Cama Beach Goodbye

The sun hangs in the western sky for a long while in these late July evenings as if he is not ready to yield to the moon of greater darkness. I know the feeling Mr. Sun, I too am not eager to yield to the solitary darkness as I prepare to see my wife slip back to Texas and her world of duties and work.

It is July 28, 2023, our last supper together for a long while. For this, her second summer visit, we circle back to what we did the year before o our last supper. This is must now be our bitter-sweet tradition.

 

We take a few sausages from the oven, throw in some condiments, stop for some snacky junk food on the way to the beach and call it our summer's last supper; a meal my mom would be ashamed of for its fatty entree only made worst by the unredeemed inclusion of nothing but salty and sugary sides.

Delicious. 

We return after our start of a couple of miles, we'll be on the water at sunset. The breeze will likely kick up and we will regret not having warm clothes. Agreed.

Now we are on our way west to Cama Beach for our Summer of '23 last Supper.

 

We settle with our backs to a turf-tossed weathered log and scoop out a seat among the rounded pebbles and hashed mollusk shells. 

It feels good to be here with Sue. 

It feels sad to be here with Sue.

We are glad that we remembered to bring our warm shirts and glad for our time together. Tomorrow brings rain storms and a drive to Seattle to drop Sue off at the curb, give her a hug and quickly leave her to find her gate and board her plane. I dislike the parting and I do not stay long.

The sun will rise tomorrow and if I were to be at Cama Beach, the sun would circle across the sky as the day before when we both watched it set. I will remember out junk food last supper and I will long for a reunion.

Dinner is Served Deckside

 The close of another fine summer day on The Pilchuck.

Nobody around to tell us what to do or to cook our supper. We have the day to ourselves and we chose to share the kitchen and make a suitable supper to take deckside.

The bottle of mango Moscato has just been opened, but the lady is already enjoying herself 

Citrus, tomata-splatta, Borther Bill's pickles and a seasoned pork shoulder just off the grill all make their way to out table for two.

Cheers! 

What enjoyment I find in simple things; cooking supper for the two of us, sharing conversations over a glasses of sweet Moscato wine and breathing the air from our long cherished place on The Pilchuck.

Y'all come out some time and join us for all of the above - except I might serve you a real bottle of wine.

Fuchsia Farmgirl

Who doesn't  like a flamboyant fuchsia?

Sue loves fuchsias.

I like fuchsias a lot.

Sue's fuchsia hangs from the tower balcony    

The building of the house out on The Pilchuck was not of keen interest for Sue. But where she really got enthusiastic was when the garden and landscape concepts were being discussed.

Knowing her interests, I made sure that in her final days of her summer visit that we indulged in some fancy, flamboyant fuchsia farming. We motored into Stanwood to the farms supply store, found some bedraggled potted fuchsias. I picked up some eye-bolts to screw into the underside of the beams supporting the tower balcony. The lady was excited to get a trowel in hand and do some dirt work, filling the two hanging baskets and replanting the flowers.

With a smile on her face and sandy loam grit in her teeth, she was all atwitter to do some dirty work for the festive fuchsia baskets that had just found a happy home.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

My fuchsia farmgirl in her natural element. 

Oh, you know who else adores fuchsias? Hummingbirds! 

With the flowering and thriving baskets hanging outside my office window, I can often look up and out the window and see a hummingbird drinking the nectar.

I have come to love fuchsias.

Ride the Rails for the Return

 Come by car. 

Return by train.

Inga choses her passage via rail on her return to Portland

Inga and Sean had come north on the Interstate in their Subaru. Sean stayed for a couple of days and then returned solo while Inga lingered with he folks out in the country. Since Sean had driven himself the 200 miles back to Portland, Inga chose to ride the rails for her return to Sean after a couple of days.

Inga had booked passage on Amtrak, boarding in Stanwood, WA, only a few miles from my house at The Pilchuck.

The north-bound train rolls through Stanwood Station first. A few people board, perhaps heading to Vancouver, BC?

We wait a few minutes for the arrival of the south-bound train. Inga, along with about eight other passengers have their tickets punched, or their phone apps scanned and are escorted onboard by the conductor.

The seating is almost all taken already by the time she boards in tiny Stanwood, a few disembark further down the line. Some passengers get off in Everett and Seattle, while more come aboard trying to find a seat on the south traveling train.

In a matter of a few minutes, it's "All aboard!" and the train has left the station. Inga enjoyed the journey home to Portland where Sean was waiting for her.

Riding the rails is easy from The Pilchuck.

Oyster Bar Outing

 Along Chuckanut Drive, a narrow, winding ribbon of pavement carved out of the sandstone cliffs that hang above the salt water of Samish Bay, is the fine dining experience of the Oyster Bar. Sue and I discovered this place on a blustery, icy  late afternoon January day in 2022. We stopped in on a lark, ready to splurge on an adventure. We were underdressed for the upscale establishment, but there were few patrons and nobody audibly complained. It seemed to me that they were happy to take my money after the seafood meal.

Inga had heard of our discovery, and when she was up to the Pilchuck in the summer of 2023, she suggested it would be fun to dine there, since her mother had extolled the pleasures within. I was excited to oblige the young lady's request. It was Inga's last day in the wilds of Washington and it seemed like a fitting finale for her visit. Unlike our first drop-in experience, this time both of the ladies were prepared for a classy date, having packed a skirt and a dress for just such an occasion. Sorry to report, Sean had already returned to Portland.

Inga & Sue at the Pilchuck 'drawbridge', dressed to thrill

We had reservations at the Oyster Bar for three at 5 o'clock. It was yet another afternoon adventure. 

At a wide spot on a bend along Chuckanut Drive sits the Oyster Bar, perched precariously on the edge of the bluff. It is a narrow establishment with an upper and lower tier connected by a spiral staircase. Conifer trees just a few yard beyond the west-facing windows have to grow tall to reach the level of our table hanging over the steep mountain.

I order a Port for Sue and I. We are handed a list of about two dozen varieties of oyster for our choosing as an appetizer. Each oyster variety comes with a short description of its unique flavor; briny, hint of citrus, notes of melon, under currents of seaweed etc. And yes, the oysters we tried, did match their flavorful description. A great start to the meal.

Salmon and shellfish were served after an intermezzo of quince sherbet in champaign. We three enjoyed fine food tucked in the corner where our table felt like we were sitting in the tree tops.

Cheers! 

To a great date with my girls.  

Good Dirt

 Some girls just want to get dirty. 

A couple of those kind of girls happened to be staying with me out in the country where we have 50 acres of good dirt. My wife, Sue, grew up on this very parcel of good dirt and she knows it well. You might say the Pilchuck soil is in her veins. Our daughter Inga, from inside her second floor Portland apartment wishes for a little bit of earth to plant a few of her favorites. The two of them had a few packets of flower seeds and the will to do a little country girl down and dirty therapy.

Sue and Inga get ready to dig dirt

I wanted marigolds to line the recently poured curvy front walk and ramp. Inga had acquired some wild flower seeds and wanted to give them a place to put down roots on the Pilchuck. Baker Seeds supplied my marigolds seeds in a jiffy quick delivery and with the sun out and planting season already far along, it was time for the girls to get into the dirt.

They planted. 

I watered and waited in their absence.

Of the 100 marigold seeds Sue planted for my enjoyment, only 3 germinated. And being late in the season, these marigolds did not reach their blooming potential until October.

I got one bloom for one day before the first frost finished off my memories of summer.

+++

Short-lived memory of summer. My single marigold bloomed in October for 1 day before it was killed by the 1st frost. Next season...

Skagit Saltwater Flats

I belong in the Pacific Northwest. 

I have found my place under the blue sky of July, cerulean salt waters edged with verdant shore grasses mimicking the waves beyond the dun sand bars rising from the shallows at the mouth of the Skagit River.

The narrow farm road, bordered by deep drainage ditches ends at the levee. A few signs atop the berm instruct visitors of proper conduct in this salt marsh preserve. At our feet are a couple of muddy paths leading between and through wild rose bushes and out into the tall grasses rippling in the light breeze. A bare earth trail beckons adventure and the stone hill remnants, like a fortress in the middle distance, mark the objective at the end of our march. Sue, Inga and I are off, down the seaward side of the levee walking beyond the farmland behind us and into the wild landscape that is subject to flood tides at the verge of land and sea, permanently claimed by neither.

Some paths lead into muck; more mud than water in some reaches, more water than mud in others. There are starts in one direction, only to find the chosen way not kind to our passing. We backtrack and wade through another route.

Our reward is a spectacular vista as we climb a conglomerate outcrop brimmed with roses shrubs and saltmarsh brush. The shallow saltwater channel before us sparkles under the summer sun and I am surprised by the blue of the water as I expected murky, sediment laden waters. Sea birds call and circle above. A few other adventurers and their canine companions are on the broad sand beach at the sound's edge. I feel the beauty of this place soak into my hide. I feel radiant and blessed to be here.

We descent from our solid, rocky high ground, kick off our shoes and walk in the fine sand following the tide's retreat.

The Cascade Range foothills are out in the clear air, circled by intriguing clouds. Mount Baker is behind us and the world of sky, mountain, beach and saltwater rings and sings with harmony.

Mother and daughter enjoy their visit and I enjoy all that is mine and before me.

I belong here.

Come join me.