Thursday, October 24, 2013


This is a continuation, of sorts, of Journey To The Mountain.

At 7:15 that night, I was standing in the Pacific Ocean.

This was a first for me. I'd never seen the Pacific from this side -- and I'd never stood in it at all. For that matter, my only glimpses before had been from airplanes and through Chinese smog because my taxi driver had taken a wrong turn.

But here I was.

I had still felt a little shell-shocked as I left Mount Saint Helens behind me; two hours later, I found myself on highway 101, the cure of an ocean view alongside my car.

This was, among other things, the furthest west I'd been on this continent. A dubious honor, since it had taken  me nearly thirty years to get there -- but I'd made it. I was 1,000 miles from home and I had another eight days before I'd be back ... I had more mountains to drive through, and desert, and as it turned out some rather interesting weather.

Right then, though, I was happy. I had a gorgeous place to sleep. I'd gotten to talk to another human for awhile (the camp's director, who was fantastically friendly despite the fact that he was dealing with a cross-country-driving nut job). And there was a beach that I couldn't seem to stay away from for long.

It would be a few more hours before I would feel the pull of the road and the promise of mountains again. For one night, I could just enjoy the ocean.


1 comment:

Amanda said...

I absolutely adore the Pacific Northwest. Between the ocean and the mountains, it is near perfection.