After being up late with Osa the night before, the early morning arrival in Seattle was way too early-morning. Since we were jumping ship, I didn’t even have the chance to make a nap appointment. I knew I’d be dodging an eighteen wheeler or two. That did not literally happen, but a short night of sleep with a cold head kept me rather uninvigorated for the rest of the day.
After stuffing and packing, I chatted with fellow Solarium campers while we watched Seattle come close and its panorama slowly washed by us. Skyscrapers, zipping cars, city pace, the whole deal. The guy with Russian interests was coming home, but he predicted it would lose its shine in about two weeks. Then he would want out, back to the wilder parts. Andy was glad to be taking a train instead of a plane back to Wisconsin. The train would take him longer to get back to his job. The nurse’s family did not care. They still had many weeks in their vacation and had not even fully decided where to go. Osa was somewhat apprehensive about going to New York, Washington DC, and Florida, especially after hearing many stories about the west being more beautiful than the east, with the east’s hubbub and lack of laid back attitude. But she was ready to see friends and family there. Plus, one apparently just had to go to New York City.
The motley band of deck campers – brought together in a confined space yet open to the world for three days – all shook hands and said our goodbye-forevers. The motorcyclists went down to the “car deck” (named that way out of a terrible social prejudice). Using a sharp knife, we cut and hacked away the spider web of ropes that had held our bikes together steadily. Nat gave a warm, friendly goodbye, kindly adding that we were the best part of his trip. He was heading for home – arrival in two days – but an extra day here or there wouldn’t have bothered him at all.
The Suzuki’s battery was practically dead. The kick starter got us out and onto a commuter ferry heading across Puget Sound to Bremerton. It dropped us off after having a disgustingly sweet cinnamon bun and a short nap on the way.
We had finally made it to the Olympic Peninsula, one of the best visits on our journey. Gas and lunch powered us around the perimeter of Olympic National Forest and Olympic National Park. I loved the beauty and grandeur of the mountains, water, and forests. Even the houses provided unique visual possibilities. I first thought that this was a place to return with a camera in the future; yet it actually did far more and planted a seed that grew. I moved to Seattle nine years later.
Our first main stop came at Hurricane Ridge, based on a strong suggestion by Mom from her own previous trip there. Great suggestion. The drive up into the mountains became progressively colder as we rose. The road etched itself into steep mountainsides filled dark with towering conifers packed tight. Winding through contours and blasted-out tunnels, the air was fresh and damp.
Visibility was supposedly excellent from the ridge in general. From there, visibility spanned more than 31 miles over 95 percent of the time. Our time: we could barely see across the parking lot. I enjoyed that though, since it added eerie atmosphere to the place and removed it from being just an overlook. Occasional breaks in the clouds slowly revealed mountains several miles away, sometimes lit from sun above. Glaciers packed their valleys and clouds bunched up against their faces. A hike around Hurricane Ridge showed us many too-tame deer and quick-twitching chipmunks, as well as varieties of dwarf meadow flowers in yellow, blue, purple, red, pink, white, and other bright colors. The ridge occasionally looked like the edge of a foggy abyss, while at other times cleared to show fields covered in bright white snow and contrasting dark green trees.
Our way back to Port Angeles was wet, but the wet-producing clouds gave the ride a mysterious quality. The road acted as a surreal anti-tunnel of steam rising solidly off the pavement into the air above for twenty feet.
Being tired and ready to eat a light meal, we parked for the night at the Uptown Motel. An episode of “Beauty and the Beast” and an interesting roundtable discussion by TV’s new fad-breed of sensationalist glop journalists kept our attention while we heated canned foods in a teapot on a camp stove inside our room.