The Northwest, Day 4: Into the Trees

I mentioned this was the furthest north either of us had ever gone. The closest I'd been previously was a drive from Northridge up to Bend, Oregon, where the slow transition of endless California cow country to blankets of green trees was like entering a different world.

In Washington, we'd descended to the middle of a forest planet. Being circled by such ancient, dense forest was oddly humbling. This was their land, the land of the trees, and in their infinite kingdom the first transpacific nomads were allowed to move around and hunt for fish and hang their hammocks. Seattle is a mighty city, but a ten minute drive outward reveals it to be just a cluster of toadstools nestled in the foliage.

​On a human Tuesday this tree kingdom was veiled in morning mists and about its perennial business.

Snoqualmie Falls

A small park, a growing roar, and a shroud of mist preceded the falls.

The journey to the plunge pool was a descent into the green dendritic soul of the Earth.

The bones of progress pierce the mountain, rust- and lichen-crusted and half-buried by the ages.

The deeper you wander, the stronger the moss.

The moss makes the region completely alien from the California treelands I've been through, and I discovered I love the aesthetic.

Soon you reach the crystalline water and walk along the wet, rocky shore. The Earth's splendor runs through you as swiftly as a stream between stones.

The river calls you upstream, and passerby are few and far between.

A railed wooden deck provides the closest view of the fall. To the left are tablets describing the amazing history of hydroelectric power, and every inch of the deck is inscribed with the sentimental runes of affected visitors.

Snoqualmie was every bit the Lothlórien of the Northwest I'd hoped to find, opaque and verdant and emanate of the ancient history of the region.

Speaking of which, we found a Native American casino on the way back. This also was magical. A massive resort of high quality and effluent hospitality. The cafe was our ostensible destination, and it was the best cafe food I've ever had. Carrying the tradition of water dispensers in bars, all non-alcoholic drinks were free.

I felt obliged to make a contribution to the tribe via the roulette wheel.

When we got back to the hotel, at last, I found the other integral feature of the region I'd come to see.

So naturally it was time to turn up. My search for the underground music scene had led us on many unexpected paths, but this night I found what must be a sure thing: the local DnB weekly at the Baltic Room.

Little record of this exists, but we showed them how it's done.

The DJ closed with the classics, and then we walked on back to the hotel. But wonders never cease in this well-lit megaplace.

We beheld a scene of industrial largeness beyond the mind's ability to grasp.

A city of dizzying skylines, and always the cranes are building the towers higher.

We were accosted by distrustful night-dwelling gigantas.

Around this time, which was like 3 a.m., we questioned how long this walk home was really taking, and discovered that our Google maps were giving us conflicting directions. Even the maps aren't safe from the Emerald City's sprites of mischief.

And then we found a pet hotel with a sidewalk-facing glass wall, and were overcome with the fathoming of it. Eventually the dogs noticed us and came to yap and fret at their window. We probably spent 30 minutes here. It was nuts.

Eventually we spotted the Space Needle poking up behind buildings, and were able to follow it back to the La Quinta. I can't say I recommend a multi-hour city hike after a DnB night after a casino trip after a day hike, but the sleep was good.