fools and englishmen

We have recently experienced what the NPR meteorologist described as a "classic heat wave," and it would seem that I am no longer the heat-tolerant--nay, heat-seeking--creature that I once was. A few days ago, Kendall and I set out with the dogs, thinking that forests and mountains would offer kinder temperatures than our house.

Excited by the prospect of the green stillness of an old-growth forest and a new perspective on the Twin Sisters mountains, we set off to explore the Elbow Lake trail. At the trailhead, however, we found a river impassable due to high water. The same was true at the Ridley Creek trailhead, just up Forest Road 38. July is the true beginning of summer in Washington and is therefore prime hiking season, but we're still on the cusp of it: the warm weather has yet to melt the snow on the upper trails even as the run-off it generates can complicate the hikes at lower elevations. Grumbling about the many long months without a proper hike, Kendall set off in dogged pursuit of views of the surrounding mountains, all confirmed by the Garmin, the compass, and the topographic map.

As I staggered up an old logging road in the late afternoon heat, however, I began to question the logic of our course. Unlike Kendall, I am not motivated by views alone, nor do I feel a compulsion to finish every trail I begin. Even under the best of hiking conditions, I am much more apt to lag behind, looking at unusual rocks or grasses or soil patterns, or to obsess over what might be a possible change in the weather. His persistance has led me to many more spectacular vantage points than I would have pursued on my own, for which I am genuinely grateful. On this particular afternoon, though, I was just hot. And tired of looking at trees.

Unfortunately, our best views that day came on the drive in; we chalked the experience up to a fact-finding mission and headed home. Nature breeds patience, no matter the season.

reconnaissance

Shortly after we arrived in Bellingham last summer, Kendall and I spotted a sign for beach access along Chuckanut Drive. We parked in the designated lot, and after much scrambling down rocky inclines and thrashing about in the undergrowth, we arrived not at anything resembling a beach, but at a rocky outcrop better suited, as Kendall noted, for plunging to one’s death.

Given that this beach is a landmark important enough to warrant its own parking lot, we figured that, as usual, there was some local trick we’d missed. Yesterday, lured by the summer sun, we again set out in search of the phantom beach. We left the parking lot by way of a different trail, but ended up at the selfsame spot, albeit with fewer mosquitoes this time around. After a sigh of frustration, we sat in silence, taking in the San Juan Islands, dark against the opaque silvery blue of the bay’s sun-lightened waters. It was glorious, but not the beach we’d been expecting. So we set off again, following a hiker’s instructions to continue along the railroad tracks, looking for “a slightly bigger trail, probably with more people on it.” And we did, in fact, happen upon Clayton Beach, a sandy sliver carved out between the forested coastal cliffs and the sea. At low tide, the pocked coastline and barnacle-covered rocks were exposed, and crabs and miniature jellyfish moved through the sun-warmed shallows. The beach was neither more nor less beautiful than the previous spot, and finding it gave the sense of a minor triumph and vague restlessness, the sort that often follows the fulfillment of a long-anticipated desire.

We returned to the car, making mental note of the trail’s contours for a future return. Out of such experiences accumulates, perhaps, a sense of place.