Mark had an evaluation to do on the Olympic Peninsula so we packed up Karma and used the occasion for a brief vacation at La Place Sur La Mer, a lovely retreat right on the beach 8 miles west of Port Angeles on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The last name of the owner of the retreat is Lapin, which in French means "rabbit," a motif decoratively expressed in every nook and cranny of the house, arguably to excess. Motifs have a way of doing that, I think, if hearts are any example in my own life. Anyhow, as the putative Bunny of the family I immediately felt particularly at home, although the only bunny that I truly identified with was this giant one contemplating (or so I imagine) a crystal ball.
But wait a minute. Do bunnies seek to know the future? Certainly not I. So perhaps it's a transparent moon. Bunnies and the moon have a particular affinity, as you can learn by reading here.
We stayed in the "Suite Chocolat," which Mark particularly liked since it included a king-size Tempurpedic bed similar to the one we have at home (don't leave home without it). The "chocolat" reference appeared only to relate to the drapes and the rich chocolate satin comforter, which truly did appear chocolatey enough to eat. No edible chocolates in the vicinity, however - an unfortunate oversight. It reminded me of the childhood joke of dreaming of marshmallows and then waking up to discover you ate your pillow. Luckily, I suppose, I didn't eat the chocolate comforter.
Our bed faced a wall of large windows looking out at the ocean, and by afternoon the views were positively... um, pacific.
The mornings, however, were unseasonably cold and overcast; the sea, the shore, and the sky a hovering ghost. Each morning the intrepid Karma and I nonetheless took off exploring...
... discovering a driftwood hut so charming we contemplated moving in.
Or at least one of us did.
It was even furnished inside: a bench to sit or a recline on, and the occasional stone for decoration. I did have some reservations about the insulation, however, and suspect it's rather drafty on a windy day.
Despite the general grayness of the morning landscape (or perhaps because of it), I was quite surprised to encounter such bold (and largely unidentifiable) spots of color.
I include the photo of my toes not only because they were a colorful contrast to all the grey but as a reminder to self NOT to wear Fitflops on a rocky beach hike. I was lucky I didn't break my ankle in those silly things.
I particularly delighted in these luminous golden sea kelp orbs. They looked as if they were each holding all the light of the sun in their glistening selves until the sun itself could take over the task.
By afternoon the landscape was a palette of brilliant blues with only the shore hinting at the duller attire of morning.
Even Mark was eventually persuaded to relax and bask in the view.
As always I was drawn to the trees, and these in particular caught my attention. Many of them were Douglas Firs, which under normal circumstances could grow to be almost 400 feet high, like the ones in the front yard of La Place.
On the windswept beaches, however, they are utterly thwarted in their efforts to attain height and instead grow at odd angles laterally, making for some lovely little arbors.
Later in the day we headed up to Hurricane Ridge, first stopping for a jaunt in the Olympic forest with Karma.
The trail descended deeply into the woods...
...and despite the generally precipitous footing and fallen trees, was thoughtfully appointed with sturdy steps where needed.
On a footbridge overlooking a burbling creek as dusk descended, I spied a heart (don't I always?) which Mark was able to capture on his iPhone as proof that I am not making this up.
At the end of our little hike we continued on the seventeen-mile winding road up to Hurricane Ridge. The route was its own reward, with overlay after overlay of spectacular mountain ridges on the left...
... and less spectacular but nonetheless charming vistas on the right. I particularly loved seeing these mountain flowers grow out of the rock face. How do they flourish in this setting? It seems an apt metaphor for what we sometimes need to do in life: blossom where we're planted, however seemingly inhospitable the circumstances might be. Note the benign expression of the half a face on the right side of the rock face. Sorry I didn't catch the whole visage.
It was only after taking the photo that I noticed another of the rock face views offered the hint of a heart-shape. All right, so only the barest of hints, but they're everywhere, I tell you.
The views at the top of the drive on Hurricane Ridge were, as always, breathtaking...
... and the multitudes of deer posed obligingly. At least this one did.
As did these two, now that I think about it, at La Place Sur La Mer, although for obviously different reasons.
We did not pursue further hiking and exploring of the Hurricane Ridge trails, having been warned about, of all things, dangerous goats (!)...
... along with the fact that technically speaking pets were not allowed on the trails anyhow. Even leashed. It was still a long hour before sunset, but we caught a presentiment of its glory...
...and then returned to La Place, gasping in awe at the views in between grumbling about pointless park regulations regarding harmless pets when they evidently permit killer goats.
The next morning it was time to head back home. I offered my thanks to our brief abode and dismantled the little altar I always find myself creating in the places we stay on our travels.
Despite our (ignorant, as it turns out) bias that Port Angeles was a backwater sort of town we were desperate for a cup of joe and luckily Mark had espied a fine and funky coffee shop, the Blackbird...
...with a social conscience that could humble 'Bucks.
Plus it had a very interesting and improbably comfortable piece of woodwork...
...with a charming little story attached to it.
From the back view you could see the red cedar trunk in all its raw original beauty, which made the polished carved front even more striking.
This contrast between the old and the new was also interestingly expressed at the harbor end of Port Angeles. A mural depicting what was once "Port Angeles"...
... and is Port Angeles today stood in striking contrast.
A sand art competition appeared to have just begun on the beach, and we can only speculate as to what this particular sculpture would eventually be. I don't know about you, but I think the the sculpture looks like it could bite in a serious way, whatever it is. It was probably better that we didn't stick around to find out.
I was really struck by the mural above depicting the Native Americans and what was their land - their source of work and sustenance in the not-so-far past - contrasted with the idle play of that same stretch of shore in the present. Like this hapless octopus, so much of the breathing, vital, primitive land and its inhabitants, having been displaced or used or decimated, is now blithely commemorated in murals, museums, and sculpture, the beaches and parks so thougthfully tamed.
May the past forgive us.
T. S. Eliot wrote about how we often "have the experience but miss the meaning." Writing a blog post of our trips seems to be a way of creating meaning, giving narrative, and I take great pleasure from it. But I've also been trying to understand the vague discomfort I often feel in the face of the ubiquitous animal sculptures I encounter. The living, breathing being, now imprisoned in stone or wood, ceramic or metal. It occurs to me that even writing this blog is equivalent to taking the living moment and attempting to capture it, contain (and thereby perhaps constrain) it. Supplanting physical reality with a virtual one. On the other hand, there are those moments when those seeming dualities - past and present, real and virtual - converge, inseparable, their betrayals forgivable, or so I hope. Is the heron below a living being or an artful copy? I take consolation in how difficult it is to tell.
On our way out of Port Angeles we cracked up happening upon this particular restaurant.
It was with some relief we discovered its fare was not eponymous and the problem was simply an unfortunately placed street pole.
Perhaps that was what the Laughing Buddha back at La Place Sur La Mer was getting such a chuckle out of.
From there we headed back home, our own little paradise. It felt like we had been gone for a week rather than a mere two days. Getting away from routines, even ones that you choose, can be like that. Time expanded and deepened. It was lovely. Wish you were there. Glad you are here.
