The Olympic Peninsula

The Swegles live a little bit north of town, and we drive up I-5 to Edmonds to catch the ferry that gets us across Puget Sound. The dockside wait is longer than the quick shot across the water, and in no time we're headed west along the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula. Gray turns to dark gray, and a cold spitting rain sets in. After about an hour we pull into Port Angeles, check out the motel selection in the fading light, and settle on the big Red Lion Inn by the water. Melanie's stayed here before on a previous trip, and it's a comfortable enough hotel if not luxurious. The restaurant is a pleasant surprise, with well-prepared Thai and seafood dishes and a decent wine selection. On the hotel bar big-screen Edgar Martinez crushes a grand slam to lift the Mariners over the Yankees. Back at the room we nod off to a CBC TV news feature profiling the long road to stardom for Quebecois WWF hopefuls. Canadians are funny.

More gray in the morning. We were planning on heading up to nearby Hurricane Ridge to take in the view of the Olympic Mountains, but it looks (from down here) like conditions will be disappointing. We press on anyway, unsure if we'll have time to stop again on our way back to Seattle. From sea level we drive up a good 6000 feet, ears popping on the way. As we emerge from a tunnel cut through a mountain the dull gray turns a blinding icy white, and the fog thins quickly to bright blue - we've passed through the clouds that have socked in the towns below.

It's absolutely magnificent. We're ringed by mountain peaks, and we look down on the clouds. After a few photos we decide to take the asphalt trail to the top of the ridge - it's 700 feet of elevation over a mile and a half, and I get the cold dry sweat again. More strenuous than we expected, but the view is well worth it - no obstructions, just peak after peak to the south, and off in the distance Mt. Baker to the east. We pause on a rock outcropping for a quick meal. There's still snow at this altitude, and we visit a shallow snowbank that's survived the summer nestled in a hollow. On the way back down a cheeky chipmunk shadows us, and darts over when we stop. Sorry dude, we ate all the Pop-Tarts. Three adult ptarmigans softly hoot their way across our path and slowly tangle themselves in the exposed roots of a tree on the upper slope.

It's hard to top that view, but we try anyway - there are several Pacific ocean beaches and a couple of rainforests a few hours to the west. There's a good bit of clear-cutting out here, many acres of pulled-up stumps, the wiry gray wreckage of twisted roots. We turn south toward the logging town of Forks, not expecting to find much in the way of amenities, but the guidebook says there's a coffee joint on the main drag - Espresso Elegante - and we stop in. The store doubles as a gallery for a watercolor artist by the name of Susan Gansert Shaw, and we're drawn to her whimsical series of cat studies. One painting in particular ("Blueberry Hill") reminds us of a certain irritable cat back in Silver Spring, and we bookmark it for future consideration. Forks is close to those Pacific beaches, and we pull off the main road and head for the coast.

Great. We can see the marine cloud layer hovering in the distance as we approach the ocean, and one mile from the coast we're enveloped in gray mist. We pull up to the ass end of Rialto Beach with its beached, bleached tree trunks and rounded stones, and we scramble for sweaters and jackets. It's cold and windy and damp and while it may provide plenty of beachcombing intrigue in the sunlight, it ain't got much going on today.

Luckily our cellphone still works out here and as the sun heads for the horizon we reserve one of the few available rooms at Manitou Lodge. It's a big, cozy A-frame with a large communal area complete with stone fireplace and oversize chess sets. The owner's a retired virologist who spent some time at NIH (so he actually knows where Silver Spring is), and he cooks a serious traveller's breakfast. The soft morning rain breaks and sunlight streams through the evergreens as we head inland to the rainforests.

The Hoh Rainforest is about twenty miles off the main road south of Forks and it's twenty miles of twists, loose gravel and recently-applied "fresh oil" - a tense ride when the needle's dancing around E. It starts raining again. Go figure. The car was red; now it's a kind of khaki from all the mud and "fresh oil". The forest is remarkable, a thick bright green, all moss and giant redwood. All the soft undergrowth dampens sound and we walk slowly, quietly around the circuit trail.

It's time to point the muddy car back to Seattle. We decide to retrace our steps rather than take the long land route through Tacoma (word from Manitou Lodge is that the Tacoma Narrows bridge is under construction and will be a mess by the time we reach it). In Forks we stop back at Espresso Elegante and buy that watercolor of the steamed cat. [We rename it "Mad Kitty" and it looks great on our bedroom wall.]

We hurtle back across the peninsula. Radio has been spotty the entire drive, and we've just about worn out Dave Kite's cd. To my amazement, we reach the Bainbridge ferry (one that puts us back in downtown Seattle) before 4, which means there may just be enough time to hit the Experience Music Project tonight after all.