We hit the road, the trail was calling. On our way out to the North Cascades, we stopped at a town called Concrete. On the edge of the Skagit Valley, it is near the southern entrance of the National Park. Concrete is remote and nestled, with a population of less than a 1,000, but offers the respite that travelers seek. The few restaurants in town and the one pub fit our needs.

We arrived on the outskirts of town at night and in the dark. Renting a room at the farm, we were happy to be sheltered and comfortable in the guest house for less than the next twelve hours. The crow of the rooster woke us early. Enjoying the morning light drifting over the hill and onto the farm, simply taking up space. Not announcing its presence in a loud way, rather subtly existing. As if this was the routine for it to arrive and provide a provincial scene serenading all of the first time visitors. Sipping coffee on the porch, watching the steam roll off the coffee, the farm and the quiet hum of the morning were exactly as they were supposed to be. As the sun became more established, so would the energy of the animals and people. Bustling with life unknown outside the city, or perhaps still life just in a different way, within hours. There would be room for hopes and excitement once we were on the road for the day. Stillness and the farm greeted us that morning. We savored it.

Arriving at Diablo Lake, the trail was hot and exposed, the rocks well formed and notable. The trail took us along the ridgeline overlooking the dam. Once done, we returned to the lake and relaxed. The vibrance of the blue rejuvenated our spirits. The views from the vantage soared. Imaging an eagle, a bear, many types of wildlife in this remote and rugged national park. Largely unknown to the country, a haven nearly as wild as Alaska yet as accessible as your appetite for adventure out into one of the lesser known passes in the Washington wilderness. Resting a bit before the drive, we were on the road to Twisp to see family, continuing to cut through the North Cascades. The highway, a feat in engineering and a testimony to the ingenuity of human thought as well as determination.

My cousins wife, Sarah, invited us for a meal. Pulling up to their house on the ledge overlooking the town, it was a familiar sight having had relatives who grew up down the road. We barbequed in the backyard, a friend joined us with her son, my cousin stopped by. A happy night with family around the table. Kids coming in and out of the house. Similar to the memories from my childhood, of aunts, uncles, parents, and cousins roaming about. Surely, this must be what every night in Twisp is like.

The next day we drove out to Whidbey Island and took the ferry from Coupeville to Port Townsend. In Port Townsend, we met my cousin Hans and went to a funky inaugural music festival. Running around the grounds, listening to the different bands, finding stages and bars to check-out, and culminating in my first Goose experience. We had a great night. People letting loose, people there for the music and to dance. People create community where they are. On a peninsula in Washington State, people gathered to jam.

Headed out to Port Angeles, further towards the coast, for the next few nights. We were planning to hike different parts of Olympic National Park. Port Angeles is largely a fishing, working-class town. Having spent some time there when I had an ex-boyfriend who was stationed out of the port, I had a little familiarity with the town.

The next day we hiked Hurricane Ridge, learning there is a chair lift and operational ski lift during the winter. A fun tidbit that even through my years of visiting Hurricane Ridge, I had never learned! The views continued to amaze and the variety of nationalities represented at the national park, in our corner of the Northwest, wowed. A different post talks about the community of stirred souls and I would be remiss to not give a nod to that in this National Park located in Washington.

One area we skipped but which I have been fortunate to visit on other occasions is Cape Flattery and Neah Bay. The most Northwesternly point of the continuous United States. A view that rivals any of those in Carmel, Monterey, or the California Coast. The rugged terrain of the area is shaped by the years of exposure to salt water, high winds blowing off the Pacific Ocean, and the other perils that come with the coast. As beautiful as she is, she is as equally dangerous. The salt water, the most corrosive over time, and the most subtle of all the elements. What the wind captures in fury or immediacy of impact, the salt water makes up for in depth or longevity of stay. It is like the sea - if the salt can be contained in that depth, when it moves to land, it maintains that capability.

Wandering into Olympic, the rainforest, we were greeted by moss and mists of spraying waterfalls. The moss was vibrant, green, dark. Full of life, full of mystery. A constant, subtle pulse that demands recognition by our sense. What wisdoms does this rain forest know? What knowledge does a place like this hold? Older than us, older than mankind. An ecosystem connected, trees and plants that talk, a blanket of moss which covers. What secrets do they share and what could we learn from such a place? Whatever secrets they know about the fraility of our human state, we are not judged. We are welcome. We are safe and invited to rest.