Cape Flattery

It’s been a long-term project of mine to learn how to drive a manual…and when I say long-term, I mean it’s been gradually happening since at least 2016 or so, and I keep chickening out of practice because I just don’t seem to have the mental bandwidth to think about the clutch and 6 gears on top of everything else. Until this past month, the most manual driving I’d ever achieved was zigzagging a parking lot in the watchful presence of a nearby police car. A couple weeks ago, I embarked on a trial-by-fire kind of manual driving practice round and drove nearly 2 hours of winding, coastal road toward Neah Bay.

It was nerve-wracking. In a good way. The speed limit on most of those low-guardrail, curvy roads is a very reasonable 40mph, but judging from the testy tailgating I experienced, most other drivers tend to prefer 55. So I white-knuckled the entire way, trying not to think too hard about the cars backed up behind me or the mountain on one side and the sheer drop to the Strait of Juan de Fuca on the other, flat and glaring angry white in the afternoon sun.

One thought helped immensely, and it was the knowledge that the payoff on the other end would be spectacular: the distinctive wind-bent trees and sea stacks of Cape Flattery, looking like some kind of prehistoric landscape.

The Edge of the Earth [1/2]

Writing about people and experiences that are near and dear to my heart is extraordinarily difficult for me. It comes down to an anxiety about falling short -- about not possessing language sharp and poetic enough to do my subject justice. As Henry James wrote in the novel Roderick Hudson:

"...the faculty of expression is wanting, but the need for expression remains, and I spend my days groping for the latch of a closed door."

The Pacific Northwest is all of these for me: a loved one, a precious experience, an expression I yearn to create, and both the latch and the closed door itself. Upon my first visit to the Northwest in 2011, I thought the region would be my "latch" -- a gorgeous wonderland-as-muse that would lead me to new heights of literary vision. It didn't happen.

I returned in 2013 and again this past fall, and the great Northwest becomes more opaque to me each time. With repeated sadness I've come to regard the Olympic Peninsula as something too large for me, too sublime. I'm regrettably unable to write the traditional traveler's reflection of problem-journey-growth-resolution on my trip, as there is no logic -- no plot arc, no meaning -- to how the Northwest swallows you up in its briskness, its mistiness, its ruggedness…and leaves you humbled and sad and aching at once. 

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QUINAULT

Boats on the shores of Lake Quinault, evening.

Shot by Nathan Haley on Lake Quinault, morning.

Sunlight over Quinault Lodge.

Nathan under a mossy Quinault Lodge shelter.

Lodge lobby.

The lake ablaze.

We began our trip with Quinault, a glassy lake cradled by forested mountains. Back in 2011 my family passed through the area, found it striking, and regretted not leaving enough time in our schedule to idle on its pebbly shores. With this in mind, my boyfriend & I stayed at the Rain Forest Resort Village just down the road from the more famous Quinault Lodge (where Roosevelt once dined), enjoyed a lake view from our enormous window, and had breakfast omelets in the main lodge's restaurant on chilly mornings. In the evenings we took our time dining on fresh Pacific salmon and watching the sun set Lake Quinault ablaze.

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KALALOCH & RUBY

Ruby Beach on an overcast morning.

Kalaloch (available as print @ NoSoundOfWater at Society6)

Bleached wood bridge at Kalaloch.

The massive ocean-facing windows of Kalaloch Lodge's restaurant.

Golden hour en route to Ruby.

Mist and rocks at Ruby on a sunny afternoon.

Ruby sunset. (available as print @ NoSoundOfWater at Society6)

Ruby sunset & a photographer at work (available as print @ NoSoundOfWater at Society6)

The beaches of the Washington Coast are among the dearest places on Earth to me, and among them, Ruby Beach is king. Its boulders, stacks and scattered driftwood have a sense of balance and depth of which I imagine John Ruskin would be especially appreciative. South of Ruby are a series of expansive, bleached-white beaches that never fail to tickle my negative space fancy.

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LA PUSH & CAPE FLATTERY

Cape Flattery, shot by Nathan Haley

James Island in the sun.

Comin' down the mountain (of driftwood)

Nathan at Neah Bay

Cape Flattery

On the 4th and 5th days of our trip, we headed north of Ruby to the Quileute reservation of La Push, where we climbed its striking, bony pile of driftwood and squinted against the glare of the sun off of James Island. Even farther north we encountered winding mountain-meets-coastline roads leading to Neah Bay (of the Makah people) and then to Cape Flattery, the most northwesterly point of the contiguous United States. Cape Flattery is otherworldly -- it's like something out of Middle Earth, with its feathery, wind-bent trees and mossy islands of all sizes rising from turquoise waters.

TBC in "The Edge of the Earth" part 2

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