Wandering and wishing

Just when you're about to step out onto the wide expanse of beach with the cliffs on one side and the little old building that used to house the lightkeepers just below them, with the waves curling at your feet and the eagles swooping overhead, you spot it. A little black sign with unfriendly white letters: Posted. No trespassing. Keep out.

And you stop with a start. Are they kidding? The beach? Is private?

So you look for another way to enter the rock-strewn beach and walk along the bay, only to find more unfriendly black signs with white letters.

And when you do find a little community park close to the water, there is no access to the beach because the bridge for some reason that also defies logic ends before it gets to the sand spit and the tangle of weeds is impenetrable.

And you're surprised. And disappointed.

And when you finally find access to the beach that seems legal, you're not sure how far you can walk without being accused of infringing on someone else's turf.

And you say to yourself: This never happened in Oregon.

And then you remember hearing about an Oregon governor -- long before you started walking on Oregon beaches -- who made all of Oregon's coastline public. And you wish that maybe Washington's governor would do the same.

On the way

It's not just when you get there that you see interesting sights.


Sometimes it's along the way.




While heading out to Forks, Washington for a photography workshop last month, I came across these scenes.

Some required a detour. But detours often payoff.





Maybe that's why you hear all that talk about joy in the journey. Maybe getting there is just as fun as being there.

I am not making this up

It had been two years since I'd last stayed in Forks, Washington for a photography workshop.

Little about the quiet lumber town had changed, despite its new-found fame.

Only one specialty store.

And the signs.

The marquee at our motel, the Olympic Suites Inn, read, "Edward Cullen didn't sleep here."

I arrived on a Friday afternoon. It was, incredibly, the day of the local blood drive.

At the high school.