To drive for the joy of driving.

Of riding.

Of feeling tires on asphalt.

Driving through Olympic National Park. Drawing is from Port Angeles campground at the base of the mountains.

Rolling. Rolling.


A sea of trees rising and falling.

Sunlight appearing. Disappearing.

Light and color dance in and out of shadow.


The hum of the road.

The joy of the moment.

The satisfaction of miles behind.

The anticipation of adventure ahead.


Astoria – Forks – Beaver – Cape Flattery

Sol Duc – Lake Crescent – Port Angeles



at 35,000 feet.

Of life lived,

living and unlived,

opportunities and ideas

that play hide and seek

like mountains dancing

between the clouds

of friendships

and love.

Of lives played out

in hours, days and years,

related and consumed in gulps.

And the hours, days and years

go on

until they stop.

And the gulps are no more

until memories, like souls,

rise above the clouds.


No music this year.

No Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Alice.

Instead, the rhythmic

Leaving Olympic National Park, driving along its eastern edge along the Hood Canal opposite Kitsap Peninsula

meditative hum of

tires on pavement.

Bait and Tackle.

Guns and Ammo.



Discarded boats wedged between tree stumps.

Hulls fed upon like carrion

dissolving under the weight of the sun

with no water to coax them back to life.

Around and around.

Mile after mile

we follow the shape of the shore

and trace memories in our minds.