We had planned to be at La Push for the weekend, along with nearly all my kids and their families. It’s a family tradition to gather there and connect with each other as we wade in the waves, eat, sit by the fire and listen to the rain and surf at night. Instead, I went to the ER, and then by ambulance to Kirkland for the weekend. Cardiac concerns. They get your attention. A heartbeat happens every second. Unless it doesn’t. Where should we hike, Kath asked, late Sunday afternoon. North Beach, I replied. It’s as close to being at La Push as I can get for now. We stepped onto the beach on this last sunny day, the last for a while anyway. Clouds were building, but patiently waiting to deliver their promised rain and the return of winter. The rocks of the North Beach headlands look like they are wrapped in elephant skin. They have lived here for millions of years, channeling the tides, and slowly, so slowly, becoming sand. More sand from the Cascades floats down the Skagit and out to this beach, where it now sifts between my toes. Behind me, massive firs and cedars, primeval and holy, stand on the shoulders of older, fallen brethren, waiting for their time to join them, breathing richly while they can. Trails wander beneath, first trodden by the first peoples here, whose campfires and ceremonies return here in the spirit world after dark, their stories still alive, whispered by the ancestors when a breeze stirs, an eagle flies, or a salmon swims by, if we listen carefully. Kath and I pause under a shelter built by the men of the CCC, the shelter nearly a hundred years old now, a part of the scenery, becoming a part of the forest in time. The view the men had of the Pass as they swung a hammer on the roof still remains, their memory written in the wood. Offshore, a loon lingers, that ancient-looking bird, looking for a meal. The loon is quiet for now as it hunts; it’s haunting call will wait for the dusk. Decaying pieces of driftwood, reposed in their final resting place on the beach, host salal and huckleberry, flowers and grasses, new life in old bones. We hike west to West Point and look back, the beach quiet but sprinkled with visitors strolling and beachcombing as we did, singles, couples, families, finding meaning in the book of time written in the beach and forest and waters. A young couple sit at the point watching the tide turn, lost in thought and meditation. Kath and I explore tidepools, reflecting on what we see in the pool of life before us, a reflection of the life hidden beneath the waters below. We skirt the always-busy parking lot at West Beach and return on the forest trail above the beach. Big maple leaves fall around us, going out in a blaze of glory, a gentle golden rain soft as the fall of moccasins. The trail wanders and rises and falls and rises again, passing spruce, cedar, hemlock, firs and alders, their roots like steps for our feet. We are back in the shadowed temple of trees, our elders. We pass beneath to pay our respect and learn of their ancient wisdom. And I asked them, as in a dream, I knelt down and asked them to make room for me someday. But not soon. Too soon the trail returns to our car. More visitors arrive to take our place. Soon the rains will finally come, and we will cozy up to a fire and dream of summer’s return. jack Directions: From Highway 20 one mile south of the Deception Pass Bridge, turn west at Cornet Bay Road to enter the park. Follow the signs to North Beach to start at the east end of the beach.
By bus: Island Transit stops a couple hundred feet north of the park entrance if northbound, and just south of the entrance if southbound. North Beach is about a mile from the park entrance. By bike: Highway 20 is narrow and fairly high speed through much of this area, with the bridge having no shoulder at all, other than the narrow sidewalk. Mobility: The trail to the beach at the east end is steep and difficult, though short. There is easy access to North Beach at the west end, near the amphitheater, with a level paved and then grassy trail about a hundred feet long. Comments are closed.
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Maribeth Crandell has been a hiking guide in the Pacific NW for over 20 years. She's lived on Whidbey and Fidalgo Island for decades. As a frequent bus rider she easily makes connections between trails and transit. Archives by date
April 2024
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