Waking up to the neighbor singing Nirvana “Come as you are, as you were…” is a particular joy for me. Not only do I enjoy the music, but it conjures images of angsty teenage Kurt Cobain growing up in Aberdeen, Washington, which brings to mind a trip with Brian passing through Aberdeen.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015, Brian and I woke up at our bed and breakfast in Forks, Washington, situated between Olympic National Forest and the Quileute Indian Reservation, which has embraced being the fictional location of the Twilight series, complete with a vampire threat level sign at the entrance. The day before we had a glorious hike in the Hoh Rainforest. On the edge of tourist season, the rain was sufficient to keep out most tourists, but light enough that hiking felt other-worldly, walking amidst the ancient moss covered trees and bright green giant ferns glistening with raindrops. We awoke to another delicious breakfast from our host, a retired HomeEc teacher (I can imagine her as a HomeEc teacher, instructing students on cooking, sewing, and being good homemakers). She had graciously dried our wet gear from the day before, so we set out in dry jackets to get them wet again. We packed the cooler for lunch and headed south, toward home having completed our loop around the Olympic Peninsula. I had made us a reservation to stay in a yurt at a state park about 30 minutes south of Aberdeen, Washington. We had planned to stop and hike again, but not long into the drive, we realized how lucky we had been with the rain in prior days, because today it beat down something fierce. We decided not to hike and Brian kept driving south, focusing all of his attention on the road, because it was almost hard to see. Progress was slow but steady.
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Wednesday, March 25, 2015, Brian and I woke up at our bed and breakfast in Forks, Washington, situated between Olympic National Forest and the Quileute Indian Reservation, which has embraced being the fictional location of the Twilight series, complete with a vampire threat level sign at the entrance. The day before we had a glorious hike in the Hoh Rainforest. On the edge of tourist season, the rain was sufficient to keep out most tourists, but light enough that hiking felt other-worldly, walking amidst the ancient moss covered trees and bright green giant ferns glistening with raindrops. We awoke to another delicious breakfast from our host, a retired HomeEc teacher (I can imagine her as a HomeEc teacher, instructing students on cooking, sewing, and being good homemakers). She had graciously dried our wet gear from the day before, so we set out in dry jackets to get them wet again. We packed the cooler for lunch and headed south, toward home having completed our loop around the Olympic Peninsula. I had made us a reservation to stay in a yurt at a state park about 30 minutes south of Aberdeen, Washington. We had planned to stop and hike again, but not long into the drive, we realized how lucky we had been with the rain in prior days, because today it beat down something fierce. We decided not to hike and Brian kept driving south, focusing all of his attention on the road, because it was almost hard to see. Progress was slow but steady.
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Getting close to Aberdeen, we started to look for places we could stop to make lunch with coverage to protect us from the torrential rain as we would have to get into the covered truck bed for the cooler. Giving up on that notion and googling for restaurants not revealing much more than fast food, we stopped at the tourist center in Aberdeen, making a mad dash to the door in the rain. After suggesting the typical things and noting our mood, the staffer went off-script and explained how to get to a tap house for lunch and a local distillery for a tasting. We then proceeded to drive in circles looking for this “tap house” in the 4ish blocks of downtown Aberdeen. Thinking we might have better luck on foot, we parked and went to the address we had. Turns out that we had been searching for an old Subway sandwich shop in a strip of storefronts. The hangry disposition wore off as we indulged in their quality food and had a local beer. Moving on we found the Wishkah River Distillery for a light tasting, which still has the best gin (I don’t even like gin!) and honey Vodka (a sipping vodka?!), I’ve ever had. Between our stops and getting lost, it seems like we saw the entire town, population 16,896. Having been a teenager in a small town in rural Missouri, I can picture young Kurt Cobain hanging out under the bridge. Everything, even the gas station, closed by 10pm on a Friday. My dad was right, “Nothing good happens after midnight.”
With the edge of the day’s drive almost worn off, we carried on to the park and our stop for the night. Unloading the truck, we discovered that the truck bed cover we originally purchased for our cross-country move to Oregon in 2009 was no longer entirely waterproof. The torrential downpour was too much for it and our sleep bags varied from soaking to uncomfortably damp on account of their spiraled packing. The yurt consisted of a wood frame, wrapped in vinyl, a heater, a light, beds with vinyl-covered mattresses, but no bedding. I started googling nearby laundromats (none appeared) and hotels. I called the only two lodging options near us asking if we could use their dryer (uh, no) and if they knew of a laundromat. They sent us to the nearest town, 15 minutes away, there is one laundromat on the (only) road through town. We loaded back up and headed to the laundromat, arriving at 5:05. They closed at 5pm. The doors were locked. We tried the store in town, but the closest thing to bedding was a beach towel. A gas station attendant gave directions to another laundromat down the road near the trailer park. We got to the end of the road, saw nothing. Another gas station attendant sent us back down the other way with specific directions - before the yellow building, turn right. Eureka! A laundromat in the RV park open until 9pm…every day…except Wednesday. It was still Wednesday. Damn. The door was locked and no one would answer the door at the office. By now we’re getting hungry again and our options are dwindling; Aberdeen laundromats weren’t likely to be open at this point, we do have a heater, would a motel be worth the money?
Twice we had driven by a big barn-looking building at the intersection to turn into town, Bog Water Brewing & Cranberry Road Winery. It looked inviting. I suggested we go for a beer and see what we want to do at the end of that. Luckily, they were still open for another 40 minutes. We walked in to the empty, yet cozy, tasting room with beautiful wood tables and the bartender watching Gladiator on the large flat-screen, mounted on the wall at the end of the bar. His casual manner in turning off the TV and how he later spoke of the business makes me think he was more than a bartender, maybe part-owner. We ordered a drink and when asked how we were, I told him the truth and described our sleeping bag escapade. Nodding, he walked in the back. He returned and said their dryer wasn’t hooked up yet due to their current state of remodeling, but “Where are you staying?” He then, to our surprise, offered to take the bags home once he closes up (he lives about a mile away), dry them, and bring them to us. Astounded by his generosity, he explained that is one of the reasons he moved away from San Francisco to live in this rural coastal area: life is slower and people take care of each other. He was simply abiding by local culture and norms and wouldn’t take any payment or accept our offer to drive back to collect the dry gear ourselves. He took our number and our wet sleeping bags. We finished our drinks, bought a bottle of his cranberry wine and a commemorative Bog Water Brewing pint glass, and were out the door. He closed up early, pulling out behind us and, about 40 minutes later, showed up with warm, freshly dried sleeping bags. A 30 second exchange and he was on his way, seemingly unfazed by the fact he just made our day. We feasted on our cooler food for dinner and snuggled into the most glorious sleeping bags. Nirvana.
With the edge of the day’s drive almost worn off, we carried on to the park and our stop for the night. Unloading the truck, we discovered that the truck bed cover we originally purchased for our cross-country move to Oregon in 2009 was no longer entirely waterproof. The torrential downpour was too much for it and our sleep bags varied from soaking to uncomfortably damp on account of their spiraled packing. The yurt consisted of a wood frame, wrapped in vinyl, a heater, a light, beds with vinyl-covered mattresses, but no bedding. I started googling nearby laundromats (none appeared) and hotels. I called the only two lodging options near us asking if we could use their dryer (uh, no) and if they knew of a laundromat. They sent us to the nearest town, 15 minutes away, there is one laundromat on the (only) road through town. We loaded back up and headed to the laundromat, arriving at 5:05. They closed at 5pm. The doors were locked. We tried the store in town, but the closest thing to bedding was a beach towel. A gas station attendant gave directions to another laundromat down the road near the trailer park. We got to the end of the road, saw nothing. Another gas station attendant sent us back down the other way with specific directions - before the yellow building, turn right. Eureka! A laundromat in the RV park open until 9pm…every day…except Wednesday. It was still Wednesday. Damn. The door was locked and no one would answer the door at the office. By now we’re getting hungry again and our options are dwindling; Aberdeen laundromats weren’t likely to be open at this point, we do have a heater, would a motel be worth the money?
Twice we had driven by a big barn-looking building at the intersection to turn into town, Bog Water Brewing & Cranberry Road Winery. It looked inviting. I suggested we go for a beer and see what we want to do at the end of that. Luckily, they were still open for another 40 minutes. We walked in to the empty, yet cozy, tasting room with beautiful wood tables and the bartender watching Gladiator on the large flat-screen, mounted on the wall at the end of the bar. His casual manner in turning off the TV and how he later spoke of the business makes me think he was more than a bartender, maybe part-owner. We ordered a drink and when asked how we were, I told him the truth and described our sleeping bag escapade. Nodding, he walked in the back. He returned and said their dryer wasn’t hooked up yet due to their current state of remodeling, but “Where are you staying?” He then, to our surprise, offered to take the bags home once he closes up (he lives about a mile away), dry them, and bring them to us. Astounded by his generosity, he explained that is one of the reasons he moved away from San Francisco to live in this rural coastal area: life is slower and people take care of each other. He was simply abiding by local culture and norms and wouldn’t take any payment or accept our offer to drive back to collect the dry gear ourselves. He took our number and our wet sleeping bags. We finished our drinks, bought a bottle of his cranberry wine and a commemorative Bog Water Brewing pint glass, and were out the door. He closed up early, pulling out behind us and, about 40 minutes later, showed up with warm, freshly dried sleeping bags. A 30 second exchange and he was on his way, seemingly unfazed by the fact he just made our day. We feasted on our cooler food for dinner and snuggled into the most glorious sleeping bags. Nirvana.