It astounds me the conditions that fishermen challenge in order to make a living. Last week, the Dungeness Crab season finally opened so I’ve been watching the boats from my window. At night, and even in the day during the big storms, I can see their lights bobbing on the tumultuous waves. I’m inside where it is peaceful, warm, and dry while they are out on the ocean buffeted by the howling wind, drenched by cold waves (50 degrees F), and soaked by the driving rain.

They are far more daring than I (yep, proud landlubber here). According to a display in the Pacific Maritime and Heritage Center in Newport, “The Oregon Dungeness Crab fishery has almost 2.5 times more fatalities than the commercial fishing average.”

Since many of these captains have been doing this for decades, they obviously have the necessary skills. They know lives are on the line and while they are daring they are not reckless. Which brings to mind that saying about pilots, “There are old pilots. There are bold pilots. But there are no old, bold pilots.” I would argue the same holds true for boat captains.

I left Homestead on a warm, sunny morning. Palm trees swayed gently in the light breeze. My second day of exploring Southern Florida was off to a marvelous start! As I drove south on the Dixie Highway (also known as U.S. Hwy 1) I flipped through the radio stations, bypassing the myriad of Hispanic and hip hop offerings before settling on an oldies station.

It made me chuckle to hear the announcer proudly proclaim, “We play all your old favorites, from the 70s and 80s.” I remember when the oldies channel used to play songs from the 50s and early 60s. No matter, I can sing along to most of the tunes from any of those decades.

I was belting along with Tom Petty when the solid ground around the road gave way to turquoise water. It was finally happening, I was driving through the Florida Keys! Through isn’t the most accurate term. I was technically driving over a series of bridges that connect the various keys (key is an Anglicized version of the Spanish cayo, meaning small island).

Where the first bridge starts is where the road’s common name appropriately changes from the Dixie to the Overseas Highway. The roadway proceeds to swoop over the water, touching down on roughly twenty small islands along the 113 miles to Key West (the southernmost point of the contiguous United States).

Rolling down my window I was enveloped in the warm, salty air. It was a struggle to keep my eyes on the road as they were drawn to the bright, white beaches and the varying shades of cerulean on either side of me. A convertible would’ve been the only thing to make the drive more enjoyable.

My groovy radio station succumbed to static as I continued south so I scanned through my dwindling options to make a selection. My ears perked up at a fishing report and, since I’m fascinated by local items, I stabbed the button. Hey, don’t mock me, when I’m in rural Ohio visiting family, I listen to the farm report, too.

For the next few minutes I was regaled with details about wave heights, wind speeds, and which boat caught the largest sailfish. I also learned that when the boats return to port they will fly a flag for each sailfish they caught. One lucky boat had eight flags flapping in the breeze the previous day.

The local news started right after the fishing report and it soon had my full attention. According to the announcer, a man in Key West had reported his brother missing two days prior. A day later, the concerned sibling saw his brother’s white Honda Accord driving north on Hwy 1 from the island, so, of course, he followed it. He stayed behind the car for over 100 miles, calling and alerting the police along the way. He tailed the car into the Walmart parking lot in Homestead and waited for the cops.

When the cops arrived they detained the driver and the two people in the back seat (none of whom were the missing brother). Then the officers searched the car. In the glove box they found an unspecified amount of cocaine. Popping open the trunk, they discovered the missing brother’s body. The driver, who was on drugs at the time of his arrest, confessed to getting into a fight with the deceased and then strangling him with his phone cord.

My two favorite cousins came out for a visit over Thanksgiving weekend. It was their first time in the Pacific Northwest so it was a pleasure showing them around. Though the weather was capricious as usual (alternating between sunny and calm one moment and windy and rainy the next) we didn’t let that stop us. At least the mid-50s temperatures were double what their hometowns in Ohio were experiencing!

It was the first time in twenty years that the three of us were alone for a weekend! So we made the most of it. We explored some of my favorite places along the Central Oregon Coast, noshed on fresh seafood, and sipped local brews. We ended with a day meandering around Portland; brunching at Guilder (a wonderful cafe with a Princess Bride theme – which just so happens to be my favorite movie), strolling through the Portland Saturday Market (which needs a new name since it is also open on Sundays), touring the grand Pittock Mansion, and drooling over all the books at Powell’s. All in all, we had a marvelous time.

At the end of October, I zipped up to Olympic National Park to revisit the rugged Washington coastline where I worked for two summers during college. My first full day in the park was limited by heavy rainfall, entirely normal for that time of year. 

Imagine my delight the next morning at the intermittent sunshine and sporadic sprinkles. There were only a few cars in the Cape Flattery parking lot when I pulled in. Wanting to make the most of the agreeable weather, I grabbed my camera and jacket and hit the trail. It had been ten years since my last visit and I was eager to see if my memory served.

The timing of my visit helped me avoid the crowds of summer and, as anticipated, I had the overlook to myself. As I leaned against the railing, my thoughts wandered back to my two prior visits. In 1995 I focused on the geography of the point, proudly standing on the northwestern most part of the contiguous United States. In 2008, I watched Tufted Puffins dive and surface with multiple fish lined up carefully in their beaks.

This time I had no expectations, just content to experience whatever magic nature had to offer. South of me a Bald Eagle soared, riding an updraft of wind that swirled up the cliff face. West of me, a Sea Otter surfaced in the choppy waves. Floating on its back it devoured some sort of maritime snack.

Though it wasn’t part of my original plan, I was excited to explore another nearby trail. I parked between two other cars at the Ozette Loop trailhead of Olympic National Park around 2pm. The Ranger Station was closed for the season so after availing myself of the outhouse I wandered over to read the information in the kiosk. The kiosk was full of the standard cautions for backcountry travel: warning black bears live here, recent cougar sighting, stay on trail, pack it in, pack it out, be prepared, etc.

Armed with my jacket, camera, and essentially useless cell phone, I hit the trail. As the trail narrowed into a raised boardwalk I realized that it could be tricky when it came time to pass other hikers. A half mile in, rustling in the bushes caught my attention, and my heart sped up. I was about to have a close encounter of the animal kind.

I figured it was too noisy to be a cougar, though it could easily be a bear. Halting, I scanned around for a broken branch or anything else I could use to defend myself. I sighed with relief when elongated tan ears poked over the top of the bushes. Deer. Quietly, I grabbed my camera, snapping a few shots of the mom and fawn.

I laughed out loud as I clomped along the boardwalk, realizing that with all the noise I was making there was no way a cougar or bear would come anywhere near me. When clouds darkened the sky I decided I’d pushed my luck far enough so I returned to the parking lot. A Ruffed Grouse popped through the grass along the roadside to wish me farewell.

The next day I drove around the rest of the Olympic Peninsula before angling southeast through Olympia. I overnighted in the quaint little town of Tenino on my way to Mt. Rainier National Park. I knew my access to the park would be limited by snow. In a way, that made sense to me since my summer stint working at Paradise Inn in 1997 had been a short one. Tahoma stayed hidden behind the clouds so I headed home.

Overall, a pleasant weekend exploring my old stomping grounds. 

Spent an unseasonably sunny and calm afternoon wandering along the beach. I prefer to head out about an hour before low tide for a few hours of bimbling.  As the ocean recedes it deposits or unveils treasures and today’s ebb did not disappoint.

My first treat was a mini-pumpkin. It was in great shape with just a smidgen of paint remaining from the previous owner’s efforts. Next up, in a neat trick of erosion, I found a rockfish. Not an actual Rockfish (which are delicious, by the way) but a chunk of mudstone in the shape of a fish.

Sanderlings bustled along the tideline, frenetically prodding the sand in search of food, leaving behind cool designs in the sand. Activity increased as I neared the tide pools. While all the other Sanderlings were earnestly searching for dinner, one hygiene conscious Sanderling took a advantage of a small pool of water.

Sanderling Bath Time Video

Nearby, Western Gulls were fighting over, and feasting on, fresh caught crab. While the gulls were otherwise occupied Sanderlings would dash in and abscond with crab crumbs – cheeky little buggers.

Crab Feasting Video

Other gulls were more interested in escargot for dinner. How to crack through a hard shell when lacking opposable thumbs? Drop it from on high. It was easy to pick out the tink, tink sound of snail shells hitting the rocks and bouncing, even over the dull roar of the ocean.

This evening’s sunset arrived about a quarter to five. I lingered to snap a few photos before the chill in the air encouraged me homeward.

Last month I accompanied Lisa and fellow yogi Pryanka on a weekend jaunt to Bellingham, Washington. They were attending a yoga workshop and I went along to explore, because that’s just what I do.

I was pleasantly surprised by what I found. My last visit had been a short stop to catch up with friends back in 1999 and I don’t recall it being nearly as vibrant as it is now. Granted, a lot can change in nineteen years! I even like their marketing campaign which uses the first two letters of the city name to encourage visitors to Be…In Nature, Be…Amazed, Be…Our Guest, etc.

This time I spent most of my time in the charming Fairhaven Historic District. The afternoon we arrived, we tucked into a little cafe for an early dinner. Saturday morning, after dropping the ladies off at the yoga studio, I headed over to the Stimpson Family Nature Reserve near Whatcom Lake.

For those of who share my inquisitive nature, Whatcom is a Nooksack word meaning “noisy water”.  It was also the original name of the port town that became Bellingham, as well as the name of the northernmost county in Washington that abuts Canada, a mere 24 miles away.

The sun chased fog through the trees as I wandered the trails of the preserve. Though the ground was dry, it appeared the area had received rain recently. My eye was caught by an unusually colorful clump of mushrooms within feet of the parking lot. So, for the next four miles I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to photograph fungus.

As you can see, I didn’t get the best images* but I’m sharing them anyway to showcase the diversity I encountered. I don’t know enough about mushrooms to identify them or pick my own (besides the preserve doesn’t allow it) but it was definitely the season. In fact, the Northwest Mushroomers Association was hosting a Wild Mushroom Show the next day. I wish I could have attended, then I would’ve been able to learn the names of these. Instead, I made up my own names…