Whidbey Island New Years Eve bash

On the morning of our New Years Eve visit to Whidbey Island, my friend texted, “Are you sure you still want to go? It’s going to rain.” But when does it ever not rain, drizzle, sprinkle, or mist in the Pacific Northwest? The 40-mile long island can be reached both over land or by ferry from Mukilteo or Port Townsend. The Mukilteo ferry terminal had been open for a whopping two days the day of our trip and is a sight to see on its own. Bedecked in fragrant cedar and traditional Salish carvings with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the sparkling Puget Sound it feels more welcoming and comforting than your average transit center. And not only is it seismically sound, it’s also LEED certified silver! (This has been your transit nerd interlude. Thank you for your patience). 

Generally I plan the pants off of any trip but since this outing was not my idea, I restrained myself to only a couple of hours of googling. Interestingly, my horoscope for the day said to make an effort to do some serious planning. And it may have been right; I had no cell service over much of the Island and my friend’s intentions were literally “drive around and see what there is to see.” I’m sure she didn’t realize that the island was quite as big as it is.

Seema looked up a few potential places to grab food and we settled on Pickles in Clinton for egg sandwiches. Unfortunately they did not serve breakfast after 11 (and were a little snippety about it!) so we went next door to Bagel Factory. As I’m from New York and Seema is a Jersey girl we were a little hesitant to try WA bagels - after all they haven’t mastered pizza here yet - but I swear on our East Coast cred that these were serviceable, particularly after toasting.

Our next stop was South Whidbey State Park. As a State Park, visitors must have a $30 Discover Pass or risk a ticket. This fee was enacted in 2011 to cover what used to be funded through taxes. There is some discussion of ending the fee as it negatively impacts visitorship but legislators are also considering using taxes to ease homelessness or to offer free diapers. (This has been your government functionary nerd interlude.) Evidently this funding has not been extended to repairing the beach access trail. Instead we set out along the Wilbert Trail to see some of the old growth cedar trees that had been protected from harvest by Whidbey residents. Seema thought that the trail was creepy but I enjoyed skipping along calling out “interpretative signage!” and learning interesting factoids over its 1.5 mile length. 

Next we pressed on to Deception Pass on the northernmost end of the island. Pro tip: gas is very very cheap on the island. Deception Pass State Park is the most visited Park in Washington state second only to Rainier Park. The main attraction at the park is the coastline along where Skagit bay connects with the strait of San Juan de Fuca. And you could see why: by this time a thick fog had settled in a luminous mist over the driftwood strewn beach. 

The more popular trail runs along a cliff parallel to the beach towards the bridge across the pass, the site of many a tragic happening. The water underneath the bridge can reach 6 to 10 miles an hour with tidal flows so small crafts are warned away. Several desperate people have used this difficulty of navigation and rescue to commit suicide off the bridge. For this reason the bridge, like a surprising number of places on Whidbey island, is said to be haunted. it is a strange juxtaposition as it is one of the most photographed places in the state and has a stark beauty to it. Our short hike was uneventful and fantasma-less and only at the end did Seema reveal that she had not actually planned to hike that day. 

Whidbey island is also famous for food (particularly oysters) and wine. I can't comment on either as I cannot eat raw seafood or drink red wine but I did obtain some excellent cider and saw evidence of many many many delicious pies at Whidbey Pies. (We skipped a pie purchase because we had eaten way too much pirates booty on our rambles.)

Then instead of continuing to drive Northeast and meet up with Interstate 5 for a free trip back to Seattle we drove aaaaall the way back down the island to pay an arm and a leg for the ferry again because I did not listen to my horoscope.

Rowing on the Charles River

How I long to be on the water again. To feel the wind against my back. To see the “Brutalist” buildings of Harvard, the leafy green trees, and the runners in neon whizzing by in a blur. I exaggerate of course as I have never moved fast enough under my own power to blur something. To hear the bells of the bicycles, the insistent honking of cars and, rarely, a train rumbling across the bridges overhead. I miss seeing the herons in flight and the cormorants bobbing on the water - their golden beaks looking surprisingly friendly to spite their jet black bodies. I have been known to greet them as I pass. I even miss the sight of the setting sun burning into my eyes as I squint my eyes half closed hoping against hope that I don't hit anything as tears stream down my face. I miss the feeling of passing under the stone bridges and how the water becomes suddenly still, the air ten degrees cooler, and the splashing sounds echoing around me. I miss the feeling of my muscles working together. From my feet to my calves to my quads then abdominal muscles, back, and arms -- for that is the way you are to row. “Legs back arms. Arms, back legs.” we chant. I even miss the pain as the oars bite into my tender hands beginning another season of building calluses. I miss the splash of the water. The sound of the oars dipping under the surface and whooshing towards the front of the boat. Although to be honest I'm not quite strong enough to whoosh. What’s weaker than a whoosh? A swish? I even miss the smell of the stagnant river, the cars’ exhaust, and the diesel fumes of the passing trains. I miss the feeling of breathing hard and my heart beating fast - particularly when I fear that the ferry will crash into me or when I see dark ominous thunderclouds gathering overhead. I miss the sound of the fisherman yelling at me for I have tangled my boat into his line. The water from my bottle stored in a sock at my feet tastes clean and clear - no matter the film of bluegreen algae water clinging to the lip of the Nalgene. Hasn’t killed me yet. I miss the tinny electronic boom of the coach’s megaphone telling me that I should probably move faster.

And all you would have seen, as you walk across the University Bridge is a woman in neon pink, ponytail pulled through a ratty black hat skimming smoothly across the water of the Charles River in a bright red rowing shell. Whoosh, swish. But maybe she would greet you too.