Four Directions
In the past, if someone would have asked me to define adventure, I would have talked about wild places and strenuous miles moving across the land by foot. But with Jeff and me both nursing minor injuries, October was not going to be the month for long runs or hard hikes. Instead, we took four excursions that sent us north, south, west, and east. Each of these trips was unplanned or unexpected in some way, which made October an excellent lesson in finding joy in the unexpected and reimagining what it means to explore.
Week 1: East
We have a college student in Missoula, Montana. Owen started his freshman year last year in the thick of the pandemic. The silent campus seemed to be holding its breath and town was mostly shuttered so we didn’t get a sense of what the area had to offer. We’d planned a trip to Missoula in late October, but we headed out early to avoid potential snowstorms in the mountain passes. It was a great trip that involved climbing the iconic M Trail, an art exhibit involving bark beetles, and spectacular fall colors.
One of the highlights for me was a quiet walk in Pattee Canyon with its red-gold underbrush and stately conifers that dropped pinecones large enough to be tripping hazards. Owen studies geology, and he pointed out rocks along the way, describing their properties and illuminating the geological history of the area.
It brought back memories of Owen who, as a toddler, was a fount of endless energy, and I took him out for walks a lot. We would trundle through the forest, picking up rocks and acorns, leaves and pinecones, until the pockets of his overalls were stuffed with treasures. In both places, Pattee Canyon and my 20-year-old memories, the squirrels chittered at our passing. If someone asked me to define happiness, I might show them a glimpse of that serene walk with loved ones in the autumnal Montana forest.
Go east for family.
Week 2: North
The north leg of our journey was to Kubota Garden, a short jaunt from our home. Originally the private garden of Fujitaro Kubota, the 20-acre garden in Rainier Beach has been a public park since 1987. Once you’re inside the garden, it’s easy to lose yourself in the maze-like pathways of evergreen, hydrangeas, and secret niches. Famous for its fall foliage, the garden also has a koi pond and two arched bridges, Heart Bridge and Moon Bridge.
I love maples, and Kubota Garden has 140 varieties serenading visitors with their gorgeous spectrum of colors. When I was growing up in Missouri, we had two silver maples growing in front of our house. On windy days, their silvery leaves made a distinctive sound, both rustle and melody, which will always remind me of home. Silver maples seem like the shy cousins of the Japanese maples who proclaim their colorful presence each autumn after a year of blending in with the rest of the northwest greenery.
If someone asked me what peace looks like, I might show them an endless expanse of Japanese maples, in varying shades of red and gold, blazing in the low light of another year passing.
Go north for tranquility.
Week 3: South
We drove south to Mount Rainier. Since we weren’t planning a long hike, we headed for Paradise where we knew we’d have amazing views of the mountain just beyond the parking lot. I’d been to Paradise once before. It had been a gorgeous summer day, and distracted by the views, I’d almost stepped on a sunbathing marmot sprawled in the middle of the path. Jeff had been there as well, passing through Paradise on his way to the summit in 2001.
We hiked for about a mile up the Nisqually Vista Trail where autumn was giving way to winter. Snow covered the alpine meadows, and the path was treacherously icy in places. White clouds adorned the summit and shifted shape rapidly throughout the morning. The marmots had all gone into hibernation, but we encountered one flirtatious chipmunk who spoke the universal language for “Please give me a treat.”
On our way back to the car, we checked out Myrtle Falls, which turned out to be another awe-inspiring sight. From the scenic viewpoint, I had the fantastical notion that we were witnessing the underside of the mountain where a waterfall flowed from its hidden, primordial heart. If someone asked me what majesty means to me, I might kneel in that spot with my eyes on the summit and hands on the earth.
Go south for wonder.
Week 4: West
Near the end of October, a historic storm approached the Washington coast. Meteorologists marveled at their models, which predicted the lowest pressure on record. The worst of it came on Sunday, but on Monday, it lingered along the coastline. So we drove to coastal town of Westport to see the storm. With waves predicted to be 20 feet high, we knew that we should stick to high ground.
Our first stop was Westhaven State Park. The parking lot was deserted except for some sullen sea gulls sheltering behind the earthen embankments and one other storm-watcher who gleefully greeted us over the gale. Once outside our car, it was evident our clothing was inadequate despite our raincoats, hats, and gloves. The wind pushed us along like leaves, the rain felt like icy shards against our faces, and the waves crashed over Westhaven Jetty, which separates the Pacific Ocean from Half-Moon Bay.
When I think of the ocean, I think of the repetitive tides and their meditative rhythm. But this was chaos with no straight lines, just roiling foam and crescendos of gray waves against gray skies. It was beautiful and dangerous, and I was grateful to watch from a safe distance and then climb back into the warm car. Of all October’s compass-rose adventures, this is something I might not witness again. If someone asked me about power, we might stand together humbled by the wind and the white-capped fury of the waves.
