Down the Body, Into the Body

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I wound further toward a most northwesterly point. The highway was littered with debris; rock, sand, dirt, remnants of trees from last week’s storm. I could make out the traces of mudslides in route, the black tarmac stained with the enriched brown of fertile soils. Slowing around each curve along the water, I looked as far ahead round the bend wherein revealed a cleared patch of earth, a deep brown scar clean of green mosses and ferns, or a fallen trunk laying in pieces, now sawed and mangled to keep traffic flowing. To my right the Strait of Juan de Fuca. To my left the Olympic National Forest. Above me, hidden in the branches, the eagles and hawks of the Pacific Northwest. Winding along Highway 112, I was reaching the ends of the earth in search of the sea’s waves.

The route of 112 leads from Port Angeles to Cape Flattery. It is a roadway that curves licentiously along the southern edges of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It enters and exits the Olympic National Forest, and at these borders, it’s plainly obvious.

I took this route with friends over five years ago on our first northwest surfing adventure. Then, the region appeared pristine to our youthful eyes. Trees stretched for miles, and we dreamed of the days and days of backpacking, losing ourselves at will in the wilderness; The Call of the Wild with a pleasant ending. We would imagine bringing our surfboards, our backpacks, our stoves and our minds and leave everything behind. We drove out to these reaches with a fury to experience it all; to become men, real men.

And men we grew into, men with hearts conscious of the world around us. Together we sat in the seas, thick in heavy wetsuits, peeing as much as we could to keep warm. We laughed and informed each other as the liquid in our suits crept up our bodies. A swell would arrive. We paddled, we shouted—we couldn’t but revel in the beauty of our surroundings. Rock croppings stood in the waves, some pillared with a singular pine. Somehow, by some grace, a seed had reached its summit. And over the years, through the storms, the seed sprouted, the sapling flourished, and it grew into the mature tree of today.

In the water we would see these marooned rock islands and hear the sea lions calling at their bases. Eagles would circle in the air, and often a whale would breach on the sea’s horizon. We had heard of bears; surfers’ tales of running for the water sooner than anticipated. It was Nature, rugged as we liked it. And we were surfing her waves, enjoying the time of our lives no matter how cold and how little we had to pee.

But as the years passed, as we took this route and others time and again, things changed. The landscape and its borders became more apparent. And now, today, after the debates and cries for relief among numerous conscious-abiding peoples, I passed stretches of forest decimated. Clearings of trees—complete clearings—where not a sapling remained, were flattened to an ugly graveyard of deforestation. Bark and their splinters were red in the heavy moisture. Minutes prior I had left the National Park’s boundaries.


For miles I drove, witnessing man’s greed for resources. I thought of the oil round the world, and now this; Mother Earth’s skin and her trees. And then I came upon plots of land where groves of pines had been planted. Their dates were indicated on signposts:

LAST HARVESTED: 1976
PLANTED: 1980
NEXT HARVEST: 2030

Nature had become a laboratory, a field to be harvested, replanted, and then harvested again.

What was odd though on this drive and those with companions in the past was the clear indication upon entering and exiting the park system. Clearings would halt abruptly and like a flick of the switch I would enter a forest; daylight to darkness (metaphorically; darkness to daylight). Ancient old-growth sat like aged men. Their beards sagged with moisture, the lime greens and pale pastels of lichen and mosses.

As I drove under their lanky arms, wicked in beautiful knots, large drops of liquid struck the roof of my car as rain fell from their grips. The sound was soothing, the darkness of the foliage enlivening to the imagination, and the inhabitants of this forest—the wise sages and their solemn air—kept an original unique beauty surviving. It fed me. It kept me alive. I breathed the air and it breathed me; its sweetness—pines and cedars. These trees were my lifeline, and remain so today.

Just as abruptly had I entered did I leave. The shades of trees gave way to a seemingly unnatural light as I entered private land to discover another clearing where once these archaic traces of Mother Nature stood cleansing our air. Now their remains; bones of years of growth turned to ash. Like farm-raised sheep, they would be birthed again for the harvest of man in future’s time.

More so then ever, in this year when even the President recognized our addiction to natural resources with his empty words, did I recognize this contrast of pristine Mother Nature along the borders of man’s craving needs. I drove along Highway 112, upon the cracked roads and underneath these stretches of original old-growth, and reveled in the magic of feeling the wild beauty they emitted. Would my child be able to experience this? Would my children’s children?


I continued driving alone, around the curves and bends with the water to my right. A week prior to my departure, a storm struck the northwest knocking out power for one day, often two or three for most distant reaches. High intrusive winds gusted through canopies, reaching a breath of 80 mph. Rain sliced the air and tormented the region’s satiated hillsides. Highway 112 leading out to the most northwesterly point of the lower forty-eight states had been closed, shutting off any ground connection to the rest of the world. Mudslides, roadways gave out, and tumultuous surf broke the barriers and covered man’s pathways.

What lies in this farthest corner is the Makah Indian Nation. Their reservation covers the tip of the Olympic Peninsula where their local neighbor, the National Coast Guard, has its headquarters.

Neah Bay; an old rusted fishing port with few paved roads and gargantuan potholes. As I pulled into town, rain poured in growing pools and fog swept across the Earth’s canvas. It was cold, a desolate town with little care and attention paid by few locals, passer-bys, or officials.

As I headed along the main street, a small wooden market boasted the only life. A dead seagull lied in heaps of feathers on the road. It appeared to have been run over repeatedly for the last two or three days. Boats sat like deadweight near their docks while few remained marooned on the rocky shores. The last time I had passed through was over a year ago. The hulls’ familiar scars have been little repaired.

At the end of town was a log. It appeared to have the only growth, momentum. It was freshly stripped, possibly recovered from the prior storm. Lying by the side of the road, it was suspended in the air by two benches on opposite ends. And as I drove passed, I saw an axe sticking out from the wood and piles of fresh cuts and shavings splintered by its sides. A totem pole. And at this sight, I was given a sensation of pride. It was a sense of sympathy mixed with this pride toward a people who have been shoveled to the rugged pits of our habitation. Whether the heats of a New Mexico desert, an Ohio plain, or this very northern corner of Western United States, reservations were installed and a family of people were ordered to relocate. No matter how many years have passed, no matter how many events have occurred on top of this singular act, they remain where a government has left them, and they remain (despite how diluted) with a culture. A totem pole was being resurrected; a trace surviving in the puddles of man’s modern torrent.

I reached the Pacific Coast shortly after and came to the sands of Shi Shi Beach. There before me, sheltered in the heated confines of my mud-splattered vehicle, a blown-out massacre lay in the waters. Waves rolled in the sea with fury, approaching from every direction; crashing without form, without grace. Peaks and sections, which in the past might have lined up on a good day, now beat one another at every angle. My surfboard lay behind me, behind me in a lonesome and eager state. A three-hour drive led to nothing, and would remain so on this day.

But it was one day out of many to come. I was in route on Day One, driving from Cape Flattery, the most northwesterly point of the lower forty-eight, heading down to their southern reaches where family and friends awaited. The Pacific had many reefs, many coves and bays where her swells might reach some order as I pass their break.

I turned around, drove two hours back to the junction with Highway 101, and there continued my journey down the Pacific, her body to my right. Together, with my board, music, and the silent musings of my mind, I contemplated the hours in meditation, passing the works of humanity and the life we live with one another. I discovered the sea’s waves not only on her littorals, despite how rocky or how sandy she could be, but reached the point within where the seas softened and broke with a consistent state of adventure. Each wave was new, and each bend along 101 or California’s Hwy 1 offered a new perspective into the wonder of Mother Earth. Each brought me to the end, and subsequently to a new beginning. This surf was what I had first sought to discover, and all along, it was within me; in front, behind, on all sides, below and above. I was now riding the sea as it moved through me, down her body, into her body. No longer was a board, wheels, or a thought necessary. I was the vehicle.

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Photos

Air Fuel
Certain fuels to keep you going don't cost a dime.

Comments

[Susan]

Welcome home...
Welcome home, dear fellow traveler. I look forward to great conversations in digesting our experiences and rejoicing in our blessings. ...with love from fellow traveler, Susan

[Becky Stracener]

Cameron, your photography is just beautiful. You have a special gift. Thanks for sharing the beauty of the world with us. Becky