Posts Tagged ‘olympic mountains’
36 Foot Ketch on Puget Sound
36 Foot Ketch on Puget Sound
Before discussing the sailboat, worth identifying are the mountain peaks in the background. These peaks are the higher two peaks of the southern end of the Olympic Mountains of Washington State, a peninsula. First is Mount Ellinor, elevation 5,924 feet (1,805 meters), and to its right is a higher Mount Washington, elevation 6,259 feet (1,908 meters). I used these mountain peaks as an opportunity for a backdrop in order to achieve an enhanced composition for when a boat would pass by. I was rewarded when this beautiful twin-mast sailor with clipper-style hull indeed arrived! This boat, a beautiful sailing ketch, glided smoothly past on the sailing position known as a reach – with wind hitting its port beam. A number (“36”) clearly visible below the peak of the mainsail indicates the length the boat.
“Spirit of Columbia” – Puget Sound and Olympic Mountains
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| April 2009 | |
“Spirit of Columbia” off Shilshole, Seattle. Peaks of the Olympic Mountains in background.
Seattle
The Spirit of Columbia is a smaller cruise vessel operated by CruiseWest.com which cruises Prince William Sound’s (Alaska) back channels, bays and wilderness islands. She has a bow ramp, which, in combination with a shallow draft, allows the ship to disembark passengers onto shores in wild areas without ports.
Specifications: Built in 1979 and refurbished in 1995 for service with CruiseWest.com. She is 97 tons, her length is 143 feet. She features 37 cabins, 4 passenger decks, and is manned by 21 crew. Her cruising speed is 10 knots. She is able to perform bow landings.
See: pbase.com
When Did This Happen? 5 – There’s Something Happening Here
5 THERE’S SOMETHING HAPPENING HERE
“Gotta get down to it, soldiers are cutting us down, should’a been done long ago.” There was something significant happening here I felt. It was in my first year of college when these lyrics of Buffalo Springfield echoed across the beautiful campus of evergreen trees which was only a few miles from my hometown.
My dad said I need to take on a trade or something. “You gotta do something,” echoed my dad’s voice, “you gotta start somewhere,” he continued. So I studied forestry, music, aviation, and political science, and photography. A foreign exchange girl from Czechoslovakia got a B in my english-literature class, and she had only been speaking English one year. I got a C, though I made up it later.
I had become caught up in the happenings and the changes that were taking place; the music of the time, the Viet Nam war which appeared to be hobby, and that blue smoke that wafted around nearly every corner of campus buildings. Good, bad, or indifferent, it cannot be denied the 1960’s and 1970’s were really the way they were. It was a very heady period of time.
In the Pacific Northwest the mentality of the late sixties extended well into the seventies. In Washington State, California’s sub-culture, known throughout the country, was delayed and synthesized by a couple of years; the surfing, the clothing, free love, drugs, music, and so on.
This area saw a strange blend of hippies, hunters, four-wheelers, and backpackers. Among these were mountain men who toted guns, carried their lunches in ammo boxes found in the Fort Lewis woods, and smoked pot.
West, about one hundred miles, lies are long sandy beaches making nearly half the Washington coastline. These beaches are a popular destination for graduating seniors from high school. They arrive in droves, driving their second-hand cars up and down the beach having parties in the dunes. I did this too.
In my third day into my time on the beach the afternoon had become dull. Remembering that some kids north of us had a nice camp, I fantasized that their camp would be a great party spot that night. I filled my car up with kids and we started a caravan up to see what was happening. Looking in my rear-view mirror, to my amazement, there were about a hundred cars following me. When we arrived only two kids were sitting there prodding a meager campfire. Mumbling “waste of time,” and other words, all my followers turned around and headed back south.
I worked at a camera store during this time. There I became exposed to the marvelous hobby of photography. It was technical, it was a form of art, it allowed creativity, and in the capacity that I was involved, it was related to business. All these things I enjoyed. I progressed to store manager while immersing myself in the hobby.
Specializing in scenic shots, prompted by my photography hobby, I went more and more into the surrounding wilderness areas. I thought nothing of driving a hundred miles to get an image, climb into a sleeping bag for a night on some un-patrolled land, and then getting back the next morning to work in the shop.
Photography impelled me in a way that I was beginning to see the world differently, through the eye of the lens. I took great pains to eliminate all man-influenced realities from my images; the exception were boats, most which I consider as beautiful; sail, steam, gas, diesel, or man-powered; and surfboards too.
Without the resources to travel to more exotic places, I was limited to roaming the local geographical area in search of shots. Not to complain much, the Pacific Northwest is resplendent in majestic mountains and rugged coastline. But access to excellent shots hard to find. The area is heavily treed and thick with underbrush.
Much of the northern coastline is wilderness. There are few roads that penetrate the rainforest’s thick trees and underbrush. When finally there, it is gray, wet, and the atmosphere is drizzly even in summer. If luck has it, getting to the coast when the sun is out is like seeing a great gem buffed off and realizing its’ grand beauty.
When Did This Happen? 6 – The Coast Highway
6 THE COAST HIGHWAY
Highway 101, the “Coast Highway,” loops around a spectacular mountain range in Washington State called the Olympic Mountains. The Olympics are completely contained within the Olympic Peninsula. A large section of Highway 101 completely encircles the Olympic Peninsula – it is called “The Loop.” Loggers, log truck drivers, lumber mill workers, and forestry management personnel form a significant percentage of the population on the Olympic peninsula. Many of these folk harbor a disdain for outsiders, especially if they ascribe to a lifestyle referred to as “hippy,” and alternatively referenced as “tree-huggers.” In general, those who make their living off the logging industry bear a perception that outsiders are much too interested in protecting the forest, in keeping their homes untouched for viewing only, so outsiders are perceived to be a direct threat to their way of life and livelihood. They have names for these outsiders, especially if the outsiders show up with long hair. Specific names are reserved for these outsiders: “Environmentalists, hippies, tree-huggers,” in addition to other names that are far less considerate.
I wore my hair longer then, and so did my friend Leland. Lee and I were on a weekend out to the Coast Highway, Highway 101 along the ocean, where we were hiking and taking pictures. We got so carried away with our ambitions that we lost track of how time had gone by, and how little gas remained in the tank of our car. In the waning afterglow of the now dead sunset as we were making our way back to a cabin at Ocean Shores, we noticed that the fuel gauge needle was flirting with empty, and our cabin was at least another forty miles away.
It was getting late, very dark, and we were running out of gas. Soon we spied a dimly lit tavern along a rather desolate stretch of road. Much of the length of the Coast Highway is devoid of any buildings, commercial or residential. We pulled into the rocky parking lot of the little tavern in hope of finding out where we could find gasoline. Several people were inside drinking beer and playing pool (billiards). As Lee and I walked in, a big guy stuck out his arm and halted us, pool cue extended. “Can I help you boys?” We had been having fun and suddenly we were quite aware that we entered another realm. Being there made us nervous. We felt we lost control of our situation completely.
The Big Guy’s underlying tone to his question seemed cocky. Was Big Guy a threat to us? Or, was he sincerely considering our wellbeing? Trying hard to maintain the appearance of being comfortable in the situation, I spoke, “Oh, we’re just looking to find some gas so that we can get back to our place.” Big Guy gestured with his stick towards the bar and said, “Glenda can help you.” I silently gulped. He released his hold on us with his cue stick and let us walk past. I took his second gesture to mean he wasn’t interested in messing us up. As we walked further in towards the bar I noticed pairs of eyes focusing on us. I started to think that sending us over to Glenda just might have been a plan to set us up for trouble.
Anyway, we proceeded onward to the bar to express our inquiry about the gas via Glenda who was engaged in juggling drink orders as we asked her about the gas. “Oh yeah, gas, hmm . . . well you can go to ol’ Smitty’s around the corner. He’ll give you gas.” She smiled. Glenda then proceeded to give us instructions to ol’ Smitty’s place. “But,” she advised, “He just might be in bed. It’s late for him. Well, that’s ok, just wake ‘im up! Tap on his window. Smitty will take care of you!” GULP, louder, me thinking further that this was indeed a setup, a trap. My had always up to this point believed most people are essentially good, kind and helpful. But there was that historical exception of a guy who stomped the spokes out on my bicycle at the YMCA, and, oh yeah, somebody also stole my best friend’s brand new bicycle too. But mindful of the risk to some degree, I was still determined to pursue the situation further. What is the meaning of naivety? I shunned it.
Leaving the rocky parking lot, we proceeded down to the end of a long country block, proceeded around a corner, then on to “ol’ Smitty’s house”. No lights were on and we faced a difficult decision: Should we wake this guy up? Or, do we drive off and find some place to sleep for the night? Well, we needed gas! So I asked Lee to come with me around the corner of the house where I assumed Smitty’s bedroom window might be. Taking a quarter I tapped on the window. A man popped up from below the window with a surprised and whitened face. His expression quickly changed in an apparent recognition suggestive of a familiarity with the process.
That night Smitty cheerfully came around and met us at his front porch. He dropped down off his porch steps and led us in the car to an old building on the far side of his house. There in front was an old amber glass gas pump which he powered up and then pumped gas into my car’s thirsty tank. Smitty provided us with more gas than we needed and we dropped some of our meager currency into his hand, thanked him, thanked him again, and left smiling happily then drove off into the night.
While driving that night, God’s moon was shining blue on the fog that caressed the open fields around us. We listened to Neil Young’s song, “Out on the Weekend.” All of that weekend had become a fond memory. “I guess I’ll pack it in and buy a pickup . . . See the lonely boy out on the weekend, tryin’ to make it pay.”
On the back window of the Mustang was a sticker. It was a monochromatic green American flag and it was tagged with, “Ecology Now”. The stars normally on the flag had been replaced with an “E” for “Ecology”. Up to that day I thought that sticker was a “cool” thing to have on my car, but because we were in logging country, it probably was potentially a very reckless monogram to carry. Things could have been different for us, but we felt we were free of danger with no one following us. Perhaps these people in the night, in the wilder places, are good people for the most part.
Pacific Northwest | J R Hudson 