Between Hoquiam and Forks on Highway 101 is a beach called Ruby. The beach huddles around a creek just south of the Hoh Indian Reservation.
Dad and I pulled off the 101 into a crowded national park lot. Early August, just after noon, every caravan winding its way around the peninsula had stopped here ahead of us.
Behind us, the mists of Oregon crept up the coast. In the parking lot I peered up at the sky and wondered if the fog we’d been trysting with all along the Pacific coast would meet us here. The clouds held a familiar shape.
Ignoring the crowd, we made our way down to the beach. The Washington coast is craggy, marked by volcanic rocks too stubborn to be weathered away by anything short of a millennium.