually have"...
She thinks that's nice.
I can now describe her as someone who (self-admittedly) "regularly kills the car battery" and we almost have to wait for a third ferry to come.
Luckily, the port authority is used to these things and we are up and running, loaded on the ferry, and having a beer in no time.
The ferry floats us through the fog to Bainbridge Island and after a quick pit-stop, we are headed to The Castle.
I've never been on the Olympic Peninsula and I'm a bit star-struck.
It's not long before we are in Port Townsend, and I realize I've been oogling the fall colors and enjoying having real conversation on a road trip.
(Rodney tolerates my rambling but he doesn't usually add much)
So... I don't have very many pictures.
But you can trust the hype.
It's beautiful here.
And there is damn good coffee in every parking lot.
The first night sets the tone of the trip.
Food.
Wine.
Talk.
Stay awake till 5-6am (my time).
Sleep a little.
Coffee.
Drive.
It's a welcome change, and although I miss Rodney every time I see a dog, we would probably still be in Amarillo, trying to get through the airplane door.
He is not a fan of doors, and has a strict no-drug policy, so flying isn't likely in his future.
(Until he learns to do it himself)
It's nice to just sit and look out the window.
The following morning, we walk a farmer's market and pick up enough sausage, cheese, vegetables and wine to last the weekend.
Our stop is a cabin further along the cat tail of Highway 101.
The cabin sits along a river just past Lake Crescent.
Jessica drives and I take naps the whole way, waking up for critical moments.
There's secret beaches tied to the pull-offs here.
And cabins waiting, with yard scenes from Renoir's mind.
The cabin is almost too good to leave, but we have made Big Plans™ to see Cape Flattery.
It is at the end of the continent, overlooking the Pacific.
And as nice as it is to sit in the yard and listen to the river, it's not the Pacific.
On the way, I get distracted and ask Jessica to turn back.
There's a dirt road that I would certainly explore in the Tacoma.
She has a Subaru, so that's not the issue.
I just want pictures of it for now.
We get out and walk down a few yards, until we have left the outside world.
But not far enough to see around the bend.
I overexpose everything, misusing the exposure lock before I reframe and set the focus.
The right side of the path is floor-to-ceiling branches, left boney from the season.
Browns and shadow reaching out, longing for the leaves that dot the mud and the dirt.
The left side of the path is evergreen, standing tall.
Ferns and moss, kissed by filtered light.
That's a lot to say, but it's less than 1,000 words. And all 20 of you can handle it.
Plus, in the time it takes to store that information, we are at the trailhead.
Helpful hint: it says 1/2 a mile, but prepare for 2 and you'll come out of it fresh.
Either way, it's worth it.
The reverence that falls over places like this never gets old.
Humans drop their voices to a murmur for fear of disturbing it, losing it to what lies within themselves.
Old ladies feel safe to go for a walk and wax poetic on the usefulness of a light jacket in fall.
"It keeps me warm, but I don't get too hot."
Exactly.
Ruby Beach is next.
It's the type of place people go to fill an Instagram page with #travel photos.
It's also a beach in Washington, and it is still foggy.
We stay in the car while Jessica's baby sleeps.
We are not really waiting for the fog to lift.
Sitting in Rothko Chapel, your brain begins to feel relieved of duty.
No cars to look out for.
No weather to feel. No voices to interpret.
Just the moment. And the paintings.
The trees are actively pulling the moisture out of the air, and after sitting in the haze for half an hour, everything begins to turn green.
Or rather, I begin to see it... coming forward out of the mist.
Separately, it's the type of place you could take someone who likes nature but doesn't want to be "in it, in it".
Lastly, it is the type of place I could live.
I'll certainly dream about it.
There are some large conifers that live in the valley that the lake sits in.
The Valley of the Rainforest Giants, it's called.
We are here to visit the Sitka Spruce.
The path to the Sitka is supposed to be 1/3 of a mile, and that feels about right.
It's enough to warm you, but not so much to make you sweat. A light jacket.
Standing on the foot bridge I think to myself, "Hm... not quite as 'giant' as I was expecting."
Then we keep walking.
And the tree keeps growing.
It takes me 3 minutes to walk around her, moving from one knot to the next, taking pictures.
I don't know if she has a name.
I once sat around a campfire with friends where we independently decided what sounds we would use to describe a tree if we had no language to base it on.
"Brroom-taahhh", I decided.
I'll call her Broomtah.
