Imagine an alien landscape of towering red and green cliffs, dark gray thunderclouds hovering just above the ground, ringed with bright blue sky, mile-long forks of lightning shooting up from the ground; deer grazing among patches of snow in front of a glowing red sky over a valley of pine trees a mile deep; fields populated by wirey water-breathing dragons whose scales shimmer with rainbows in the sunset.
Every minute since Monday has been breathtaking. It began with the Edmonds ferry, standing on deck with whipping winds, surrounded by green islands and the Puget Sound, with the Olympic mountains, jagged and snow-topped, lining the horizon. Seattle nestled along the distant coast, just a few tiny rectangles and one space needle sticking into the sky. If I had to commute on that ferry every day, I would look forward to getting up.
After driving off the ferry we wound through country roads, the Olympic mountains peeking out suddenly as we reached a clearing or the top of a hill. Eventually we curved south and down along the coast, where we turned down a little road labelled Ruby Beach. We pulled into a little parking lot, walked over to a lookout area at the edge of the woods...and looked down onto the most exotic beach I have ever seen. Tall trees reflected in a long shallow pool, left by the high tide, and then smooth stones led down to the water. The ocean was gray and hazy, stretching out unbroken to the left, but to the right, huge rocks jutted up, topped with bright green moss and trees. We followed the path down toward the beach, and I hung back to take pictures. I came to a split in the path: to the right, the sign read "New Beach Path", and to the left, "Logs". Logs? I went to the left.
When I came out of the trees I was confronted by a tangled pile of worn, twisty, white logs. I have never, in my memory, felt a strong urge to climb anything, especially piles of old logs balanced on each other. Yet I wanted to climb to the top of the heap. Unfortunately, I had no pocket for my camera, so my ability to climb was severely limited, and I only made it a little way in before I had to give up and go back down the other path. Someday I'll go back and climb over the whole pile.
I picked up rocks as I walked--smooth and warm--and took pictures for my new series of people taking pictures. I let a wave touch my toes so I could say I'd touched the Pacific ocean. Eventually we wandered back up the path to the car. What a perfect way to see the Pacific for the first time.
Then more driving, though hills and forests of tall pines--logging country, betrayed by the huge patches of bare brown grass. "Don't like logging? Try using plastic toilet paper," read one bumper sticker we saw. It is striking to drive through the country and see where everything I buy in stores actually comes from--fields of wheat and corn and potatoes and peas, huge dairy farms, coal mines, trucks driving next to us carrying bundles of stripped tree trunks. Everything really comes from somewhere, and not without a damn lot of effort. It's all well and good to be a tourist driving through, sticking a camera out the window and complaining about the ugly strip mines and stumps of logs...but I do use toilet paper.
Then suddenly, towering in front of us, a mountain. Mount Rainier, we thought. But no, this mountain was on our right...Mount St. Helens. We didn't know we'd be able to see it from the road. Flatter and grayer than Mount Rainier, flattened further by low gray clouds hanging over it. We pulled over to take pictures, not noticing for several minutes the two round white peaks rising on the left horizon. Now that was Mount Rainier. Both from the same spot! We took more pictures, then kept driving, detouring onto a windy road up a hill to a point that claimed to be a Mount St. Helens viewpoint, but actually had a worse view than we'd had by the road. Oh well. Back to the main road, until a sign pointing left claimed that road led to Mount Rainier. The west entrance would take us through the park, instead of just to its edge, so we turned left.
I was studying the atlas, calculating angles and mileages, when I glanced up. On the right, it rose over the field, a towering white mountain, glowing from the western sun, scattered clouds casting shadows on the sides. Perhaps "breathtaking" is an over-used word...but I swear it took my breath. My dad had to back up along the shoulder to get back to the clearing. We couldn't stop staring. Of our entire trip, that view was the most spectacular.
Right across the street from us was a house. Just imagine living there! Even Andrew couldn't take that view for granted...
We tore ourselves away, back along the road, the sun beginning to sink, and Mount Rainier peaking out every few minutes from behind the hills and lower mountains surrounding us. Finally we turned to the right onto a smaller road that entered a thick old forest. We had to pay to enter the national park, at a little self-pay kiosk. The little map they provided showed a twisty, turn-y red line winding its way toward somewhere called Paradise, the closest point to the peak. And the road sure was twisty! We made several 180 degree turns along the way.
And then...Paradise. The small parking lot was just below the real peak of the mountain, with snowbanks on the ground and deer grazing next to the road. To the left, the sun set over the surrounding mountains, shadowing the deep Paradise Valley below us, the sky glowing pink with small dark gray clouds and black triangle mountains sillouhetted against it. The snow on the peak glowed light orange, darkening to gray as the light faded. My brother's polar bear, Lars, was in his element (or compound, as my brother corrected); he lounged on a rock surrounded by snow for a while. Brownie, on the other hand, stayed warmly tucked away in my suitcase.
It was going to get dark, so finally we tore ourselves away and continued along the winding, now shadowy road. Down and down and down, curving along the edge of huge pine valleys, praying we didn't fall off and down the sheer drop. The whole experience had been one of the most magical and powerful of my life...but as it got darker, and the road kept winding, and it was later and later at night, and sections of the road had little if any guard against falling down the mountain, and I didn't regain cell phone service to call Andrew, whom I'd promised to call that evening, and even the main highway when we rejoined it turned out to be an unlit curving mountain road...and still no service...and sixty miles to go...and we'd barely seen another car for hours, let alone any signs of real civilization, except the occasional truck that barrelled past us at eighty...and by now Andrew must be wondering why I wasn't answering my phone--where was the damn service?--well, I started feeling a bit suffocated and anxious, tired of the endless dark curves, of having to peer a few yards ahead to see where the road goes, of fretting about whether I'd catch Andrew before he went to bed.
But I wouldn't trade the whole day for anything.
Well okay, maybe for some things. But you know what I mean.
Suddenly my phone lit up and beeped--I had service, and two new voice messages. I didn't bother listening to them; I called Andrew. He was lying up in bed, and we said goodnight, pretty quickly since I was in the car. Phew...I can't fall asleep well if I haven't said goodnight to him.
Later I listened to the messages. "Well..." said the second one, "usually it's me who gets abducted by aliens, and not you, but...well, I've called you several times, and it's getting kinda late, so I'm gonna go to bed. But...well, just call me any time later okay? 'Cause...I'm not going to sleep until I hear your voice. So I'll talk to you later. Love you..."
How sweet is that?
We finally reached out hotel in Yakima. Tuesday would take us out of Washington, cutting a corner of Oregon, and down into Utah. Oregon was striking--rolling hills of scattered pines and bushes and farms. I don't remember much of northern Utah, since it was mostly dark when we were driving there. The highlight of Tuesday was a lovely little Italian restaurant in some town in southeastern Washington, with really good pesto fettucini, and some of the best rolls ever.
In all our travels we aquire a web of little random restaurants we happen to have tried and like, and we return to them next time we're in the area. Kings Pizza in the northeast corner of South Carolina; a little Chinese restaurant in Port St. Lucie, Florida; Phnom Penh, a Cambodian/Vietnamese restaurant in Cleveland; the Indian restaurant we ate at tonight in Chicago; of course, all the Cape Cod and Cape May restaurants; and now, the Thai restaurant in Edmonds, the Indian one in Seattle, Casa Mia in northeast Washington, a colorful little Mexican restaurant somewhere in Wyoming...it creates these little familiar spots stretching around the whole country, something to look forward to and come home to while travelling. It makes me happy.
[PAUSE again]
Every minute since Monday has been breathtaking. It began with the Edmonds ferry, standing on deck with whipping winds, surrounded by green islands and the Puget Sound, with the Olympic mountains, jagged and snow-topped, lining the horizon. Seattle nestled along the distant coast, just a few tiny rectangles and one space needle sticking into the sky. If I had to commute on that ferry every day, I would look forward to getting up.
After driving off the ferry we wound through country roads, the Olympic mountains peeking out suddenly as we reached a clearing or the top of a hill. Eventually we curved south and down along the coast, where we turned down a little road labelled Ruby Beach. We pulled into a little parking lot, walked over to a lookout area at the edge of the woods...and looked down onto the most exotic beach I have ever seen. Tall trees reflected in a long shallow pool, left by the high tide, and then smooth stones led down to the water. The ocean was gray and hazy, stretching out unbroken to the left, but to the right, huge rocks jutted up, topped with bright green moss and trees. We followed the path down toward the beach, and I hung back to take pictures. I came to a split in the path: to the right, the sign read "New Beach Path", and to the left, "Logs". Logs? I went to the left.
When I came out of the trees I was confronted by a tangled pile of worn, twisty, white logs. I have never, in my memory, felt a strong urge to climb anything, especially piles of old logs balanced on each other. Yet I wanted to climb to the top of the heap. Unfortunately, I had no pocket for my camera, so my ability to climb was severely limited, and I only made it a little way in before I had to give up and go back down the other path. Someday I'll go back and climb over the whole pile.
I picked up rocks as I walked--smooth and warm--and took pictures for my new series of people taking pictures. I let a wave touch my toes so I could say I'd touched the Pacific ocean. Eventually we wandered back up the path to the car. What a perfect way to see the Pacific for the first time.
Then more driving, though hills and forests of tall pines--logging country, betrayed by the huge patches of bare brown grass. "Don't like logging? Try using plastic toilet paper," read one bumper sticker we saw. It is striking to drive through the country and see where everything I buy in stores actually comes from--fields of wheat and corn and potatoes and peas, huge dairy farms, coal mines, trucks driving next to us carrying bundles of stripped tree trunks. Everything really comes from somewhere, and not without a damn lot of effort. It's all well and good to be a tourist driving through, sticking a camera out the window and complaining about the ugly strip mines and stumps of logs...but I do use toilet paper.
Then suddenly, towering in front of us, a mountain. Mount Rainier, we thought. But no, this mountain was on our right...Mount St. Helens. We didn't know we'd be able to see it from the road. Flatter and grayer than Mount Rainier, flattened further by low gray clouds hanging over it. We pulled over to take pictures, not noticing for several minutes the two round white peaks rising on the left horizon. Now that was Mount Rainier. Both from the same spot! We took more pictures, then kept driving, detouring onto a windy road up a hill to a point that claimed to be a Mount St. Helens viewpoint, but actually had a worse view than we'd had by the road. Oh well. Back to the main road, until a sign pointing left claimed that road led to Mount Rainier. The west entrance would take us through the park, instead of just to its edge, so we turned left.
I was studying the atlas, calculating angles and mileages, when I glanced up. On the right, it rose over the field, a towering white mountain, glowing from the western sun, scattered clouds casting shadows on the sides. Perhaps "breathtaking" is an over-used word...but I swear it took my breath. My dad had to back up along the shoulder to get back to the clearing. We couldn't stop staring. Of our entire trip, that view was the most spectacular.
Right across the street from us was a house. Just imagine living there! Even Andrew couldn't take that view for granted...
We tore ourselves away, back along the road, the sun beginning to sink, and Mount Rainier peaking out every few minutes from behind the hills and lower mountains surrounding us. Finally we turned to the right onto a smaller road that entered a thick old forest. We had to pay to enter the national park, at a little self-pay kiosk. The little map they provided showed a twisty, turn-y red line winding its way toward somewhere called Paradise, the closest point to the peak. And the road sure was twisty! We made several 180 degree turns along the way.
And then...Paradise. The small parking lot was just below the real peak of the mountain, with snowbanks on the ground and deer grazing next to the road. To the left, the sun set over the surrounding mountains, shadowing the deep Paradise Valley below us, the sky glowing pink with small dark gray clouds and black triangle mountains sillouhetted against it. The snow on the peak glowed light orange, darkening to gray as the light faded. My brother's polar bear, Lars, was in his element (or compound, as my brother corrected); he lounged on a rock surrounded by snow for a while. Brownie, on the other hand, stayed warmly tucked away in my suitcase.
It was going to get dark, so finally we tore ourselves away and continued along the winding, now shadowy road. Down and down and down, curving along the edge of huge pine valleys, praying we didn't fall off and down the sheer drop. The whole experience had been one of the most magical and powerful of my life...but as it got darker, and the road kept winding, and it was later and later at night, and sections of the road had little if any guard against falling down the mountain, and I didn't regain cell phone service to call Andrew, whom I'd promised to call that evening, and even the main highway when we rejoined it turned out to be an unlit curving mountain road...and still no service...and sixty miles to go...and we'd barely seen another car for hours, let alone any signs of real civilization, except the occasional truck that barrelled past us at eighty...and by now Andrew must be wondering why I wasn't answering my phone--where was the damn service?--well, I started feeling a bit suffocated and anxious, tired of the endless dark curves, of having to peer a few yards ahead to see where the road goes, of fretting about whether I'd catch Andrew before he went to bed.
But I wouldn't trade the whole day for anything.
Well okay, maybe for some things. But you know what I mean.
Suddenly my phone lit up and beeped--I had service, and two new voice messages. I didn't bother listening to them; I called Andrew. He was lying up in bed, and we said goodnight, pretty quickly since I was in the car. Phew...I can't fall asleep well if I haven't said goodnight to him.
Later I listened to the messages. "Well..." said the second one, "usually it's me who gets abducted by aliens, and not you, but...well, I've called you several times, and it's getting kinda late, so I'm gonna go to bed. But...well, just call me any time later okay? 'Cause...I'm not going to sleep until I hear your voice. So I'll talk to you later. Love you..."
How sweet is that?
We finally reached out hotel in Yakima. Tuesday would take us out of Washington, cutting a corner of Oregon, and down into Utah. Oregon was striking--rolling hills of scattered pines and bushes and farms. I don't remember much of northern Utah, since it was mostly dark when we were driving there. The highlight of Tuesday was a lovely little Italian restaurant in some town in southeastern Washington, with really good pesto fettucini, and some of the best rolls ever.
In all our travels we aquire a web of little random restaurants we happen to have tried and like, and we return to them next time we're in the area. Kings Pizza in the northeast corner of South Carolina; a little Chinese restaurant in Port St. Lucie, Florida; Phnom Penh, a Cambodian/Vietnamese restaurant in Cleveland; the Indian restaurant we ate at tonight in Chicago; of course, all the Cape Cod and Cape May restaurants; and now, the Thai restaurant in Edmonds, the Indian one in Seattle, Casa Mia in northeast Washington, a colorful little Mexican restaurant somewhere in Wyoming...it creates these little familiar spots stretching around the whole country, something to look forward to and come home to while travelling. It makes me happy.
[PAUSE again]
posted by Ashila at 10:46 PM
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