|This van is growing a forest.|
Being in Quilcene, on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, felt like a vacation, sort of. The first thing I did was ask the innkeeper where I could run. "When I used to run, I ran down the Linger Longer road to the marina," she said, and of course with a name like that, how could I not go?
It's always the same when I run near the ocean. Sea level! This is so easy! Hills are nothing! Look how fast I'm running! Then: Gah! Humidity! Despite the air's clammy touch, I loved running here, the trees in flowery bloom, seeing strangeness like a woman in a lycra dress and fishnets mowing a lawn. After all these years in the outdoors I have a trail sense, and one road just looked like it would contain a trail. And it did:
|Please don't let there be poison oak in here.|
I'm sure small salty towns will always draw me in, even if I love alpine meadows and mountains more. Just standing and looking at the water made me want to get in a kayak and paddle away.