Month: May 2024

Robert Earl is correct.  And his bafflement is quite reasonable: “I understand why lizards live in sunny Arizona.  Why people do and call it home I’ll never understand.”  Our friend Jeff from No Drama calls it the “pizza oven.”   Those folks—generally southerners or midwesterners—who snark dismissively that “It’s a dry heat” ignore the fact that at 115° it doesn’t matter if you’re in a sauna or a barbecue grill; either way, it’s damn hot.  The point is, through the miracle of evolutionary biology, thirty years of Phoenix summers caused epigenetic advancement of our GTFOH genes.  So last Saturday we loaded up the U-Haul trailer that shouldn’t have been necessary but was and after three days and a 50° temperature drop arrived back at Pleasant Harbor.  Phoenix will be above our pain threshold until at least September, which works out great because we have lots of new stuff to explore.*

The plan is to spend Memorial Day weekend in our own slip, so as to avoid patronizing all the places that don’t have room for us anyway.  Rather than just sit around all week, however, we decided to hop down to Alderbrook for a couple of days.

Before leaving yesterday morning, there was just enough time to squeeze in a quick drone flight.  Maybe shoot some cool video of the harbor.  An artsy aerial photo of Tumbleweed against a scenic Olympic Range backdrop will be awesome.  Nope.  One brief moment of inattention later, the last transmission from our trusty Mavic 2 told the sad story from high and inside the pine tree that will serve as a final resting place.

Unlike what history books know as the St. Johnsville Incident of ’18, neither Brent nor Chief Weaver were around to help.  Unlike when our lives unexpectedly intersected with Alabama drone murderers, we can’t even hold a proper funeral.**  Although the controller generally told us where to look, we couldn’t identify the actual tree in a literal forest of them, and also lack the equipment that would be necessary for Dana to climb a hundred or so feet up the tree if we could.

All we really know is that our baby is all alone up in these trees someplace.

The good news is that every year, we both struggle to identify appropriate birthday presents for the other one.  This year for Doug?  Problem solved!  Doug doesn’t need to start a GoFundMe.  In fact, there’s a defensible argument that losing the drone was a grand gesture, with Dana as the primary beneficiary.  Either way, there’s a shiny new Mavic 3 Pro waiting for us at the Best Buy in Olympia.***

Then out to the Hood Canal, which isn’t a canal at all.  It’s a fjord.

Along the way we passed Lilliwaup, this time by boat.  We note this because Lilliwaup is a fun word to say, and to warn readers that the Lilliwaup General Store doesn’t carry bananas so if you want bananas don’t stop there when you’re driving up U.S. 101.  They also won’t allow disappointed people who stop for bananas to use their restroom.

Now about Alderbrook, where Tumbleweed sat all alone beneath what we’re about 75% certain is Mt. Washington but are about 100% certain isn’t the Mt. Washington in New Hampshire where we earned the coveted “This car climbed Mt. Washington” bumper sticker when we were doing the Down East Circle.

Alderbrook—located in the tiny town of Union—dates back to 1913 if you trust the resort website, or to 1920 if you trust Wikipedia, which we don’t.

The property came up for sale in 1998, and a consortium of Microsoft guys—including Bill Gates (who apparently had not yet amassed more money than God)—tried to buy it but were outbid by Christa Ministries.  Oddly, it took Christa Ministries three full years to realize what should’ve been immediately obvious: trying to attract paying visitors to a religious joint that bans fun—and alcohol—is financially sketchy at best.  In 2001 the Christa folks sold Alderbrook to the heathens who put a full range of cocktails and wine on the menu at the restaurant where we enjoyed a delicious dinner last evening.  Supposedly Gates owns several homes in Union, but we couldn’t confirm this tidbit and saw nothing palatial enough to justify a photograph, although we did pass a compound guarded by three gates, which possibly isn’t a coincidence.

What we did see was the Dalby Water Wheel.  Built by Ed Dalby either eleven or four years after Alderbrook’s doors opened, the wheel harnessed the power of Dalby Creek—which we also assume was named for Ed—and delivered electricity to several area homes until the 1940s.

As an aside, years ago Doug bought a 40-inch diameter water wheel, an adjustable-flow pump, gears, piping, and clockworks, for the purpose of building what would’ve been an incredibly accurate water clock if it had gone together the way it looked in his head.

Nearby sits the Union Skyhouse, which the Airbnb website claims is “historical” and “iconic.”  Big whoop.

The target time for posting this episode was after returning from a delicious dinner in town at Hook & Fork, a happening spot “showcasing a rotating menu of . . . local food and drink created by Hook & Fork Chef, Sara Harvey.”  Except shortly after 4, we discovered that Hook & Fork and its rotating menu closed at 4.  Grrrr.  Maybe we can stop by tomorrow before heading back up to Pleasant Harbor and the Forest of Death.

But wait!  Dana instead bumbled us into one of the coolest places possible.  Thursday is open mic night at Hood Canalé!  Where we ate lemony shrimpy goat cheesy pizza that sounds gross but is amazing.  And the music deal is that professional musicians in the area drop by to play exactly three songs before the next act steps up.

Everybody knew everybody, except for us, of course.  However, Doug’s new buddy Scott filled us in about all things musical on the Hood Canal.  Absolutely fantastic.  Chef Sara Harvey can choke on it.

Tomorrow, back to Pleasant Harbor, and then to points beyond.

We know it’s a lame little trip, but here’s this post’s route anyway.

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*If the mileage sign is correct, with magically unlimited fuel and a couple of courage transplants we could be in Tokyo Bay by July.  Probably not gonna happen.

**Apparently using the word “foolproof” in the Alabama blog post—to describe the obstacle-avoidance features on the now recently deceased Mavic 2 Pro—was unwarranted.

***“Hey now,” some might say.  “Doug generously helped Dana identify the perfect gift for his birthday.  Dana’s birthday also is coming up soon.  What has she done to make selecting a gift easy for him?”  Fair question, but no worries.  Scarcely six hours after the drone disaster, Dana broke her $20 hair dryer . . ..   Turns out we’re both givers.

First things first.  With a little help from the good people of Olympia, the early birthday gift exchange went flawlessly.  Dana’s dryer came in the bigger box, of course, but since Doug is the bigger person it all evened out.

Second things second.  After Alderbrook, the short trip up to our slip at Pleasant Harbor took us past the drone-eating tree on the shore.  During Doug’s chat with Dwight and Jana—co-Commodores of the yacht club who were relaxing on the deck of their boat Grace—he learned that Gordon—another club member—had a dock over there.  Gordon invited Doug to search.  Since we’ve read The Boys in the Boat and thus consider ourselves experts, Doug took Grace’s rowboat across the harbor to where the trees were tall, and unclimbable, and unreachable, and fairly menacing.*  No drone rescue was possible, and the wind and current made the return to Grace decidedly ungraceful.  But at least we tried.

Not much excitement in Pleasant Harbor, mostly because for three days the brief moments of sunlight quickly retreated behind gray clouds full of drizzle.  The Hama Hama Oyster Saloon, however, did welcome us in for grilled-cheese sandwiches and spicy tomato soup.  Delicious.  No oysters for us.  Very cool little spot.**

Brinnon’s Fjord Fest also lured us out of Tumbleweed’s dry warmth, mostly because Hood Canal Spot Prawns only are available for a few days per year and we didn’t want to miss them.  Plus it seemed like a fitting continental bookend to go along with the Jekyll Island Shrimp and Grits Festival we enjoyed less than seven months ago.  Would’ve been much better without the rain and cold, of course, but we ended up with a pound of fresh prawns—which is what we intended—and a candle, salsa spice, cupcakes, and a t-shirt—none of which we intended.

The resident Pleasant Harbor harbor seal has been elusive but Dana finally snagged him.  Or her.

Monday morning, off to Port Townsend.   We don’t plan to be back to our slip in Brinnon until September or October.

Mostly the scenery was just okay, but when compared to scenery out of an office window it was fantastic.

Hey, is that a dragon on the beach?  Yup.  But not just any old dragon.  It’s the famous Hood Head driftwood dragon, which in some form or another has been around for at least thirty years.  If anybody knows who created it, they haven’t shared the info on the internet.

Remember the North Carolina munitions depot on the Cape Fear River at Sunny Point?  Naval Magazine Indian Island is the west coast equivalent.  Apparently this joint saw significant action reloading the Pacific Fleet during WWII, what with Japan—as we previously noted—being less than a month away at Tumbleweed speed.  “Big Blue” is the largest container crane used by the Department of Defense.  Here Big Blue is loading some secret whatnots onto USNS Richard E. Byrd, a Lewis and Clark-class Replenishment Vessel.

Then on in to Port Townsend.

Port Townsend originally was “Port Townshend” when George Vancouver named it in 1792.  At some point after becoming a bustling seaport, however, the townsfolk dropped the “h,” possibly because it served no purpose and possibly because they tired of having to return mis-delivered packages intended for legendary British guitarist Pete Townshend, who is almost as old as the town.

Port Townsend is full of aging red brick buildings with faded signs, serving as reminders of the halcyon days of yore when Bull Durham tobacco was the best for at least three generations.***

And here we pause the blog post for a short story, which could’ve been penned by Melville or Hemingway but wasn’t.

Okay, that admittedly was stupid.  Maybe rain-induced cabin fever made us a bit loopy.  But a California sea lion did clamber up on the dock Tuesday morning and roared at a seagull, and the marina dudes did chase it away because they didn’t want a colony moving in.

Wednesday brought a few hours of glorious sunshine, which we enjoyed while walking to “historic uptown.”  Along the way, up popped stately Victorian homes that somehow survived the ravages of time.  Starrett House, for example, has been around since 1889, which coincidentally was the same year Washington joined the Union as the 42nd state and just six years after Tim McGraw and Faith Hill buried Elsa at what would become the Yellowstone Ranch.

Starrett House reminds us of that time we almost bought the bed & breakfast & marina in Reedsville, Virginia, but Brent and Karen weren’t willing to help us run it, so we didn’t.

Overseeing “historic downtown” since 1890, “the last remaining wooden fire bell tower in the United States” sits high atop the bluff.  Telegraph wires connected the 1,500 lb. brass bell to alarm boxes sprinkled around town.  The view certainly would’ve allowed a watchful watchman to see smoke and flames from the town below.

Port Townsend occupies what once were the ancestral homelands of the Chimakum, Hoh, and other assorted native tribes.  Artifacts from the original homes and gardens surfaced when the town dug out the sports field just down the way.  One of those tribes gave the town a totem pole, however, so apparently all is forgiven.

Here’s another cool thing about Port Townsend: it’s either the start or finish of at least two awesome races.  Starting at 7:00 pm tomorrow, the Seventy48 gets underway in Tacoma.  Ends in Port Townsend exactly 48 hours later, with boats racing the seventy miles.  The only rule is that all boats must be human powered.  No motors or sails.  We’ve not only read the book but also seen The Boys in the Boat on a big screen—and just a few paragraphs ago Doug got in some excellent practice—so obviously we’d have a sizable advantage were we to enter.  Luckily for the other teams we can’t leave Sammy alone for two days.

The Race to Alaska starting horn will blow at 5 am on June 9.  750 miles from Port Townsend to Ketchikan.  No support, and no resupplying other than what can be scrounged along the way.  Winner gets $10,000.  Second place gets steak knives.  That’s it.  There’s a documentary on Amazon about R2AK—as those in the know call it—which shows what happens after the racers leave the same marina where we’re safely tied up.  Terrifying.

The most important thing about Port Townsend, however, is that Dana was able to dry her hair and Doug was able to master the latest DJI advances.

Today was chore day.  Yuck.  Port Townsend is a cool enough town with some awesome eateries we enjoyed, but tomorrow we’re heading to Everett.  J.R.’s little brother Bobby—who ended up as president of Ewing Oil and as co-owner of Southfork after Miss Ellie died—was from Everett.  So was Mike Price, Alabama’s head football coach until canoodling with strippers he paid with a university credit card got him fired.  Who knew that place had standards?

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* The Highwaymen song about Michael rowing the boat ashore to find green pastures and milk and honey on the other side rattled around Doug’s head for the next 48 hours.  Hallelujah?  Not so much.

** The Hama Hama Oyster Saloon is located in the Hamma Hamma area of the Olympic Peninsula.  Double “m.”  We of course asked the nice lady working the cash register why the company dropped one of them.  In a transparent attempt to make us look foolish, she said that the original owners didn’t want to pay for the cost of extra letters on the staff shirts.  The place opened in 1922, however, well before logowear became a thing.  She must’ve thought we were Florida fans.

*** “Your shower shoes have fungus on ’em.  You’ll never make it to the Bigs with fungus on your shower shoes.  Think classy, you’ll be classy.  If you win 20 in the Show, you can let the fungus grow back on your shower shoes and the press will think you’re colorful.  Until you win 20 in the Show, it means you’re a slob.”  — Crash Davis