The Wet

It began in Neah Bay, Washington, in the campground by that beach– the one with logs stuck in the sand to look like totem poles and rearing elk, and driftwood like whales rolling one-eyed towards the sun in currents of sand. Rain. Rain all day. Rain dead set on showing off its repertoire, from drips to sloshing bucketfuls tipped over by the wind. Continue reading



When we rolled into our campsite outside of Forks, Washington last night, the temperate rainforest weather was doing what it does best– dumping rain like a sonofabitch. Continue reading

The Lotto

“I can’t stand the hustle and bustle,” Wes said, the westerly ocean wind ruffling the wisps of white hair spilling from under his battered baseball cap and over the broken collar of his plaid shirt. I’d watched him start a roaring fire in a constant downpour in that shirt, tending to the splayed and cedar-skewered Coho salmon like a helicopter dad. The plaid shirt (and the Makah t-shirt underneath, depicting a proud, stylized thunderbird with a the gift of a whale in its talons) were still miraculously dry. If it could be said that a dark cloud hangs over those with a sour disposition, then Wes (though salty as the Pacific), seemed to exist under the perpetual shelter of an old growth cedar. In our layers of fleece and rain gear, my students and I looked like the wastefully over-packaged pieces of fruit one finds in Hong Kong grocery stores, and the cold wet still seeped in. Continue reading