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 before or after their adventure. The few restaurants and one pub fit our needs.

We arrived on the outskirts of town at night and in the dark. Renting space at a 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 main house. Not announcing its presence in a loud way, existing in peace. As if this it was routine for it to arrive and provide a provincial setting for all visitors. Sipping coffee on the porch, watching the steam roll off, the subdued hum of the morning was as it was supposed to be. The sun would become more established, as would the energy of the farm. There would be room for hopes and excitement once we were on the road. Stillness and the country 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. Overlooking the vantage, our imaginations soared. An eagle, a bear, a deer. Many types of wildlife in this remote and rugged area called the forest home. 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, and the determination of human spirit.

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, and 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 milling 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, people there to dance. People have an ability to create community where they are. On a peninsula in Washington State, people gathered to jam.

We headed out to Port Angeles, further towards the coast, for the next few nights. The plan was 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 area.

The next day we hiked Hurricane Ridge, learning there is a ski run and operational lift during the winter. A fun tidbit that even through my years of visiting Hurricane Ridge, I never learned. The views continued to amaze and the variety of nationalities represented at the national park, in our corner of the Northwest, were a gift. 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. On the Pacific Ocean, it is 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 in this lush green bed of moss.