North Cascades by Camper Van, Part Two - All the Mosquitos in all the Forests

The five of us fit in the camper van now, but that won't always be the case. As it was, two years ago, Elise, Clementine,  and I slept three across in the bottom of the van, while Sam and Peter shared the upper bunk in the pop-top. "Hanna Hanna" was configured a little differently than the van we had two years ago. A cabinet in the rear of the lower berth made it too tight a squeeze to revisit the same sleeping arrangements we had before. This time, Sam, Peter, and Clementine would share the down below. Even so, we had to put one of the bags under Clementine so she could stretch across the pullout bench seat and one of 5he captains chairs. That gave Elise and I free reign of the upper bunk. 

We were joined the next day -- and for the rest of the trip, save the very last night we would again spend on Whidbey Island -- by Elise's brother and his wife and their two-year old son, Danny, the kid's cousin. They had only recently been introduced to Danny, but they took to each other quickly. 

We met them at a Starbucks in Burlington,  right off I-5, before heading to Rasar State Park on the banks of the Skagit River. 

When we pulled into the park, we were greeted by towering pines and psithurism, the sound of the wind moving through trees, a word that comes from the Greek word 'psithuros' meaning 'whispering'. When I stepped out of the van, I was met by a light, but steady shower of pine needles; they would soon cover everything.  

We were also met by the largest mosquitos I'd ever seen in my life. Their presence was alarming at first -- Elise, Clementine, and I had all come down with dengue at some point this spring. We had to consciously remind ourselves these were not dengue-carrying mosquitos, and as numerous as they were, they were not dangerous. Their number made me think of the number of stars in the universe or the number of grains of sand on all the world's beaches. 

It was July 4, and the calm of psithurism would soon be replaced by the thunderous boom of fireworks filling the valley. Darkness comes late this far north, and the fireworks waited until the sun set and the violet and peach dusk faded, lying in wait on the other side of the terminator between day and night. Knowing they were there -- that small children, men, women, and boys stand by tauntingly, lighter or flame in hand, just waiting to light the wick and set the night ablaze -- may be enough to fill anyone with a sense of existential dread. It was like we awaited an ambush. Frankly, after the pandemic year we’ve just been through — and given the looming uncertainty of the future — who can’t relate? Elise and I laid awake in our bunk as the night exploded around us. When it did come, we weren't afraid of the sound.  Eventually, we would found sleep. 

The next day, we took the boys down the Skagit to dip their lines into the river. The boys stood on the sandy banks while Clementine built sand castles at their feet. The line sails through the air, and, for a split second the sun catches the filament, and you can see the line in the river, connecting the boy to the river, attaching him to something bigger than himself, deep and swift, and cold.

North Cascades by Camper Van, Part One - The Montana Monstrosity

We had two days to kill after leaving Bellingham and before picking up the camper van. We spent two nights at Loge in Westport, WA, the site of our first night in the camper van from our trip two years ago down the Oregon coast.

Loge is an old roadside motel cum surf camp. The old roadside motel has been painted over in Pacific ocean greys with aquamarine trim. There is a coffee bar and communal firepit surrounded by covered berths for campers and tents. A stage under white backyard lights was empty this go-around where it played host to a bluegrass band two summers ago, pre-Covid. 

We walked the docks of the marina downtown, had fish and chips for dinner. 

We drove down to the beach one day, a wide stretch of grey, grey sand, grey water, and grey sky. The lack of contrast played tricks on your eyes. I had no depth perception and felt a little like the small girl in Poltergeist, sitting in front of the snow on the television set. A piece of driftwood or a dog running down the never-ending swath of grayness stood out in stark relief, an object to consume all your attention in a sea of negative space and white visual noise. 

We watched the surfers bounce in the knee-high swells. The boys were a little envious, despite the bone chilling sea temps. Two dozen black wetsuits wrestled with shortboards in the grey foam, yet we only saw one or two surfers actually catch a small wave, a far cry from the surfing we have become accustomed to in Sri Lanka. (On the other side of the jetty, massive mounds of deep blue water swelled, but never broke.) 

After some time, Sam could contain himself no longer, stripped down to his swim trubks, and threw himself at Neptune's feet, the crash of the icy Pacific slamming him in the chest as he gave himself over wholly to the call of the briny deep. The ocean in the Pacific Northwest is a frigid partner, yet the cleansing properties of cold  saltwater still can purify and, for that, still can tempt. For lack of sunlight, it would take Sam a long time to warm up from that swim.

The kids explored makeshift driftwood shelters for hours, and I was reminded we had no camper van to retreat to. Last time we were here, we had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the van after the beach, fine sand like talcum powder in between our toes. 

We made our way back to Seattle the next day. We traded in our rental car for the keys to "Hanna Hanna", our homestead, our covered wagon, our trusty steed for the week. She previously went by "Hamma Hamma", but was recently purchased by a young  woman named Hanna. In anticipation of our borrowing her for the week, the fine folks at Peace Vans redubbed her "Hanna Hanna" just for us. 

We pulled out of Peace Vans and headed north, Elise at the wheel (Elise was kind enough to chauffeur the entire trip; my driver's license had expired during the last year stuck overseas). 

Our first campsite was at Fort Casey State Park on Whidbey Island. We had to take the ferry from Mukilteo to get there. 

The campground was next to the ferry terminal taking travelers further west to Port Townsend. We were woken the next morning by a low, deep moan carrying over Puget Sound. Yet, we could see nothing through the thick mist that had enveloped the campground. A foghorn? The guttural howl of some creature from the bottom? The intermittent groan persisted. We had no idea what it was until the fog gradually lifted and we could see just see the dull outline of the ferry moving offshore, a giant kraken pulling itself through the water. 

Elise and I were both astounded (and, honestly, a little shocked and embarrassed) by the size of some people's motorized homes. One of the things I love most about the camper van is everything I love most in life fits inside it. It is a VW Eurovan, not large, but big enough to my wife, my kids, a cooler, my running shoes, and a few duffels of clothes. And that's it. If the world crumbled away beneath us and we lost everything else, we would still have everything we need. 

The owners of the Montana Monstrosity parked in the campsite next to us likely felt the same way. I just don't feel the need to bring a big screen TV and leather recliner camping with me. Yes, it would be nice to treat ourselves to a hot shower at the end of a long day, but there is also something to he said for bathing in a cold spigot. 

"My Name is Jeff!"

Back when the kids were in school -- eons ago, now -- Peter and his friend Ryan worked together on a story. I don't even remember now what the story was about. I only remember the protagonist of the story was named Jeff who spoke with a wavering Southern accent, something between Tarzan's ululations and the incomprehensible caterwauling of an injured drunkard.  Think Bobcat Goldthwaite. I only remember this detail because Peter will still exclaim out of nowhere, "My name is Jeff!" in the same accent, though, clearly, his name is not Jeff.

After an extended stay in Cheney -- a delightfully relaxing period marked by cool morning runs and trips to Zips for burgers, crinkle fries with tartar sauce, and marshmallow milkshakes. 

Peter spent one morning with his grandfather watching planes land and take off at Felts Field over a breakfast of French toast and sausage links. They slipped and slid in the backyard  and even pulled out their two-year old cousin's pirate ship-themed wading pool.

We ate tacos at our favorite cantina in Spokane (twice), went for a hike on Spokane Mountain, went to Clear Lake to fish for trout (many times), and Elise and I even volunteered to pass out Gatorade an aid station on the bicycle route of the Ironman triathlon in Couer d'Alene.

Sadly, our stay in Cheney had come to an end. We said goodbye to the grandparents and headed west to Bellingham. 

We stayed three nights in an A-frame cabin among the towering pines in Sudden Valley. We left the grandparents' on a 100+ degree day. When we arrived in Bellingham, there, too, record highs scorched the extreme upper left of the continental USA. Our cabin didn't have AC. The kids put their pajamas in the freezer before putting them on to cool themselves off before going to bed.. We stayed up until 11:00 waiting for it to cool down, then eventually slept on the floor to avoid the heat. 

To cool off, we set out for a hike from Lake Whatcom Park to fish and for a dip in the lake. 

The only reason I mention the phrase at the start, is -- as you are looking through these photos -- you have to imagine Peter blurting out at any given moment, "My name is Jeff!"

Which only begets more hilarity from Peter when we actually meet someone named Jeff. 

Peter Eats an Oyster