May 28, SAMMAMISH
By the time I got to Kalaloch they’d stopped serving breakfast and were turning things over for lunch, not in a rush to seat anyone. We were backing up in the lobby, I was second, a party of one. The lodge is a reliable place to use the bathroom on the way out to the coast and the food is exquisite. It’s not just the fact there’s nothing else around, they seem to really care. But the service is slow, it’s like no one wants to go as fast as everyone else. That’s why they moved to the peninsula. That’s why I go there, to slow down.
It wasn’t noon but because they were serving lunch that legitimized me ordering a beer. They offered samples, and I followed my server to the bar, picked a handle and committed to that, a pint. I ordered a smoky elk burger with jalapeño aioli, sliced red onion, tomato, lettuce, fries. Were it breakfast I would have gone for coffee as I had none breaking camp four hours prior, I wanted to get out of there before the Belgian girl woke up.
I washed up in the bathroom, got the blood off my hands, had a good look at myself for the first time in a few days, a click down from tawny port, kind of a ruddy-orange, brown. My lips were sun burned and my eyes puffy, layered. And my hair was like a twist cone, the way it wrapped around, the way some guys take a lot time and expense to make it look like that.
I got my journal out and continued on with my beer. There was a seat by the window with starlings doing fly-bys, dipping into the Fuchsias on the deck. It was all socked in with fog, and cool. Just a few miles north it was sun but when I pulled down to the coast it was consumed by a fog bank, that’s often the case. And the lodge guests were still hopeful in their sandals and light summer sweaters, but wore a general malaise on this holiday weekend when it was supposed to be sunny everywhere else. And that’s the cruel joke of this place. The deck chairs most days sit there empty.
Two couples in their 50s or 60s got seated by me and we nodded hello. I tried to insulate myself from the nearby dialogue. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint exactly what they were all about by what they ordered and how they specified it. I wanted to preserve the great ideas I had before they were lost. It was a hardbound journal Charlotte picked out for me for my birthday that said TRUST YOUR CRAZY IDEAS on the cover. That was good, I had a lot of crazy ideas. More that, than trust.
But I’d written many pages longhand for the first time in a couple months. I’d switched to digital, trying to learn the art of taking notes on my phone, which isn’t much of an art.
The two couples were close enough I could hear them debating the elk burger, which I’d just set upon with force. They were nervous about the aioli though, and I realized one of the women was British by the way she said jalapeño (she made it a hard “J” like JALO-peño), and the guy opposite her, who reminded me of Hemingway with his thick, white beard and mischievous look: he was trying to talk her British husband into a beer but the British guy kept balking.
I asked if they were Scottish, I thought I could tell by the musical lilt in the woman’s voice. They were all in different stages of accepting their age I think. The British woman looked like she’d waited all her life to be that age, she wore it well. She was like a cartoon grandmother with her sweater and glasses and possibly, a wig. Her husband had a tattoo on his forearm that was all military, I think an anchor that was blue-green. And he turned to talk to me a full 90 degrees and described where they were from, near Yorkshire.
I went back to my burger and beer and they, their order-making. The British woman had her phone out and was trying to understand it, was trying to establish a connection to the lodge network. They were concerned about roaming charges. I was trying to not get involved. And then they got to wondering exactly where they were, the name of the town, so they could label that on a photo or selfie. It was sad, watching the elderly try to adopt the conventions of youth.
The Hemingway guy had asked if I was a writer when they came in, I don’t know how it came up, but I said without hesitation yes, a kind of matter-of-fact admission, and then felt good about myself for committing like that.
They were trying to figure out the spelling of the place and Hemingway gestured to me, said ask the writer, he probably knows.
And I got most of it out but second-guessed myself at the end (was it Loch or Lock), and laughed, the Scots were confusing me…and then Hemingway’s wife, who seemed to be fighting her advancing age or possibly taming, or delaying it: she asked what is it I write (books?), and I later thought it was a sense of hope in her voice how she asked, that maybe they’d met someone famous they could tell their friends about…they were on the edge of having a good time but not quite there, you could tell by how they’d resigned themselves to the fog, the tone in their voice, how they debated drinking before noon and what that would mean for the rest of their day, a resignation to plans not going as planned.
I said memoir and field notes; I’d been out a few days and didn’t want to waste my battery so I was going old school with paper and pen. I wondered if the Brits knew what that meant, they probably coined it.
After I paid I gave the British woman a copy of my receipt with the spelling of Kalaloch at the top, I went back into the fog, calculating the time to Aberdeen and Olympia, and home.
But a bit up the road I started nodding off, I wished I’d gone for caffeine over beer: all the sameness of the scenery and the heat from the sun had me drowsy, along the shoulders there was nothing but Scotch Broom and sword ferns…the same tape playing over and over, no-name towns, forest road turn-offs, nowhere to nap. A few times I felt myself slip, but it jarred me awake with adrenaline and that would last a few more miles before it happened again.
I pulled off at a gas station in Aberdeen and filled up: a beautiful Saturday afternoon, right in the middle of town, no one around. The only shops that looked new or busy sold cigarettes or cannabis.
I got the idea for a Red Bull, I’d never had one but heard they had a lot of caffeine and sugar. I reached for the first size I saw but it was small, and each row descending got bigger until the fourth, a 20 ouncer, for $4. I told the clerk it was my first one and he said, you mean ever and I nodded, and he advised I go back for a 12 or 16 instead, but I said I was having trouble staying awake and he said that makes sense, just take it slow.
By the time I got to Olympia I was playing cat and mouse games in the passing lane, or the the inside lane that sometimes gets co-opted for passing on the left, even though you shouldn’t: there was an Acura and a few Jeeps I went up against all the way north of Tacoma, outside of Puyallup—before I pulled off for the country road toward Auburn and Hobart, the 18.
I got into Issaquah ahead of schedule, with time to stop at the liquor store for a six-pack and a couple bottles of Rosé—and when I pulled into our driveway Charlotte was crying, had stepped in dog shit and didn’t say hello really—and the cottonwood blooms were gathering like snow in the garden beds, and though it was a Saturday all was quiet, and there was no one else around.
This is the first in a series of posts I’m preparing from three days out on my favorite stretch of the Pacific Coast: 48 miles of uninterrupted coastal hiking up rope ladders and overland trails through old-growth forest, some beach hiking and rock scrambles. The posts don’t need to be read in order, and I’ve started with the end of the trip coming home, yesterday. Thanks for reading! — Bill