The Rascal Diaries: 7/714 A Ferry Tale

At the end of the continent, the spidery arms of the Pacific reached out to us and we jumped in.

As we bid goodbye to our furry rabbit friends, the sun came through the trees, promising another exemplary day. Our first route of the day, 530, took us west. In Darrington we stopped for groceries. The deli clerk was a biker also, and she said she'd ridden many places, but there's none as beautiful as her hometown. Awed by the snow covered Whitehorse Mountain that stands sentinel over this small logging village, we had to agree with her.

The small town of Oso, bedecked with memorials and yellow ribbons, puzzled me until I recalled the horrific mudslide this spring that took 43 lives. Just out of town we were stopped for construction at the site of the catastrophe. Total devastation lines the newly constructed road, as workers still pick through the debris. Bowing our heads, we traveled on in silence.

At Arlington we started south paralleling the coast. We took a short hop on "the 5", jammed with Seattle traffic, then off at Mukilteo to give Rascal her first ferry ride. As we covered the short distance to Whidbey Island, the fog that had chilled us lifted and it was clear sailing into the Puget Sound. On the ferries, the bikes have the privilege of driving on first, so we were the first to roar off the gangplank. How important we felt!

Once away from the water, all insular feeling was gone as we headed north through towns and farmland. Picking up Route 20 again, we rode toward the Port Townsend Ferry. This leg of the highway completes the Cascades Loop. Two years ago we followed the northern route, taking 20 all the way. We came full circle at the ferry, deciding that our former trek through the north was the better.

A longer cruise to Port Townsend gave us the chance to explore the boat and stand on the upper deck, turning our faces into the sun and wind. Sailboats scooted by us, throwing small wakes that were swallowed by the ferry's churning water. Mt. Pilchuk loomed ethereally on the horizon welcoming us back to shore.

Off the boat, we scooted through Port Townsend, a trendy little tourist trap, and headed west along the strait of Juan de Fuca. We rode in a temperature upheaval as the water from the strait drove it down in the sixties and raised goosebumps. Then, when we veered into the land, our gauge jumped to 80.

Landing in Port Angeles, we slept with a view of the water, as huge ships also rested for the night and gulls sang our lullaby. For the span of a few hours today, I was a princess, Jules was a prince and Rascal was our noble steed as we lived a real-life Ferry Tale.