Olympic Peninsula, Part 3

Nobody says anything about the hair. Nobody.

I had decided that it was time to push on and, after taking advantage of the Port Townsend hostel's free breakfast, I was off again, setting my sights on the rain forest where I had also visited nineteen years ago. Oddly enough, I couldn't recall just how long it actually had taken to get there on my last trip, but everything, including time, seems intensified on a motorcycle, so what I easily could have believed to have taken an hour ended up, in the end, taking closer to three.

The view from the road.

After riding through an incredible lake-side twist and turn, I pulled into the town of Forks. Yes, that Forks, made famous as the setting for Stephenie Myer's Twilight series. What little I know of them (sorry, Twilight fans, I haven't bitten the bullet and read them yet), I do know that part of the premise is that the vampires in the books chose that area because of the constant cloud cover, protecting them from the sun. I had to laugh to myself, because that is exactly the weather I had been experiencing almost the entire time on the peninsula; constant, heavy clouds that blanketed the sky. It was a good thing, because otherwise I may have started to glitter a little myself (OK, maybe I know a little more about all this then I should, but I do work with teenagers, you know...).

Eat your heart out, Twilight fans!



Alright, I guess there would be a business in town that references the movie.

OK, really?

After being inundated by all things Twilight (and a quick stop in the Forks Motel parking lot to pick up some free wi-fi on my netbook), I drove the remaining 25 miles to the Rainforest Hostel, ultimately my destination for this leg of the trip.

As I pulled up to the hostel, it was not at all what I expected. Tucked into a small clearing in what would otherwise have been forest, a tiny house stood, not well kept and haphazardly decorated with flags from every conceivable nation, and a half-worn, hand-written sign calling for an end to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan tacked to the entrance. Fifteen rusted out old Subaru station wagons were arranged throughout the property, and for a moment I thought I had the wrong address.

The owner, Jim, whom I had had a brief conversation with the day before to confirm that there was room for me, stood out front, talking with a German family that had just arrived. Immediately, without even a hello, he looked at me and said, "You don't look anything like I imagined you on the phone." The observation seemed odd for a first meeting, but I smiled and laughed it off, allowing him to show me around.

The house was cluttered, with piles of books, maps, papers, fishing equipment, firewood, and things I had yet to recognize covering most all of the living room and dining room. It had a somewhat musty smell, not surprising for an area that gets so much rain, but the 70s decor revealed that updates, or even general repairs, for that matter, had not been done for some time. I was confused, as it looked like we were sitting in the midst of Jim's own home, and since I didn't see any other buildings on the property, I didn't understand where I was going to be staying. After paying him his twenty dollars (I had told him on the phone that I was staying for two nights), I was ushered through a door that led to the garage, but instead of finding a vehicle, I found that there were several bunks that had been pushed up against the walls of what was clearly a makeshift dorm room. And when he showed me the bathroom in the house, it was then very clear; we were staying in Jim's own home.

Garage... dorm room... what's the dif?

I have certainly stayed in far worse places in my travels over the years (perhaps not more unusual, but certainly not worse), and for ten dollars a night, it would suit my needs. My host, though, was still a bit of a mystery. He displayed none of the graciousness a hostel owner usually projects, instead finding every opportunity to engage us in serious discussions of how our government, the "military-industrial complex" is trying to control us and restrict our freedom - not the freedom we usually associate with discussions of government, but what Jim considered real freedom; the freedom of the mind.

Interesting thoughts, to be sure, and I was more than willing to engage him in discussion about it, but I was far more interested in him as a person; not just the ideas that clearly sat permanently at the forefront of his thoughts. I was finally able to ask him questions about how he found himself in this place, and when he divulged a relationship that had ended years ago, I saw a completely different side to him. Talking about government domination gave him his bearings, his center; but speaking about losing love made him just as vulnerable as the rest of us, and suddenly he didn't seem like some sort of crackpot holed up in a compound deep in the woods; he seemed human.

He was deeply involved with the native cultures of the area; fascinated by there stories, their myths, their relationship to the land. In many ways it seemed that his being there had as much to do with getting in touch with that as it did with getting away from a society that he neither approved of or needed. He enjoyed fishing, and I glanced several times at a picture of him on the wall as a younger man, fully decked out in fishing attire at the edge of a river, smiling with his prize catch in his hands. In some ways, though, it looked nothing like the man before me, and I wondered when that change had taken place; I don't remember seeing him smile once the entire time I was there.

I enjoyed my stay that evening, having the opportunity to talk with another group staying at the hostel; a father and son from Oregon who were bicycling from Vancouver, British Columbia all the way to San Francisco, California. When we all finally retired for the night I slept well, and after the bicycling duo headed out the next morning, I had every intention of taking it easy that day, leisurely exploring the rain forest for pictures and video. But a discussion with Jim about Native American rituals forced me to reconsider my plans. There was a Native American ceremony taking place on the other side of the peninsula, close to where I had originally gotten off the ferry, linked to an annual series of boat rides that bring together almost 150 traditionally made canoes from all over the islands and mainlands of both Washington State and British Columbia. Almost 50 of the boats were converging in Suquamish, right on the banks of the Pugent Sound, and Jim thought it was important for me to be there.

I did, too.

With little hesitation I made up my mind, switching from packing for the day to packing for good. I said my goodbyes to Jim, and after a handshake and a hug, he pulled out two five dollar bills, returning the money that would have gone towards the second night's stay. I thanked him, somewhat embarrassed at taking back such a small amount of money. When he asked me if I knew where I was going, I said "No, but I'm going to get there." He nodded his head, and perhaps borrowing from some of the native wisdom he had collected over the years, responded, " Then you're where you should be."

As I pulled out on the bike, he stood outside of the front entrance, waving to me as I drove off.