T+30: We Turn the Corner

Mile 444: SEDRO WOOLEY, WA.:  Last night was magical.  It needed to be.  After a fairly miserable night at Deception Pass State Park (we wuz deceived!—the camp is just few miles from the Evans Navy Base, where pilots fly supersonic sorties every few minutes  over our camp until late in the evening.),  we get a pretty early start.  However, we miss the turn off to the bike path to the tourist and ferry town of Anacortes, Washington.  Instead, we fought heavy traffic on WA 20 into town, where we did a variety of chores, then struggled our way out to the campsite. 

This was a classic example of going up to the sea, which we have experienced over and over.  We climb and climb to get to a ridge above a seaside location, then zoom down to the seaside, then climb the same damn ridge to get to the campground.

By the time we got to the camp, we were out of sorts.  We had been looking forward to this visit to Anacortes, the most western bit of our trip, and the point at which our travels north from Portland end. From the western seacoast, we will turn to the east and begin our travels along the Northern Tier route.

We sat in the gloomy (all these damn big trees!) and overcamped site (no grass, just earth beaten to dust by thousands of trailers, cars, and campers), thinking about what to do. Should we start our dinner of beans and rice?  Should we go for a walk?  All of a sudden a fellow named Brian appears from a camp-site just across the way.  He asks, “Have you all eaten dinner?”  We say no, not yet.  He says, “Wait just a sec.”

While he steps away, we turn to see a small deer right at our picnic table.   She looks at us expectantly, as if to say, “I’ve come for dinner, what are you serving?”  We toss her a few handfuls of gorp and are surprised to find out that she relishes the peanuts.  It is not long before she figures out that the plastic bag is the source of the goodies and she waggles her ears at us whenever Wes touches it.   This tickles us to no end.  For no good reason, I name her Mindy.

A few moments later, Brian appears with a plastic bag.  “I have some crab here.  It’s fully cooked.  Here’s the cracker and pick you need to eat it.”   We are flabbergasted.  I thank him and tell him I have never eaten fresh crab, only frozen.  His face brightens.   “You guys need to go out on the point and watch the sunset.  It is fabulous.  You can see the San Juans, and fishers, and when the sun goes down, there is hardly a sight more beautiful.  Take the crab and follow the scenic drive, you will love it!”  We visit a little more and find out that he had caught the crab earlier in the day, then given his extras to a variety of people in the camp, including another biker from Michigan. 

We had purchased a bottle of wine to celebrate the completion of this phase.  We also had fresh sour-dough bread recommended to us by the salesclerk at the bike shop.   We detach our B.O.B.’s, (what a relief!) and head down the road around the furthest west shore of Washington.   It is lovely and becomes more lovely with each passing yard.

At a corner, we stop to stare at the vista.  A few moments later, a balding man and a woman wearing a Detroit Lions fleece walk to the same corner 100 feet above the straits of Juan de Fuca.   I say to her, “We’re from Detroit too!” and take off my bike helmet to show my baseball cap with the old English D.  At first she seems surprised, and then says, she’s not from Detroit, but her son has played for the Lions for the past two years.  His name is Dylan (Dillan?) Gandy and he plays on special teams and was on 2^nd line for the defense.

They had spent a few months in Milford and had really enjoyed the area.  Originally from Texas, they were enjoying their retirement, which they were spending taking a 5^th wheel trailer to various spots in the nation, then exploring that spot fully for a couple of months before moving on to next.  I asked if they had found places they wanted to return, and they immediately answered, “This one.”   They told of their numerous attempts to see an Orca, and how they had learned to spot seals and porpoises.  At about that moment, they pointed, “Look!  It’s a bait bubble.” 

Below us, tens, then twenties, then perhaps a hundred gulls and terns began swarming a single spot in the sea, swooping in and out.  To my imagination, they are shouting like the gulls in Finding Nemo, “mine, mine, mine!” as they scoop little fish swimming ferociously in a circle to avoid prey.  “This is what the whale watching ships look for!”  Mrs. Gandy exclaims.  “Oh, I hope a killer whale comes.  I just want to see a killer whale so much.”

After a bit, we take our leave and ride a bit further on, to the apex of the scenic drive.  We have a panoramic view of the San Juans, the open sea beyond the islands, and fishing grounds below us.   We open the wine, slice the bread, and fumble as we pick the sweet, delicious, fresh meat from the Dungeness crab given to us by Brian.   We joke, “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, a mess of crab, and thou.”  

The sky is deepening as we watch salmon fishers desultorily raise and lower their poles from their drifting boat, not catching anything, but also not seeming too upset about it.  A seal pokes his head up here and there; I am absolutely ineffective at guessing where the shiny black head will re-appear.

Two tiny tugs pull enormous container barges at a speeds that astound us.  We listen to the rumbly purr of the motors long after we can see the boats.  I go down to the edge of the sharp drop, and Wes calls in warning, “Don’t go any further!”  So I sit on the warm, volcanic rock, and for the first time in the trip, just sit.  Just sit and look at the beautiful world.  Sit and feel the warmth of the sun on my face.  Sit and let the tension leave my shoulders. 

It dawns on me that I have been going about this trip much like I have been living my life: getting to the next spot.  Making it up the next hill, making sure we have gotten ourselves organized and down the road.  Goals identified, goals achieved.  How little I have savored this trip.  How little have I just let things be. 

I stand and stretch in the warm sun, turn my mind off and just feel my body in  this magical healing spot.  As the sun slips behind the islands, and the warm golden reds transform into silky blues, Wes and I exchange one of the tenderest kisses we have shared in years. 

When we return to the camp, we are mostly silent.  Wes notes, “I thought it would be easier to shed the schedule than it has been.”  Our camp is still kind of cruddy, but our spirits have been lifted and we are learning that we have a ways to go…not just in miles…but in living fully. 

The next morning, it is hard to get moving—not only because I fought the sleeping pad and pillow instead of sleeping--but also because we want to hold onto that magical moment of repose and beauty.  We climb out of the valley, turn our bikes to the east and begin our passage to the Cascades. 

At the top of the hill, at the last sight of the coast we have been following for more than 400 miles, Wes sings, “So long, it’s been good to know you, So long, so long, so long.”  Another phase is beginning, that will no doubt bring new learning.  I pray we remember that journey has as much value as the destination.