Building on the winter and spring journeys on HWY 2, I now have a summer journey under the wheels.
Westwards, on a Friday morning, the salt water reels me in with a very early 3 am start. The rest stop between Davenport and Wilbur is
pre-dawn deep blue, crescent moon and a coyote yip yip yipping perfection.
As I enter the road again, two crows swoop and dive towards me, making straight for the windscreen, sheering off at the last minute. I ponder this dark arrow for the next stretch of miles.
Sunrise suggests itself opalescent in my rear view mirror around about Almira.
The actual sunrise in the sagebrush
scablands is holy, man, holy. I pause on the side of the road for a while, looking back at Dry Falls, leaning into the strong west wind which has the pennants on my roof-rack kayak fluttering horizontal.
The dawn sunlight is hazy from Central Washington wildfires of the past few weeks . There is a strangely softened, yellow glazed, Old Masters effect on the landscape: a curious beauty.
A long stretch of truly golden undulating
wheatfields wraps me in early morning elongated glow. I am remembering the minimalism of these curves covered in snow, then green tinged in spring.
Apples, pears and other fruits are hanging heavy on the trees in the fruit basket stretch, ripeness immanent. Those thalidomide limbs of February have brought forth fertility in abundance.
At Turtle Rock I pay my respects to ancestral turtles in this spot where the salt water has long receded.
In spite of my stops, I am making good time, which is lucky. Around Leavenworth at 7:30 in the morning Montezuma takes revenge for all the times he held off in Egypt and India. Fortunately Leavenworth has great German public toilets, one block down from the HWY in some
strasse or another.
Once again, I admire the German engineering of these stainless steel facilities which, on this day, come complete with a shiny new red Hummer parked outside. Inside, everything gleams clean cold stainless steel: walls, bowls, seats, above ceramic floors. I do make a mental note to seek out other nose powdering establishment in the deep of winter. Unless of course the place is heated. Imagining freezing stainless steel against the back of my thighs sends shivers up my spine.
If one is not clear as to whether one is
Damen or
Herren there are helpful semi universal icons of masculinity (trousers) and femininity (dress.) I ponder these icons for a while. I VERY often am the only woman in a dress in any group or gathering. How does it come about that the poster child is the exception to the rule yet still poster child?
Breakfast stop is in the candy colored 59er Diner at the foot of Steven's Pass. A real dishwater
blonde complete with gravelly throaty voice and little madras hipster shorts sitting below her wrong-side-of-fifty belly serves me, between her automatic banter with the old men lining up for their morning stroke at the counter.
My single
sideorder of
hashbrowns is aberrant in the context of the 3 eggs and ham, biscuits and gravy
heartstoppers trundling in a steady stream from the kitchen.
The table next to me inhales their plates of animal products and cholesterol while
Maybelline is faintly still being untrue through the clatter. I sip tea, fighting the adrenal tide of the Cadillac
doin' 95 and there she goes again:
Maybeleeeeen why can't you be true?
While the guitar twangs, I wonder about grown men wearing button up shirts patterned with Micky Mouse playing golf, spread tight across their biscuits, bacon and egg filled bellies then tucked into khaki shorts pulled up way to high. Sandals and fluffy white socks.
Goooooood Morning America!
And we, in days of old in another South Africa, used to joke about polyester safari suits, moustaches and socks with combs in them? I meet James Dean in the Ladies. May you stay forever young he says to me, stealing lines from my
fav balladeer.
The traffic picks up on the west side of the Cascades. For the first 100 miles of the day I saw only 3 vehicles. Now I enter the stream.
Goldbar, Sultan, Monroe,
Bothel,
Lynnwood,
Edmonds in multiple lanes of urban vehicles. Is it just my imagination or does everyone the west side of the mountains seem to be driving late model vehicles. Where I have been living, up in the rural foothills of the Rockies, the vehicles are just as likely to be old with real chrome and still able to be held together in a measure by baling wire.
I have also forgotten the pace of the urban life but I do pick it up quickly. HWY 522 gives itself up to 524 easily now. I have done this route often enough now not to be worried during the parts where navigation is by faith alone, there being few reassuring signs that one is on the right road.
It is a Friday in summer so there is an hour long wait in the ferry line for the
Edmonds/ Kingston crossing. Knitting helps. I make good progress on the Spirit Lake Romany grasshopper lace shawl and catch up with my journal.
[as usual there is a full set of pics on
flickr. Get with the program.
Facebook is so amateur when it comes to picture sharing.
Flickr is for professionals. Friend me there]
The colour junkie gets a treat.
Wildfires make a beautiful sunrise with setting moon after chopper filled smokey night. What an anniversary of citizenship: wild winds, dust and fire forced evacuations in my new community.
My first night on Vancouver island, looking for petroglyphs and thanks to a little sign on the highway, I stumble quite magically onto a little piece of Mexico floated up into the far north: Mermaid Cove. 
On the east Coast of the island, very near Roberts Memorial Park and in waters sheltered by Ruxton, Decouncy, Valdez and Gabriola islands, this was a perfect spot for an early morning paddle. Had I world enough, I could have spent a long time here.
As with my Suquamish paddle two days before, the new moon had the tides really low at dawn, exposing the beautiful intertidal zone full of life: starfish, a little orange octopus, anemones playing amongst the seaweed, barnacles and the lovely soft flow of lava rocks. Smooth rust and olive trunks of madrones leaned towards the water. My paddle took me all along the shoreline with herons and green contemplative coves walled by strange creatures set in stone. The ghosts of cedar dugout canoes, still haunting, accompanied me up an inlet where an octopus rock loomed hugely.
I slept comfortably in a grassy clearing under cedars set about with ferns and salal. Again a dreamland homecoming so good. If one is not the tenting type, there are a few little cottages with beautiful vistas of the water and sunrise.
Mermaid Cove website here. Definitely recommended for peace and dreams. There are 63 pictures of my delight in this bivouac on flickr.
The Malahat Lookout is on the TransCanada Hwy 1 as it winds up Vancouver island, a few miles north of Victoria. It offers spectacular views of Saanich Inlet and, on a clear day, islands, bays and mountains across the region: Mill bay, Mt Taum, Salt Spring Island, Swartz Bay, Mt Newton, Senanus Island, Mt Baker (USA) San Juan Island (USA) and Brentwood bay.
There are several ways to get from mainland United States to Vancouver Island (Canada). All of them involve boats and water and waiting in ferry lines - yay! knitting time.
Passing through en route to British Columbia, I stopped for a dawn prayer paddle in Suquamish, the place of clear salt water aka Port Madison Bay.
A great gathering of herons fishing the shallows handed me the patience card. At the entrance to Miller Bay, red crabs played in the seagrass sandbanks beneath the kayak.
Let the circle be unbroken.
Pitching my tent between the nurturing roots of a tall cedar in Kitsap Memorial State Park on the Hood Canal, I slip quietly back into familiar territory. Briefly invisible, here, where there has been so much....... history. Yeah, let's do it one more time! I'm looking at you, you old salt (water).
I saw Jesus on the cross on a hill called Calvary
Westwards, on a Friday morning, the salt water reels me in with a very early 3 am start. The rest stop between Davenport and Wilbur is pre-dawn deep blue, crescent moon and a coyote yip yip yipping perfection.
The actual sunrise in the sagebrush scablands is holy, man, holy. I pause on the side of the road for a while, looking back at Dry Falls, leaning into the strong west wind which has the pennants on my roof-rack kayak fluttering horizontal.
A long stretch of truly golden undulating wheatfields wraps me in early morning elongated glow. I am remembering the minimalism of these curves covered in snow, then green tinged in spring.
In spite of my stops, I am making good time, which is lucky. Around Leavenworth at 7:30 in the morning Montezuma takes revenge for all the times he held off in Egypt and India. Fortunately Leavenworth has great German public toilets, one block down from the HWY in some strasse or another.
And we, in days of old in another South Africa, used to joke about polyester safari suits, moustaches and socks with combs in them? I meet James Dean in the Ladies. May you stay forever young he says to me, stealing lines from my fav balladeer.
Bloudraad and the boeremeisie truimph once again.
Now for the laundry. And aaaargh! the garden is so wild and thirsty! And what's with the skunk attempts at colonization again? Time for some banishment orders: after all who is paying the rent here? Subletting is against the lease agreement.
The sun has come out now and the garden is positively drunk with growth after the storm. Seems the plants too were energized by all that discharge of energy.
This is the untidiest garden I have ever had. I do of course, have the excuse of it being my first season in Skunk House.
