Summer 2021
Port Townsend and Orcas
After a year and a half of being in some degree of lockdown because of the corona virus and having to teach online, and after getting vaccinated, Wally and I finally were able to try the vacation we had wanted last year, a trip to the Pacific Northwest. Wally had wanted to go to British Columbia in Canada, but because of vaccination and Covid issues, we decided not to try to cross the border to Canada. As it is, the Pacific Northwest is like “foreign” country to us. We had both made brief forays into the area: Wally had visited in the summer of 1980 on a minor league baseball trip, and I had attended a conference in Seattle about six or seven years ago, but the furthest I got was the Seattle Library and Pikes Place Market. So, it was new territory for us, and we needed a change!
One of the nice things about going on vacation is planning and anticipating it. I think we should add a step in the usual progression of travel—anticipation, separation, adventure, and return. One of the things Wally really likes to do is plan our vacations, so I left it to him to plan our itinerary, which he gave me in printed form. We need to squeeze in the trip between the end of our spring semesters and summer school teaching for me and summer athletics for him. So, on June 7, we drove to San Antonio to visit with two of Wally’s sisters and then catch the early flight from San Antonio to Seattle on the 8th.
That was a long day. Up at 3:30 am, off to the airport, stand in lines to check in, and then get to our gate. This was our first Covid flight, so we wore our masks all day in the airport and in the planes. I have been working from home and so have worn my mask only for short periods of time. This all-day masking was new to me. But we made it, with several naps along the way. Everyone we saw was cooperating with Covid regulations, so that was good. A spectacular view of the Puget Sound, deep blue fringed by green-blue land and dotted with a crescent of ships in the harbor, greeted us as we flew into the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. By the time we landed, got our baggage, and got our rental car, we were “hangry.”
So, we headed for Pikes Place Market on the water’s edge, wandered around a bit eyeing the fish and produce on display, the bunches of flowers in shades of ivory and pink for sale, and then found a restaurant that was taking diners, the Pikes Place Bar and Grill. A quaint little place tucked into the Market complex, it had been owned by the same woman for 49 or 59 years who was directing the staff and finding tables for a larger party. Near us sat a young woman in a hijab, apparently drinking a hot beverage and writing in a notebook, taking her time to enjoy the peace of her little corner of the restaurant. Near us also sat an older couple, he apparently part of a convention of old sailors or dock workers, given some of the conversation I overheard. It was so sweet when they both ordered ice cream sundaes after their lunch and each got three scoops of ice cream, more than they had anticipated, but they were nonetheless delighted—as were we to watch them. I had a quite large smoked salmon club sandwich and Wally had fish and chips.
Then, on the road to Port Townsend by way of a triple-decker Washington State Ferry from Edmond to Kingston. Although this was a novel experience for us, it seemed routine for many passengers. As we waited to board the ferry, we saw folks get out of their parked cars to go across the street to a coffee shop and return with coffees and what looked to be a box of doughnuts. Once inside the bowels of the ferry, several drivers took advantage of the ride to catch a nap. It was too much of a novelty for us to nap.
Then, disembark and drive through some of the islands of the Puget Sound until we got to Port Townsend on the northeast corner of the Peninsula. I had not realized how many islands there are up here.
Port Townsend is on the northern entrance to Puget Sound and has a long history as a port town and guardian of the Sound. We stayed at the Palace Hotel, a Victorian era hotel that had once been a bordello. At one point, there were 75 bars and saloons in PT catering to the trading and military vessels that stopped there. The Hotel has maintained its Victorian vibe, with Victorian-style furnishings, a bed with an ornate iron frame and cozy quilt, heavy carpets and window treatments with a maroon color theme, and a variety of paintings hanging on the walls. Each room is named, presumably for one of the “ladies” of the bordello. Our room is “Miss Colleen.” The hotel attendant was chatty and helpful, especially since there are no elevators to help with getting luggage upstairs. Once we checked in, we wandered around the downtown area, specialty shops, little restaurants, several bookstores, art galleries. What impresses me is how quiet Port Townsend is—not much traffic and many of the stores have limited hours; I don’t know if that is normal or a result of Covid. We found a restaurant that had good salads and sandwiches, Old Whiskey Mill, though they seemed short staffed, another consequence of the pandemic.
The next day, we took an 8-hour San Juan Island whale watching cruise, managed by a captain and one crew member. Each group of excursionists had their own booth; we lucked out by getting a booth for 6 near the bridge so we could hear the captain checking with other captains about the location of whales. One of the perks is the fresh, homemade Blueberry Buckle. And mugs of hot drinks; if you buy the mugs, you get unlimited refills of hot beverages, for life. There were two young families among the passengers, one with a 3-month-old infant and a 3-year-old girl who was excited to see some “wha-ales.” The other family had a boy and girl who spent much of the tour outside at the bow of the boat, earnestly on the look-out for whales. We did not see much during the first part of the day, some seals sunning on a buoy and some puffins floating on the sea.
It was interesting to see gulls sitting together on the sea in a “bird ball,” reminding me of and the complacency of the sea birds who sat on the bucking sea in Stephen Crane’s “The Open Boat.” We had no romping sea and did not face any of the dangers of Crane’s characters, supplied as we were with buckle and coffee. Our sea was calm and sparkling, the only disturbances caused by the boat. We stopped for lunch at Port Friday on San Juan Island, a cute, touristy/vacation home kind of place. We ate on a restaurant patio overlooking the harbor, a nice crab cake sandwich for me and the Hawaiian Chicken Sandwich for Wally. Service was a bit slow and then the hostess misplaced Wally’s credit card, causing a moment or two of panic before she retrieved it—our closest brush with danger. Once back on board, the captain became more earnest about finding some whales. He got the word on an Orca sighting, so we headed out to the location in Mosquito Pass. We did see two males who had joined a little whale family—saw them waving a flipper, arching through the water, spraying up some water. Fun but not as spectacular as we may have wanted. Finally, headed back to Port Townsend—it made a long day. We opted to get some ready-made salads, a bottle of wine, and eat in the room. Crash.
Next day, we did some walking around Port Townsend. First to Glass Beach, named I suppose for the sand glass mixed in with the rocks. These northwestern beaches are so different from our Texas Gulf Coast beaches. Unlike the rolling waves of the Gulf Coast, the water was very quiet, few people were out on the beach, it was a bit chilly, and instead of shells there were rocks that we crunched our way over. I collected some rocks, striated black and white, smooth white or yellow stones. They will join the shells and pinecones from other travels on my kitchen windowsill. While we were picnicking at the head of the beach entrance after our walk, two large poodle-type dogs, one a labradoodle, I think, started playing with each other, jumping around, the female getting tangled in her leash. The woman who owned that dog suggested to the man who owned the other dog, a male, that they get together so the dogs could play again. Both seem to be retired, in the age range from 60-70; she lives elsewhere but insisted that a dog play date would be just the thing. Exchanging phone numbers they enacted a doggy-play date pickup. After our lunch we headed to Fort Warden State Park, one of several forts made over into parks in the region. The fort had been situated to guard the point and entrance to the Puget Sound. Then during WWI some hidden gun emplacements added a new level of protection. You can clamber about the fort, now abandoned, and look out to see what the cannoneers would have seen—a great expanse of blue ocean. A young family was also walking about the fort, the dad telling the two-year old to think of the balance beam as they walked near the wall’s edge. Besides the quiet of the region, no matter where we are—no crashing waves, no wind rushing through the trees, no boom-boxes booming—what I notice are the colorful flowers, their lush purple and yellow borders, the scent of wild roses, rather incongruous against the gray cement of the old fort.
To round out the 16,862 steps for the day, we went out to Fort Townsend and walked the nature trail that took us through our first bit of Pacific Northwest rainforest, tall trees, lush ferns, rain dripping from the trees—on down to the beach, again. It is interesting how the forest kisses the sea, how you come out of the forest trail to the rocky beach and the quiet sea. In the distance, we could see what looked like a huge lumber mill. I had detected the smell in the morning and could not place it until I remembered the tart odor of the East Texas lumber mills around Silsbee.
Went back to the hotel and ordered Spinach and Potato Pizza from the little Pie place around the corner from the hotel. Right now, they are only taking to-go orders and only two people are permitted in the shop at the same time. Two women were standing outside and as I started to go in, they asked if I was cutting ahead of them, nicely but with a bit of snark. I apologized and explained that I was visiting and did not know the protocol. Then we chatted a bit. Tired, we ate our pizza in the room. As we visited PT, I pondered what it would be like to live there, how I might fit in. I can see myself with the other retired folks and seniors I saw; the several bookstores suggest a reading community, the #Black Lives Matter signs in store fronts and house windows suggest a progressive ethos, the yoga and yarn shops signal other activities in addition, always, to walking that might be appealing to me. It is a cute community, quiet, but seems to have the kinds of things I would like.
Forks, Beaches, and Rain Forests
Next day, the drive to Forks, of Twilight fame—the novel and movies about teen vampires and love tangles. Because there are no roads that cut across the vast Olympic National Park, just a few roads to specific locations, we had to basically drive around the northern part of the Park, with a few dips in to experience the wilderness. Wally had done the research on the trip and determined that a hike along Hurricane Ridge would be just the thing—spectacular views and a fairly level trail to hike once you got up in the mountains. The only thing he did not factor in is the is the snow that covered the trail and the wind rushing up the ridge that converted it into a deep freeze. We put on whatever layers of clothes we had, grabbed our walking sticks, and attempted the trail, but we did not last long—my fingers were turning to icicles! Wally did see two marmots at play on the snow and took multiple pictures of them—while I stood by shivering! So, back to the car and back down the mountain, stopping at some scenic overlooks to view the mountains and the Straits of Juan de Fuca in the distance. It is interesting how the mountain and seascapes become part of the same panorama. We could see to the beginning of Puget Sound and across to Mt. Baker and Canada—trees, snow, and water all in one grand view.
Then back down out of the mountains toward Forks where we immediately went to the Outfitters’ store, where I bought some wool socks and a beanie—it is hard to know what to pack when it is 100 degrees at home. It is curious to see the batches of young women/teens who stop to get their pictures made at the Welcome to Forks sign. We went to the Timber Museum, the local museum telling, quickly and positively, the stories of the early pioneers and the lumber industry. One of the highlights was the story about how Washington lumbermen were recruited to supply spruce lumber during WWI for the making of airplanes. A dinner of hamburgers at the local Bar and Grill and then bed. We are not having any trouble sleeping on this trip!
Up and out the next day to the Hoh Rainforest in the Olympic National Park. What an eerie, strange, wonderful, lush forest dominated by giant trees of ancient ages ranging from a forest floor verdant with ferns, plants with outsized leaves, and undergrowth. Mosses hang off the trees, coating them with new forms of life. I was reminded of how when you go through the Carlsbad Caverns your imagination makes figures out of the natural formations; so it is here, trees that take on shapes that resembled J.R.R. Tolkien’s talking and walking trees or Falkor, the flying dragon/dog from The Never Ending Story. At times I thought of the more familiar to me Spanish moss draping the Southern oaks and hiding ruined plantations. What do these mosses and fallen trees hide in this wetter, colder clime? We saw a column of trees that had grown from the “nursery” of a fallen giant, themselves now part of the woodland army of trees. We met several young families on the trail, the kids running ahead or dropping stuffed bunnies in the mud. At the edge of the Hoh River, kids were squealing and chunking rocks into the water, much like my son would have done when he was their age. This was on the Spruce Trail—very doable for young and old and gives a good sense of the rainforest of the Pacific Northwest.
We thought we would hike some short trails on the way out of the Hoh River region—but no luck. We stopped at Boachiel State Park for a quick lunch of leftovers. The camp host’s dog, a shaggy black lab mix with big paws came to join us. He sat quietly waiting for handouts. His name is Kegger and his tag said, “I am not lost. I’m an asshole. I think it’s fun to run away. Please call my mom.”
After lunch we headed to the western shore, to Mora Ranger station and Rialto Beach on the Pacific Ocean. We parked not in the park’s parking lot but that of the Quileute Indian Reservation, adjacent to the other lot, though the reservation itself was closed to us. The beach here is very different from the other beaches I have visited. To get there, we clambered over a barrier of driftwood and rocks to the shore, which consisted of more rocks, grey, gritty sand, and driftwood, some of which were huge trees that had fallen from the adjacent rain forest onto the beach. Families and couples were strolling along the beach, sitting on different configurations of drift, watching the waves come in and go out. A few were fishing—catching only “rock fish”--and two young people were surfing. We had thought to hike out to “Hole-in-the Wall” but when confronted with the difficulty of walking on the rocks, we decided to just ramble until we felt like turning around. The shore was strewn with rocks, from coin to demi-loaf size, making walking cumbersome, the sound of the grating rocks against our clumsy feet. The odd shapes of some of the driftwood made for picturesque figures. One reminded me of a female form flinging out her arms in despair. Set against the waves and the white spray on the ocean, it put me in mind of Edwidge Danticat’s story “Night Women” where she imagines the ocean spray as the bejeweled hair of nymphs and whatever despair they dance with.
Back to our motel room in Forks, at the Dew Drop Inn. Then out in the town to look for a restaurant for dinner—not many options, not even any fast-food places. The Pizza place had a wait of an hour and a half, so since we had already tried Buckelee’s Bar and Grill for dinner and In Place for breakfast, all that were left were a Chinese and a Mexican place—so we chose the Mexican. Sadly, it did not measure up to what we are used to in South Texas. An after-dinner drive around Forks—kids were having an outdoor graduation ceremony at Forks High School, not much else going on. Homes generally seemed decades old, a bit or a lot on the junky side. My comment, “If I had to live in Forks I might go for a vampire,” I know that is mean, but . . . . When I think about the possibilities of living in Forks, I see much less that would appeal to me than Port Townsend. It looks like there is one main store—Forks Outfitters—for groceries, clothes, hardware. I saw only one sad little boutique, but if you mainly wear jeans and sweatshirts, I guess fashion does not matter. Plus, it is so damp and drizzly.
Back to the beaches—Ruby Beach, where we saw some tide pools with sea urchins, starfish, and other creatures, their lime green, orange, and purple in contrast to the gray rocks pocked with barnacles, black bivalves, and mushroom-shaped creatures that emit a spurt of spray when you poke them. When a rush of sea comes in and fills the tide pool, white tentacles or green strands wave gracefully for a moment and then rest until the next rush. Then down the coast to Kalaloch Beach to see the Tree of Life, a cedar whose roots cling to two sides of a split in the hillside so that from the beach you look up at the roots and can stand under them for a picture. Families and kids playing in the sand—two little blond kids, about 4 years old—with pink and brown raincoat onezies—too cute. One of the children with her dad was making a wood and stone barrier, cemented with the gray sand, to capture the inrush of water in a two-foot-wide channel.
A few more nature walks and a path to Big Cedar, where giant cedars hold court. The first one had great roots or knobs that boys were climbing and being obnoxious. We are beginning to see the wonder of the Temperate Rain Forest, with its lush abundance, its huge plant forms—the ancient trees and the huge leaves—the moss hanging weirdly, creating creatures of the imagination. Yet, there gets to be a sameness about the Forest, so that after a few trails, they begin to look the same, until you get to some of the really great giants, like the Big Sitka Spruce tree. At Quinault Rain Forest, administered by the Quinault Indian Nation, the informational signs along the trails promoted the idea of the ecology of life, brought in quotes from Chief Seattle and Loren Eisley, as they pointed to the different levels of life in the rain forest from the ground floor to the canopy.
Our last day in Washington, we drive back to Seattle, through Hoquiam and Aberdeen. Wally swung by the minor league baseball stadium at Gray’s Harbor that he had visited back in 1980 when he and his dad owned a minor league baseball team in San Antonio. The stadium is a box-like, wooden structure unchanged from when he visited, its peeling paint telling stories of age. Finally, back in Seattle we made one last run over to Pikes Place Market, but there was not much to look at or buy as the vendors were closing up for the evening. The crowds, a mix of tourists and funky locals, and the noise, the commotion, after those wonderful days of quiet got to be too much. So, we headed back to the hotel for dinner and then up early to catch our flights back to Texas.
I thought the adventure would end here, but in Denver, where we were to change planes, Southwest Airlines experienced a computer glitch that kept us grounded for about 4 hours. They and some other companies experienced system-wide IT failures that apparently caused the airline to delay and cancel flights. Luckily, we just sat in the plane for an hour or so, were released to go back into the airport to stretch our legs and use the restrooms. Lunch would have been nice, but since we did not know when we would be called back to the plane and because the lines at the food vendors were too long, we went without. Then we were told that the airline had scheduled our plane to another route, so we had to go to a new plane and wait again. Rodney, the main flight attendant, kept everyone calm with his charming manner, jokes, and play with lighting. Finally, landed in San Antonio, we got some food from Whataburger, before driving home to Kingsville. Tired, hungry, but happy to have had a vacation.