The North Cascades and an Old Playmate

Route

Thursday, October 29th. We drove through downtown Winthrop in the morning, an old Western town blanketed in last night’s hard frost. It’s lined with wood-built storefronts, some still wearing their original names like the Farmer's State Bank. This feels like what mountain life used to be. And maybe what it should still be today.

The Virginian kept it simple: two full beds, a couple of lamps, and a bolt-on plastic shower that was clearly added long after the wooden cabins were built. If you want an honest, no-frills roadside bed, that's the spot.

For breakfast, we hit Rocking Horse Bakery. Their light-as-air, oven-fresh cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting were worth the stop last night alone. The espresso machine was down, so drip coffee it was, plus a chorizo breakfast burrito for the road.

Climbing the North Cascades Highway, we passed a mountainside scarred by an old fire, bare except for one ravine where a line of yellow trees climbed the slope like a golden ladder.

Walls of towering, pencil-straight pines lined the drive. Douglas firs, it turns out. I had no idea they got that big. Near the coast, they can top 300 feet, second only to the redwoods.

Why have the Cascades been hiding from me all this time? The top was a chilly 25F winter wonderland, with clouds wrapped around the granite giants. I pulled over at nearly every turnout. We were bumping the soundtrack from A Star Is Born, some Lane 8, and Taylor Swift, having ourselves a storybook-style morning.

The highway itself is young. It only opened in 1972, and it still closes every winter when the state finally gives in to Mother Nature's repeated snowstorms.

A few miles past the crest, moss began creeping up the firs. We'd crossed onto the wet side of the Cascades, and you could feel it. Fog hung in pockets over the road, lichen latched to the granite, and the air warmed to well above freezing as we descended.

We took a long break at Diablo Lake. I took my calls and ate, Rhea explored a bit, and then we both napped with the glorious Northern Cascades in the background.

From there, the Skagit River runs all the way down to sea level, so it was a long, slow descent on the brakes, through tunnels cut in the granite, with power lines from the dams following us down. Lower in the valley, our route morphed into a Halloween haunted-house drive. Big bare maple trees with moss-covered trunks, and caterpillar webs bunched in their crowns like the fake cobwebs we hang back home. Spooky in the best way, two days before Halloween.

Coming down Route 530, the trees formed a 200-foot tunnel, twice as tall as the oaks back home. No wonder timber is such a prominent industry in the Pacific Northwest. Right on cue, a lumber mill appeared. Trees were stacked high, the air smelled of fresh-cut wood, and a boiler next door burned sawdust and bark for power.

Then we hit a gray and drizzly I-5 for our route into Seattle. Right off the highway, I saw two people dressed for what I assumed was a Halloween party. Nope. Just a casual Thursday for them. Welcome to Seattle.

Steinbeck reached Seattle in mid-October 1960 and barely recognized it: "The highways eight lanes wide cut like glaciers through the uneasy land." And: "The traffic rushed with murderous intensity." He'd recognize I-5.

We're staying with Steve and Laura, my old next-door neighbors from Venice Beach. Their first dog, Camper, a little older than Rhea, was her playmate in our alley then. They've since added Gus, a big Swiss Mountain dog and a total mush.

We met Steve at the Ballard Locks to reintroduce the pups. He called Rhea's name from the car, and she cocked her head: who knows my name? When he emerged, she bounded right over to him, so happy she peed a little. Then tore off on a round of zoomies. She and Camper picked up right where they left off, and Gus, twice her size and a sweetheart, won her over in minutes.

It was raining, so we kept it short and headed back to the house to get Rhea. Then Steve, Rhea, and I drove to downtown Ballard. It reminded me of the nice parts of Brooklyn. Brick sidewalks and intersections, everything thoughtfully laid out, with the old shipping docks and fishing boats just down the hill. We hit MacLeod's Scottish Pub on a corner for authentic fish and chips and good beer, while Rhea slept in the truck.

Laura was away in Vegas, so we called it an early night. With a light rain, Seattle welcomed us right in.

Rhea

Rhea wouldn't touch her breakfast. She gets it into her head sometimes that I'm about to leave her, and she just waited by the door while I packed. At least two duck jerky treats put something in her stomach.

I-5 was her roughest hour of the trip. I gave her the homeopathics before we hit the highway, and I think she knew exactly what that meant. She started pacing and shaking. I raised my voice to get her to lie down, which only made it worse. I felt terrible. So we pulled over, got out, and I gave her a different calming dose with some chamomile. An empty stomach probably didn't help; all she'd had was jerky and a bully stick. Poor girl.

A few hours later, she was doing zoomies with her old alley buddy.