…Dad fumbled in his pockets for the key. At first there was light cursing, then heavy cursing from both of us as we came to the realization that the single key to the room was somewhere between Hurricane ridge and the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Great news, I finished editing the first cut of pictures from my roadtrip last summer. Pictures are up on my Flickr.
I’ve still got a few stories to tell. There are lost keys, nights in the car, a bear cub, a u-turn, dry valleys, trains missed and trains caught and beer still to tell of.
Read up on the great Pacific Northwest Roadtrip here.
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.
My father and I stayed close to where the ocean had wet the sand enough to make for easy walking. The ground was soft, but solid. Low tide pulled the sand out to sea as we made our way down the beach at Cape Lookout.
At one point he turned to me, “you want to keep walking?”
I’d stopped next to a small depression filled with imperfectly arranged stones, half a shattered sand dollar, and a small puddle of water too fearful to run out with the tide.
“Yes,” I replied, looking up from the stones at my feet. “I want to see what’s down there.”
I pointed south. Mossy crags curved into the sea at the other end of the beach. Something glittered on the walls there and I wanted to see it.
South Jetty, Oregon | July 2014