A mother and daughter sit at a countertop in a bar facing out to the quiet street. They are drinking oat milk hot chocolates. It's 9pm in a quiet coastal town of Washington state. Few passersby walk in solidarity past the window going to unknown destinations. After leaving the city of Portland, Oregon where tents on the streets outnumber pedestrians, I am curious to see what Washington is like. I roll through sleepy towns feeling like a haunt, I'm there but not really. I spend the night in a fishing village where it seems people don't sleep. At midnight the neighbors on both sides are speaking in pitches meant for the day. At 4am when I slip out, a woman sits perched on her porch with a cigarette hanging lazily from her lips, staring out into the dark while a baby cries out of sight. As I drive, windows emit a soft glow, and I can see shapes moving behind closed curtains. At a gas station, my only company are men with hardhats and headlamps, pumping diesel into banged up trucks. Last night when I was procrastinating sleep, I did a google search on this town. "Only move here if you want to pick up a new heroin habit," someone on Reddit says. Many other comments say the same. Harsh, Reddit. An hour away in both directions are some of the most beautiful parts of North America; the northwestern coastline and the temperate rainforest in Olympic National Park. When there is so much immense beauty, the darker parts of a place are either rendered invisible, or become glaringly more apparent. What causes one to look past the dark underbelly versus seeing it with more clarity?
When I see Cannon Beach I cry. Those rocks were the dreamy goal of this whole adventure, and the many miles it took me to get here made it all the sweeter. I want to touch the big rocks in the water that look like ships, but just like ships, their grandness terrifies me. Instead, I stare at them intently, trying to absorb their presence while I still can. Families, couples, and singles walk down the beach towards the rocks. Some people try to get too close and get reprimanded by the volunteers that are advocating for aquatic life nesting in the rocks. I feel as if I can't see anything else but those rocks. They are the obvious main characters of the show. The volunteers are protecting the supporting actors, no, more like the stage crew. The small aquatic creatures nesting among the smaller rocks are not what people came all this way to see. No, they get squished under blundstones and squeaky Portland-style combat boots while people's gaze is focused up not down. When the beauty is too immense, the grandness paralyzes oneself, like becoming caught in the heart-pounding moment of saying "I love you" for the first time.
Nothing will make you understand the plight of the Lorax more than a drive through the forest in the Pacific Northwest. I thought Douglas Firs were massive in the West's Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem, but then I saw them growing to outrageous proportions both laterally and lengthwise out here, and I nearly lost my mind. In upstate Washington right outside of Olympic National Park, I drive through Olympic National Forest. The distinction between the National Park Service and the Forest Service is clear when you drive through one to go into the other. As I enter the forest, I start to see the trees seemingly thinning out. Light seeps through their branches horizontally, which when you spend some time in the PNW forests, you know they are so dense with plantlife that hardly any light comes through. The light that does penetrate in shimmering, foggy rays. Alas, there seemed to be a meadow or field of sorts just beyond sight. I soon realized that this was not the case. Stumps four feet by four appeared by the thousands. Trees that reached nearly one thousand years old no longer stood their ground, and only their base remained as evidence that they were even there. At that moment I wasn't thinking about the ethics and policies behind deforestation and resource management, all I could think about was how sad I was that those ancient trees weren't growing anymore.
In Seattle I can't stop thinking about death. When I lived outside of Boston, I used to be a speed demon on the roads. I zipped around cars fearlessly like the rest of my road-rage compadres. Now, I set my car to cruise control on the speed limit, sometimes 5 mph under. In Seattle I white-knuckle the wheel, clench my jaw, and focus on my end destination: pizza. I am diverting an hour into Seattle to buy a pizza. After subsisting off of pistachios and cereal for the past couple days, I am ready for a warm meal. Just a few hours ago I was sitting atop a peak by Lake Crescent, and now I am fearing for my life on the freeway. I think about how I got to this point. How did exposed cliffs start to feel comfortable and freeways start to feel like suicide? I suppose much of it is about mitigating risks, and control. When I climb I can control to a certain extent what happens, (check the weather, bring appropriate gear, have buddies), but on the road it seems like I am putting my life in the hands of hundreds of people who I do not know. The highway feels like a racetrack but I'm in no hurry to get to the finish line. Instead, I wish I was back in the safety of the quiet forest where one can pretend like there is no darkness except the pitch black of the forest at night.
As I drive back east, dense forests turn into sagebrush flats, and the steady horizon starts to be a constant in my vision once again. I am struck by all the beauty I have seen, but also how many shadows exist in the same places. It reminds me a lot of my home in one of the wealthiest counties in the United States, which also happens to have the largest income gap as well. The struggling working class and alcoholism of mountain town culture is often invisible to a visiting tourist because of the backdrop of a breathtaking National Park.I wonder what shadows I missed on my trip to the Pacific Northwest. Shadows should not be ignored. They are what adds depth to a place. Lingering in the light is necessary, but exploring the shadows of all places and things is essential for understanding this complex world that we live in.