Washington Coast

We turned southwest to visit the Washington Coast, the thumb of mitten-shaped Washington. Most of the coast here is protected, part of Olympic National Park. That means no dogs. So we stayed at First Beach in an RV Park run by the Quileute Tribe. Since the Quillayute River empties here, I guess that’s how to say Quileute. First Beach allows dogs, so Marco romped freely. Dyslexics of the world, untie! Once off leash, he circled us three times in his I Got No Strings dance. Then he got down to dog business: harassing seagulls, chasing receding waves, rubbing up on cormorant remains, peeing on driftwood stacks. Times like that make up for all the time we won’t let him chase Golden Mantled Snacky Bites. He posed for his photo op.

Other than stroll the cool, foggy beach, there was not much to do in LaPush. We visited the Forks Timber Museum, celebrating the logging life. As a card-carrying (Sierra Club card) tree fancier, I was drawn to one slogan: “Hug a logger. You’ll never go back to trees.” I learned about the Fords, who were the first white settlers, who traded with the Quileute. Because the name “Fords” was taken, the town became Forks. It’s still a logging town, with new fame as the setting for the teen vampire romance trilogy, Twilight. It rains a lot in Forks:

Dear Milennials, that is a pay phone. A toupéed pay phone, but it still works.

Here’s something you don’t find in Santa Cruz: a chainsaw collection:

Here’s a poster on the local language:

Add an homage to trees, which are harvested as timber, which when it’s cut becomes lumber, which when it’s used becomes wood. Here’s one of my favorites, the western hemlock. It is processed into pulp, then fiber. Its tip droops, like a stocking cap, making it easy to spot from a distance.

Finally, no trip through Forks would be complete without a rain forest photo:

From Forks, we continued south, exploring the isolated Washington coast. Our next two stops blur together in my mind: Ocean City, WA followed by Long Beach, WA. We stayed in private RV parks run by quirky owners, first Susan, then Terry, who both had standard quirky poodles. Terry especially had the beleaguered mom vibe, posting signs in the restrooms: Clean up after yourself! We don’t make a mess in your rig, so don’t make a mess in our home! Don’t waste water! It shouldn’t be a sauna in here! Close the door in this weather! And for God’s sake take your dog poop to the dumpster, don’t be lazy and throw it out here! Both parks had mostly long term tenants, with overnighters like us the exception. In Ocean City, we reached the sand on a footpath through a dense flat jungle of myrtle and pine. In Long Beach, we walked along the road to get to the vast, empty beach. Uh huh. Ocean , check. Sand, check. Clamming is out of the question: all that work and then you might end up with razor clams which nobody likes unless they’re deep fried. No dead pinnipeds to delight Marco, no squealing children, no romping dogs, and alas, no half-naked surfers. Not much to do in Long Beach besides sneakily undermine the bathroom signs. So we visited the Cranberry Museum, which taught us all about cultivation of this local treat. Shout out to Mark, our favorite cranberry expert!