I admitted to Elise on or around day five of our trip if we had stayed in the same campground, at the same camp site, I could be done. What kept us going more than anything else was the exploration, the sense of adventure, as each new campground brought new sights, sounds, and smells. We agreed it was a lot of work to set up the van every evening and break down camp every morning before moving on to our next destination, but because we were in the camper van, if we wanted to go anywhere during the day, we'd have to pack the van up anyway.
After the boys had inadvertently plunged into the sea at Fort Stevens State Park, we had a pile of soggy clothes to contend with, and since nothing ever dries in the Pacific Northwest, we would have to contend with a pile of soggy clothes for the remainder of the week, hauling them from one campsite to the next.
Which is exactly what we did when we made the short drive to Cannon Beach.
Cannon Beach was the disputable centerpiece of our Oregon Coast trip, and we treated it with the respect it was due by planning to spend two nights at the nearby Nehalem Bay State Park, a short 20 minute drive further South, past Cannon Beach.
We stopped in Cannon Beach to get our first glance at the famous Haystack Rock.
The kids met a friend at the base of Haystack Rock, Caleb, who was vacationing from Seattle with his parents. He was an only child, friendly and enthusiastic. He informed us the tide was in, so it would be difficult to explore the tide pools. The kids made plans to meet up the next morning when the tide would be lower.
We took advantage of our first night in Cannon Beach to have an early dinner at Pelican Brewing Company before continuing on to the campground and settling in for the night.
As promised, we returned to Haystack Rock the next morning to meet Caleb.
We saw seagulls and puffins swirling around the top of the rock. Every half hour or so, the entire flock would take to the sky, squawking and squealing. It would be difficult to discern, but in the wheeling flight of white-winged birds, the broad flapping span of an eagle could be seen, swooping away from the rock, a tiny prize clutched in its sharp talons. It was hard to tell what the bald eagle had plucked from the rock and carries back to its best in the high pine treeline on the east side of town. A baby seagull, perhaps. As this scene replayed several times, each time the bald eagle coming away with another baby seagull, Elise and I questioned the seagulls intelligence. Why did they stay there? Why didn't they move? Likely, they couldn't or didn't have anywhere else to go. Like a low-income family trapped in a high-crime neighborhood.
After investigating the tide pools and playing in the waves for several hours, marveling at the starfish, sea anemones, and mussels, we packed up and headed up to the town, stopping at Schwietert's Cones and Candies for ice cream.
Conveniently, a farmer's market was in full swing in the same parking lot we had parked the van in. In addition to a folk duo, the obligatory honey vendor, and a woman selling flavored gin (of course, Elise and I sampled some), we were able to find homemade sweet Italian sausage to fire up for dinner.
We pulled back into our campsite at Nehalem Bay, the kids pulled their scooters out of the back of the van, and set off, just as they had done the day before. The campground consisted of several loops, and the kids enjoyed going around the "small loop" we were parked in and the "big loop" that comprised the entire camping area.
On one of their spins, Clementine and Peter became separated. When they returned to our site, Elise gently reminded Peter it was his responsibility to keep an eye on his little sister. Peter did not take the admonishment well; he stalked off and hid in the tent we had set up for the night.
I didn't think anything of it and continued making dinner. At one point, Elise, who was sitting near the tent, in a folding camp chair near the fire pit, reading, pointed to the tent. I looked up and stepped closer to the tent. I could hear Peter crying inside.
I unzipped the tent and crawled in. I tried to comfort Peter, but he wasn't having it. He told me to go away and pushed me. When I tried to pick him up and pull him closer to me, he unzipped the opposite side of the tent, slithered out, and ran into the woods behind our campsite.
It took me a minute to extricate myself from the slippery nylon tent cocoon, but when I did, I found Peter standing in a small clearing in the woods, near the crooked elbow of a tree branch, arms crossed, crying. I tried to pull him close again, but he resisted and scampered up the tree and out onto the branch.
"You think I can't get up there?" I asked him.
"You can't even get off the floor!" He spat back venomously.
I leaped into the tree and straddled the branch behind him.
And sat like that for a long time.
Peter hugged the tree, his face buried into its bark. He was silent.
Peter is our sensitive child. He feels deeply, fiercely. In the lead up to our move from Jordan, Elise and I were impressed with how well he was holding up. In previous moves, he had shown the greatest strain; he saw spiders that weren't there when we moved from India.
But before we left the hotel room in Everett, we discovered Pete curled into a ball between the queen-size bed and the wall, sobbing.
"When you were a baby," I started in a low voice, "You were our lighthouse. When your light was shining, I knew everything was going to be okay.
"And when your light was dim, and the clouds rolled in..."
Pete started crying again. I dropped from the tree, reached up and pulled him from the branch, and held him close.
I cried with him.
"I didn't want to leave India, either, Peter," I told him through wracking sobs. "I didn't want to leave my friends there."
He clutched my neck. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you, son."
"Why do we have to go and leave our friends?"
I didn't have an answer.
No comments:
Post a Comment