Our six days at Kalaloch campground came to an end and we decided it was time to venture over to the east side of The Olympic, to Port Angeles and indulge in being around the human race again. We were pretty grungy at this point and were surviving on a diet of hard cheese, jerky and apples. It was our 28th wedding anniversary and we thought it might be a good idea to clean up a bit and have a night out. We booked a wonderful B&B on the coast of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a place called Domaine Madeleine. An unassuming building tucked down a long road and surrounded by beautiful gardens, our room looked out over an expanse of lawn, sea and the distant lights of Victoria, BC.  The innkeepers were on vacation and substitute innkeepers were there to greet us (Who knew this was a thing you could do? Travel the world as temporary innkeepers, right up my alley!) Cathy and Durell hailed from South Carolina and had found wonderfully interesting ways to spend their later years. We really hit it off, finding ourselves meeting in the afternoon with glasses of wine on the back lawn and watching the freighters go by while the sun set and the lights across the strait began to wink and shine in the twilight.  It was great fun to share stories after a week of just the two of us. We all shared a love of travel and learning new skills and it seemed Durell and Cathy had a found a way to combine both loves in creative ways. We hope to stay in touch as I’m curious to know what they think up next to make life exciting.

We spent a brilliant blue sky day exploring Hurricane Ridge. At an elevation of 5,242 ft. the landscape was a feast for the eyes. The unobstructed views of the snow covered Olympic Mountains was thrilling after mucking about in the lowlands of the rain forest. We hiked a few short trails on the ridge, taking in the long range views in all directions. Hurricane Ridge is so named for the intensity of the gales and winds, especially in winter, when snowboarders and skiers brave the slopes. I have to be honest here and say I was glad to come down off that mountain. Despite the views, I was getting a weird sensation of vertigo being so exposed with the wind whipping my clothes and the trails following precarious ridges. I figure the past week at sea level protectively immersed in acres of trees contributed to the sudden feeling of exposure.

Our last day on the peninsula was spent poking around Port Townsend. There was a definite free-spirited vibe to this hip Victorian seaport on the tip of the Northeastern point of Washington. Several old buildings were scattered throughout the downtown and I had a blast exploring the Palace Hotel, an atmospheric Victorian property built in 1889. The proprietor let me wander in and out of the unique guest rooms on the upper floors and it was a great opportunity to peer out the windows and imagine the ladies and gents that inhabited these rooms 100 years ago, looking out at the same view of sky and water. Though I’m not quite sure how much gazing out the windows was happening as the Palace’s upper floors were operated as a brothel for quite some time.  In fact the place became known as the Palace of Sweets. Entirely appropriate. Each room was different, some had built in 50’s styles kitchens, others had hidden stairways with loft bedrooms. all had a mash up of antiques from every era.  I was the only one wandering in and out of these rooms, it was a little creepy but I was taken with imagining.

There were some great local shops in the downtown area, two wonderful bookstores, and an artists collective with an intriguing collection of Steampunk clothing and accessories. Mark had to convince me not to purchase an ornate pair of motorcycle goggles. We stumbled upon a fantastic little theatre called The Rosebud, showing Blade Runner and selling beer wine and cocktails. I am such a sucker for these small community run theaters that provide food and alcohol, it was an intimate viewing experience made better by the small local venue. I wanted to spend more time here but alas the road was once again beckoning and it looked like the weather ahead was going to clear for our trip to the Oregon Coast. I was ready but as we drove off the Peninsula, I was wistful. The solitude of the misty ancient groves provided me with a great gift and I was already wondering how I could find a way to carry it with me.

Literally. We are driving through Aberdeen, birthplace of Kurt Cobain. on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington. The town welcome sign reads Aberdeen: Come as you Are. I’m pumped. It’s always been a big ‘to do’, a trip to the rain forests of the Olympic Peninsula. Epic is a word that just about describes this place. I wonder if all the photos I’ve seen will have exaggerated its beauty.

I had decided on Kalaloch Campground on the west coast for our home base for the next four days. It was a long drive through crazy city traffic past Seattle and Tacoma and up the coast. The first time exposed to traffic in 5 weeks and it felt invasive and harrowing. When we pulled into the first come first serve campground, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. This was a campground like no other. Twisted shore pines shaded each spot, creating little shadowy pockets of privacy, but the view 20 feet away was non other than the grandiosity of the Pacific Ocean.

Oh my lord, the feeling of water meeting sky! I felt released. The mountains are awe-inspiring and majestic, but I have realized that particular landscape intimidates me, makes me feel hemmed in. It’s almost as if I experience a low level anxiety, maybe it has something to do with not being able to see the horizon, to see the golden orb of the sun make its way to the edge of sky. Shadows come early in mountain towns. To compound the feeling, to escape one must usually cross a mountain pass, treacherous and risky in the best of weather.

My first glimpse of the ocean completely changed my mental state. Our site was pretty freaking awesome. Tucked in a corner with pine needles as our carpet, it was roomy and strewn with gnarled old trees, punctuated by filtered rays of light. And then there was the sound. The shooshing of breaking waves, a memory of childhood summers. We could see the expanse of beach from the Cricket and we poured glasses of wine and walked to the beach. There was a group of people pointing and talking excitedly. Dozens of gray whales were playfully cresting and spouting right off shore! I stood there for a long time, marveling at this wholly magical welcome to the Olympic State Park.

We prepared a salmon dinner on the grill with fresh veggies, Israeli couscous and feta. As the sun waned, I anticipated my sleep, I could not wait wait to lie down tonight. The sound of the ocean is primal, the waves pounding the shore as the tide rolls in, a full moon, illuminating the trees forming architectural sculptures against the night sky.

I lay there fully embracing the sounds and was close to achieving a state of Nirvana when big headlights and a diesel engine pulled in and parked facing our trailer, lighting us up in an orange glow. I waited patiently, it happens. Late comers to camp. After some maneuvering, the engine dies, doors slam, the mammoth RV is lit up from within. I sighed. Back to my reverie. The wavy silence was broken by the loud sounds of a mega generator. Whoa. I have not had this issue yet. But this is a peaceful quiet campground, a favorite among tenters. I checked my watch: 9:58pm, surely one of my seasoned tenter neighbors will put a stop to this. RUMBLE. RRRRR.

Omg. I was pissed. He was breaking the rules. (yes, I assumed maleness) It was QUIET TIME. I put my headlamp on, stuffed my feet in my boots, and unlocked the door. “Where the hell are you going?” Mark. Good question. I never leave the cricket at night. NEVER. Now might be the time to tell you about my pee bottle. It’s been my #1 tool of comfort. When I get up in the middle of a pitch black night with all kinds of creatures engaging in their nocturnal parties, I do not need to be invited to the shindig, I stay in after 11. Pee Bottle, I love you. Don’t judge.

Anyway, disregarding all fears of nighttime wanderings, I marched in a huff down a little way to the bathrooms and read the bulletin board. There it was under Campground Rules & Etiquette: NO generators 10-6. HA! I marched back to our site, really huffing and puffing. I slowed down as I silently crept past the giant RV offender trying to peer in to see the rude culprits. Back in the Cricket, Mark is asking ‘where were you?’ In a bluster, I told him what happened and how unbelievably clueless this guy was. I was going over there, was he coming with? Hell no, he was too comfortable. Mark had battled Seattle traffic, this was my battle.

Foolishly, without giving a second thought to safety, I approached the behemoth. The door was at my neck level. Banging loudly, the door was opened by a young man in his 20’s, chomping on some chips. I was taken aback momentarily, I’d been expecting an old guy. knew I had to affect a different tone to this young nonplussed young man standing in front of me, crumbs on his chin. Now, I’m wearing my ridiculous body sleeping bag that makes me look like a giant colorful slug and my glaring headlamp. I say “Hey man” (I’m cool), are you planning on turning off your generator any time soon?”(even though you just turned it on you moron) He was, “Soon.” Oh brother. I didn’t like that noncommittal answer. “Ok, because its 10:00(10:13 to be precise) and I was really enjoying the sound of the ocean til your generator blotted out all natural sound. Yeah, ok. Thanks.”

I walked back to my site, floating on air. This is something I would not normally do and I did not even think twice about it. It happened so organically, a Pavlov’s Dog response. Generator noise-broken rule-fix. Not that I’m a huge rule follower but one thing I have learned in camping is that living in close proximity only works because people are unfailingly polite. We are all out here, braving the elements and other hassles to be one with nature. Abiding by the campground rules keeps the peace so none of us have to be the cop. Well, this young man needed to be educated! And I was the one to do it.

I wondered briefly if we would meet again in the light of day. I suddenly felt good that he probably wouldn’t be able to identify me due to the clever disguise of my get-up and blinding headlight.

Arriving back at camp, I lay down next to Mark and waited. A few minutes later, the generator powered down. Glorious silence was restored. It took a minute but soon, I began to be lulled by the ocean waves. I slept well listening to the hypnotic motion of the Pacific and feeling strangely capable and empowered.

Sometimes you just get a feeling that you should do something different then you planned. We intended to leave Missoula and boogie up to to Coeur d’alene, unsure of where we wanted to camp. Then we looked at the map and saw that we could travel an historic byway, Route 12 to Lewiston, further south than Coeur d’alene but a phenomenal drive according to guidebooks. The byway follows the path of Lewis and Clark over the Lolo Summit and parallels the Lochsa River for 175 miles. It’s one hell of a drive. We’d been on countless scenic drives at this point but Rt 12 consistently delivers drop dead scenes at every bend in the road. The Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness spans the road on the left side, the third largest wilderness in the lower 48, it is a rugged forest of evergreen and rock outcroppings. We sounded like broken records. Oh my gosh…that’s so beautiful. The light, the rapids, the evergreens and deep wide valleys. At one point, we were the only vehicle on the road when Mark and I both spotted a full grown bull moose with a gigantic rack ambling on the side of the road. We screeched to a halt as fast as we could with a 1500 lb trailer behind us and went running down the road. He was in a copse of trees and we ogled him for awhile before a tractor trailer came speeding by, scaring him back into deep brush. These serendipitous wild life sightings are so satisfying. It feels like a gift, a rare window into the natural world. I can’t quite explain it, but I’m better for it.

Halfway through, we decided to pick a hike and stretch our legs. In a turnout off the highway, Warm Springs trailhead began over a magnificent wood suspension bridge and disappeared into the forest. I had read there were hot springs back here but I had no idea how far. I was cresting a rise when I looked back to wait for Mark and saw steam rising from a pool below the hill I was standing on. We navigated a steep trail down and there was a series of small hot pools with the deepest and hottest being right below a natural spring. The temp had to be 115 degrees, but a side trickle of the ice cold creek was streaming into the pool as well and the mix made for a perfect hot tub temperature.  I knew I wanted to go in but I was not prepared, The day was warm but I was in layers. A few rangers had told us they weren’t fans of the myriad hot springs in the west as communicable diseases and pathogens were possible. I knew that would be enough to keep Mark out of them but I wavered. For about one minute. I stripped down and hopped in.  It was ridiculously idyllic. I was out of my mind with contentment. In all my years, I would never had thought I would find myself lounging in a natural hot spring in a remote valley with a  sparkling picturesque stream rushing by. There was not a town or development within 50 miles. I realized this was a spot frequented by many but it felt like I’d stumbled upon a secret wonder and I was taken by it. It was a moment of pure joy.

Unfortunately, Lewiston was a disappointment after coming off the road.  The first thing you see upon approach is a huge paper mill and the accompanying odor forces you to roll up the windows. It was jarring, going from bucolic wonderland to industrial city and belching paper factories. Our campground, 4 outside the city, had an intriguing and appropriate name: Hell’s Gate Campground.  It bordered the calm Snake River and was a decent place to lay our heads for the night. We slept well and were gone in the morning. We both agreed that the one nighters were just midpoints to get us distances, but they felt wasted, like missed opportunities. Hell’s Gate was at the entrance to Hell’s Canyon, the deepest canyon in North America. That’s right, deeper than the Grand Canyon! The only way to access it is by boat and at this time of year, those were only available on weekends.  We put it on our list of things to do next time.

We realized that we wanted to set up camp and stay put longer. We were wrestling with the conundrum of wanting to see it all and needing to make a home for awhile. It’s my birthday in a few days and I’m pumped to celebrate in the mountains of Northern Washington. Next stop: the Cascades.