sisters, together

Nearly three thousand miles separate my sister and me, the distance between the two Washingtons. Three thousand miles, a baby, new jobs, and the general busyness of life meant that we hadn't seen each other in two years.

A few weeks ago, we got to spend a few hours together, an afternoon, wandering around downtown Seattle in the sunny and unseasonably warm weather. All too brief, after too long apart, but lovely nonetheless.

re-set

Left to our own devices a few weekends ago, the dogs and I took a route up the Chuckanuts that is known in our family as the “view hike.” Like many such hikes, it’s on an old utility road that winds through second-growth forest and ends at a recent clear cut. Along the way, it passes a small lookout with views of the Salish Sea, the San Juans, and occasionally even the Olympics--hence the “view” in our nickname for the spot.

Although nothing like summer’s glory hikes, it’s a pleasant little five-mile round-trip that’s close to town and offers hill work. The Chuckanuts are full of little gems such as this, and the return to this bit of loveliness always marks the end of fall and the beginning of winter.

Admittedly, winter is not my favorite season in Washington. The monotony of gray can last well into what should by all rights be spring, making the season seem longer than it actually is. Although we’ve learned by now to combat seasonal affective disorder with full-spectrum happy lamps and mega-doses of outside activity, having a name to stick on the moody doldrums does little to ease the symptoms.

On the flip side, summer in the Pacific Northwest is glorious. Unambiguously, gorgeously glorious. But summer also means a madcap rush to squeeze everything in to one short season--the hiking, the house projects, the lounging in the backyard, the luxury of leaving the house dressed in a single layer, and the feel of sun on one’s face and arms and bare legs. As much as I love it, summer leaves me a bit exhausted, and the swings between seasonal extremes at this latitude always seem a bit immoderate to my Midwestern sensibilities.  

This particular outing, though, was a pause, a chance to anticipate the pleasures of the coming season before we tire of them. And it felt entirely right to be once again tucked in among the grays and muted blues, with the loamy smell of deciduous leaves on the ground mixed with the sharper notes of Douglas-fir needles, and the only sound that of the wind in the trees overhead. 

in the company of others

In recent years, our October tradition has been a trip up to Cougar Divide. The road to the top is not good and the trail itself is unmaintained, but persistence yields magical landscapes and a visual feast, from Baker's glaciated slopes to Table Mountain, the High Divide, and the Canadian peaks. When bathed in late-fall sunlight, the spot is incomparably beautiful.

After a summer hiking season truncated by canine health concerns and professional obligations, it was a pleasure to spend an afternoon among friends in the high country, soaking in the sun on one of the last sunny days we'll see for a good long while.

Although our habit has always been to forge ahead and cover as much ground as possible in a single outing, this fall's hikes have been all about the company. More journey and less destination, as the saying goes.

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