Coastal Meanderings

Leisurely, we wound our way along the Washington coast towards the Columbia River and Astoria, Oregon, following state routes #105 and #101. Vegetation changed from Douglas firs and aspen to scrub growth where the winds whipped the shoreline back to 100-foot blue spruce and 75-foot paper birch at Cape Disappointment. The shoreline changed as well, from huge expanses of sand beaches to steep jagged rock cliffs, punctuated by lighthouses.

At Bottle Beach, the asphalt walkway through marshland crawled with fuzzy striped caterpillars and banana slugs. Hundreds of birds migrated over the beach, but the shore itself was quiet in the early morning sun.

Short hikes to Lighthouse Point at West Haven State Park and to Grays Harbor Light Station provided panoramic views of the ocean. By 11:40 a.m., we walked in shirtsleeves in the bright October sunshine.

"We need to make the most of the sun today," said Andy, "since the rain is moving in Thursday for at least four days."

So all afternoon we explored the Cape Disappointment State Park, where Lewis and Clark camped before the winter of 1805. The area had been named in 1792 by Captain John Meares when he failed to find the source of the Columbia River. The 70-degree temperatures made being outside a pleasure. We walked the beaches and hiked the trails: North End Lighthouse, Beard's Hollow, Cape Disappointment Lighthouse, Waikiki Beach, North Jetty and McKenzie Head.

On November 18, 1805, William Clark climbed McKenzie Head with a small group of 11 men while the rest waited below. On top of the cliff he wrote, "The waves appear to break with tremendous force in every direction quite across." We too climbed a couple hundred feet up the steep trail to McKenzie Head late in the afternoon. Waves roared all around us. But history had left another label there. At the top were two gun turrets and the concrete ammunition storage bunker, remnants of World War II. History indelibly intertwined, and we were witnesses.

From Sea to Shining Sea

A raw morning fog settled over Lacey, Washington... 41 degrees. We watched the weather channel forecast for promises of clearing. "Even if it lifts today, when the front moves in for the weekend, we'll have nothing but rain from Thursday night on," said Andy. "We're not going to the Olympic Peninsula."

We headed west, past miles of forest. This is lumberjack land. Timber haulers, piggy backs loaded with Douglas fir logs, zoomed past us. "Do you think he was doing 50?" I asked Andy.

"Let's put it this way. If he had to slam on the brakes, Truckin' Maniac would be dead," Andy answered.
After a brief stop at the Quinault National Fish Hatchery, we meandered north along Route 101.

"We came through here in 1978, and the area was utter desolation," said Andy. "It was totally clear cut. At least the lumber companies have reseeded." A solid wall of young evergreens and undergrowth lined both sides of the road, so dense we couldn't see 15 feet in. "Let's spend the day around Lake Quinault," suggested Andy. "At least we can say we visited Olympic National Park." Pacific maritime climate. Moss dripped from the huge, old cedars, with the canopy of aspen underneath still green. Ferns in green and brown carpeted the floor.

By mid-afternoon we drove west again, this time as far as we could go to the Washington Pacific Ocean coast at 2:09 p.m. Cross country in five weeks... 36 days. I wonder if Lewis and Clark recorded the time, as well as the date, in December of 1805, when they arrived at the coast.
The sun dropped behind Damon Point at 6:20 p.m. We sat on driftwood logs and photographed the setting, our car parked on the sand nearby. Seagulls swooped overhead, calling to each other and daring the Dungeness crabs to venture forth. Miles of sand, dotted only with driftwood, broken sand dollars and clam shells, stretched as far as we could see. It was a perfect end to five weeks of travel from sea to shining sea.

A Moody Rainier

Conservationist John Muir wrote, "Of all the alpine gardens I ever beheld in all my mountaintop wanderings," Mount Rainier displayed "the most beautiful alpine gardens I have seen anywhere in the world." He must have been describing October before the first snowfall in Mount Rainier National Park. Meadows surrounding the peak blended expanses of red, orange, gold, rust and beige in an artist's palette of earthy colors. The deep greens and browns of Douglas firs and cedars edged the craggy gray of the snow-capped peak, and every turn of the road opened a view more breath-taking than the last. With almost all the facilities of the national park closed, we opted for the overlooks and a couple short trails: Box Canyon with views of Silver Falls, Narada Falls and Paradise Gardens.
In four short hours, the mountain changed her moods.
"She seems melancholy," I noticed early this morning, watching billows of white fog swirl at the summit as we drove inland from Seattle.
"It could change," said Andy. "That's warmer air hitting the snow."
He pointed to patches of blue sky peeking through at mid-morning. "I can't get over how warm it still feels or how many people there are at Paradise."
"I have on lighter clothes today than yesterday, and I 'm a lot more comfortable. I was freezing in Seattle. It's definitely warmer here at 5,400 feet," I told him.
"I never planned to come to Rainier," he said. "Most years the mountain is snowed in by late September. At least that's when the lodges and trails close down. And this? Not a bit of snow anywhere except on the peak itself. This is unbelievable."
By noon Rainer's mood shifted to one of sheer joy. Occasional feathery clouds moved over the summit and surfed down the glaciers. Soon all trace of the fog dissipated, exposing a robin's egg sky. The white peak glistened in the sun. "It almost looks like the mountain is smiling," I told Andy.
"Did you get to see the top?" asked niece Kari later in the evening as we chatted during dinner in Olympia. "We had one glimpse after it rained all day during a field trip a couple weeks ago." She had accompanied a graduate class from Evergreen State College to the mountain in her elective study of sustainable forests. "Late in the afternoon of our field trip we yelled, 'Stop the van,' because we had not seen the top all day in the rain. The peak was totally hidden, but we caught one sad glimpse."
"I think that's just the moods of the mountain," I told Andy later.

Coffee And...

From what I understand, October in Seattle is already the rainy season... or at least the beginning of it. So either we are very lucky or someone upstairs wished us well. As we drove from SEA-TAC airport area toward downtown, the frosty dew on the windshield melted and the fog lifted. Dressed in sweatshirts and jeans, we walked the city:

1. Pike Place Public Market, as the fish and flower stalls opened, and again around 11 a.m. as tourists collected to browse through city blocks of jewelry stalls and pastry stands, and again around 2 p.m. when the locals sampled jerky and fresh fruits and vegetables.

2. Klondike Gold Rush Museum National Park about ten blocks south, with a film and history displays about the old Cadillac Hotel, the starting place for thousands who sought their fortunes in the Klondike of the 1890's.

3. The first Starbucks just across from the marketplace for coffee and some Pike Market goodies.

4. The Olympic Sculpture Park about seven blocks north, with its intermingling of art and live plants.

5. The waterfront from Pier 50 to Pier 66 and its teeming throngs of ferry passengers along the Alaskan Way.

"Do you think we walked five miles?" I asked Andy.

"I'll say easily seven," he answered, "and I'm amazed at the crowds. Remember, years ago one of your relatives told us Seattle people take advantage of good weather when it comes? That's why I think we are seeing so many people out on the streets."

We drove 25 miles north to Woodenville and the Chateau Michelle Winery before the 5 p.m. closing. Here too, groups of friends gathered outdoors around small tables, appreciating the sunny skies. All the travel brochures advertised the mansion and manicured grounds as the oldest winery in Washington state with free tastings of quality vintages. Beautiful it was, but not free. A relaxing and elegant stop, we roamed the grounds and browsed through the wine shop before tackling the going-home crowds on the freeways.

Forests and Falls

"Pretty hard to believe that this was a forest," I told Andy as we climbed the hillside at Ginkgo Petrified Forest in Washington. Huge petrified stumps of elm, maple, spruce, ginkgo and walnut trees were encased in metal gratings below ground next to the trail. Otherwise, scrub sagebrush covered the hillside. A class of university-age students gathered around one specimen. A mustached man explained and pointed. "Probably a college geology class," I guessed.

"Maybe from one of the local schools," he said.

"Yup, because high school kids wouldn't come on a Saturday."

"They would for extra credit," he offered.

"Nope. Not that big a group. They even look interested."
"Oh," said Andy later, suddenly jolting the steering wheel right so quickly that I looked up from the pages of McCann's Let the Great World Spin; the momentary burst of adrenalin jerked me to attention. "Just look at that!" he added, tilting his head as he drove. We pulled into the rest stop. There ahead of us the gigantic peak of Mount Rainier, totally white with snow, stood high above the horizon. In front of us the Wild Horse Wind Facility provided a rest stop for travelers, but the windmills stood silent, every single one of them. "This is expensive electric," Andy explained. "The company only uses the wind power when they don't have enough cheaper hydro power."
Cruising through the Cascades, we marveled at the colors, but the leaves on many aspen trees were still green. "This is the last place we could have hit snow," said Andy, "and look at it." A brilliant sun lit up the south face of the peaks, with the deeper valleys in shadow as the road dipped. Everything was deep rich green. Here and there craggy rock peaks broke the surface. "Lots of fog, drizzle and rain here at times," said Andy. "Not a fun place to be in bad weather, but predictions for the next five days are for clear skies." Several times we stepped out of Little Red to snap pictures. The cool air felt crisp and fresh.

Probably 200 cars lined up and battled for parking at Snoqualmie Falls, a spectacular scene of falling water in between the bobbing heads. "What did I say yesterday about being alone at places?" asked Andy. He quickly added, "But I'm not complaining. We couldn't expect much less near the big city, and I love the way they have preserved the huge trees... everywhere." Seattle, our destination for the day, was within sight. Gigantic old trees reached for the sky on every residential street, with Puget Sound reflecting the sunset just beyond.

Repeat Performance

A fifty-mile circle took us south of Spokane through rich farmlands of winter wheat, with a stop at Steptoe Battlefield, one of the last clashes in the Indian wars, all the way to Steptoe Butte State Park, a national geologic landmark. On foot we followed the road from the lower parking lot to the top of Steptoe Butte. At 3,620 feet, the world was at our feet. Freezing winds whipped our ears, but we could see at least 30 miles in every direction.

"You know what I like best?" asked Andy. "We've been to some incredible places and often there is no one there."

Alone at the top, we watched swallows dip and climb and dive. A falcon shot up from a wheat field and disappeared from view behind a rock outcropping. Everywhere patchwork shapes of tans and browns and greens and grays blanketed the panorama. Casting shadows in the morning sun, the nearby hillocks darkened surrounding terrain. Andy read the sign. He explained, "This is rich because windblown soil has been carried here for thousands of years." The butte is a remnant of a volcanic age 15 million years ago. Then glaciers scraped the land. Now the dips and mounds of rich silt are as much as 200 feet deep. "Just look at how black it is," he said. We drove down Steptoe Butte Road, a one-lane asphalt path from the sky.

Closer to Coeur d'Alene, smoke billowed from burning fields. No sirens. No whistles. No bells. Apparently the Indians on the Coeur d'Alene Reservation burn the cut fields to plow the ash back into the soil.

The circle drive put us back in Coeur d'Alene by noon. This time we found a city park two-mile peninsula trail around the point. The path skirted the edge of the rock and ducked back in among the trees with spectacular views of the lake.

"Oh, are you coming out here?" called Andy from one of the side trails that led to a rock island just off shore.

"I'm coming down," I called back, "but probably not out. You know my track record. I'd fall in."

He hopped around the rocks as I picked my way, camera in hand, down the edge of the cliff to the water. "Be careful you don't slip," I called out as he started back across the water. No sooner had I said it, than the rock he stepped to shifted. Andy ended up with one foot in Coeur d'Alene Lake. "At least you can say you went in the water!" I teased.

Back in Spokane, the last arc of our circle tour, we stopped at two wineries: Latah Creek Winery and Gift Shop and Arbor Crest Wine Cellars. "He won't let me shop," I told the owner at Latah Creek, after the three of us had visited for half an hour. "There isn't room in the Saturn for packages." But the wine we purchased from her after our samplings will make a special evening treat. We even acknowledged John Steinbeck when she mentioned she had had a poodle named Charley.

Like last night, we spent the pre-dusk hours walking the streets of downtown Spokane with its shopping mall, creative statues, exhibition areas, extensive city park and breathtaking waterfalls... a repeat performance that would never be tiresome.

Sunny Days, Smooth Sailing

"Coming out of Helena into the mountains yesterday was absolutely beautiful," said Andy as we drove toward Idaho, "and now this morning from Missoula is equally spectacular. How did we ever schedule such gorgeous weather?"

Douglas fir trees blanketed slope after slope as we snaked along the Regis River through the Bitterroot Range. "I don't see very many dead pine trees here either," I told him.

"That's because these aren't lodgepole pine. They aren't affected by the beetle. We've gone more than 5,000 miles, and this is the most trees we have seen in one place since we left West Virginia," he added.

Accented with golden aspen along the river, the deep green mountainsides piled layer on layer at every bend in the road. We turned off the GPS and left I-90 at White Pine Scenic Byway, following the Coeur d'Alene River. Logging trucks zipped past at 50 m.p.h. near Cave Lake, leaning right and left around the curves. Then Coeur d'Alene Lake came into view between the pines. Every turn offered glimpses of sparkling blue waters.

"Some of the houses are huge," I said to Andy as we drove the entire lake road. "I'm only disappointed that so much of it is private. It would be nice to stroll along the lake."

Coeur d'Alene City Park provided the opportunity for a walk along the shore. There, a couple from LA took pictures for us with the bronze statue of Mudgy the Moose and Millie the Mouse. We strolled along the floating boardwalk, climbed the bridge, walked through the hotel gardens and watched the few boats still out on the lake. Later Lynn, a volunteer at the visitor center, told us about her return to this beautiful resort Mecca from Florida and North Carolina.

Sadly, hundreds of For Sale signs marked houses and lots on both sides of the road as it wound in and out of the trees around the lake. "With the market down and real estate worth less, people can't afford second homes," said Andy.

Nowhere has this been more apparent in our travels than here at Coeur d'Alene Lake.

Traffic mounted as we approached Spokane mid-afternoon. Temperatures in the high 70's at dinnertime gave us a chance to walk downtown in shirtsleeves to see the waterfalls. It was a sunny day on the water from Montana to Washington.