Don’t Just Take a Picture
As a young, solo, female van dweller
I have gotten to explore beautiful places both on the frequently traveled path, as well as the single tracks less traveled.
While conservationists, engineers, and explorers discovered the beautiful wonders of the United States, they designed and built roadways that work with the land, not against it. Some mountainous passes create the perfect distance between human and nature to encourage conservation and protection, yet enable travelers to conveniently immerse themselves in an expansive vista without hiking into a forest. In my experience, the easy access also enables me to make more stops by spending less time at each overlook. And sometimes, I don’t even have to get out of the van.
As I have gotten older and social media has continued to develop, I have noticed people taking and sharing a lot more travel photos on various platforms. With access to brilliant handheld technology, we are enabled to capture amazing high-quality photos more than ever before. Venturing through National Forests and Parks this summer has me noticing that people will see a view and take a picture, but hardly ever take the time to actually gaze.
While traveling through Washington State, I had a profound experience that created an impact that will forever change my traveling practices.
It was a clear, bluebird day and the warm sun was shining down on us.
Rudy and I were headed to Sol Duc campground in Olympic National Park from Port Townsend. As we followed the GPS, I saw a few signs that signaled for the National Park Visitor Center. The most unique quality of this Park is the way it is spread out across the peninsula. Some sections are in the mountains, rainforest, and on the coastline but are separated by national forests and sacred indian reservations. This visitor center was only 1 mile out of the way, so I figured I should stop to get a map, educate myself and locate the dog friendly beaches.
I connected with a ranger upon my arrival and unloaded a dozen questions on him. During that time, I overheard at least four other people ask about the distance to Hurricane Ridge from the ranger station. It was only 17 miles and would take about 30 min.
As to my knowledge, clear conditions are fairly rare in this part of the country. Often the sky is littered with clouds and fog making it difficult to see the far-reaching views.
Although I was heading to the western side of the Olympic peninsula two and a half hours away, I thought to myself, “when am I going to come back here next? And when I am back will it be this clear?”
The latter question was what got me, so I went for it.
Listening to funky music with the windows down, my dog and I cruised up the pass. We were surrounded by evergreen trees and wildflowers. A steep cliff climbed up off of the right side of the road. The rocks changed as we ascended toward the summit. The most memorable was a dark chocolate brown rock. The texture appeared similar to when you let brownie batter slowly slide off the spoon and fall into ribbon patterns in the mixing bowl below. It has rounded layers and rocky pieces protruding throughout. Cliffs like this make my head spin. I get over taken with curiosity in how they were formed and how it became the way it is at this moment. I later discovered that this rock is called Pillow Basalt that was extruded from volcanic fissures on the seafloor. On the other side of the road, the slope disappeared and plunged into the green valley below. The valley wove itself through the mountains and down towards the oceanic ports to the north.
After winding 17 miles up, we made it to the main scenic point on Hurricane Ridge. My intention was simply to drive up, briefly check it out and turn back to head to my destination three hours away.
I pulled my van into a parking spot at the top, I hopped out, looked at the mountains for about a minute, took a few awesome pictures and then got back in my van.
As I pulled out and began to make my way out of the visitor parking lot, I saw an older gentleman standing on the edge of the lot. He was wearing khaki from head to toe with a bucket hat to match. With his sunglasses hanging on his neck by his croakies, he held the thinker pose, with one arm across his body holding onto his opposite elbow, while the other hand held up his chin. He smiled as he seemed to be deeply pondering. The man gently shook his head, in what I’m guessing was disbelief that what he was looking at was real.
His actions and posture created a ripple in my present moment and it caused me to pause.
I realized that I didn’t actually take in the mountainous skyline. I saw it and took a few photos, but I never absorbed the vista. The thought crossed my mind that if I were to meet someone at the bottom and they asked me what I saw and to describe it in detail, I wouldn’t be able to. Thinking that made me feel uneasy. It had me feeling a pull from the peaks to stay a little longer, to spend some time with them. It didn’t seem right for me to leave the ridge after seeing that gentleman in the parking lot.
After this wrinkle in time, I made the decision to pull over on a little single car dirt turn off on the side of the road just 200 feet past the lot. I climbed into the back of the van and slowly opened my sliding door.
With the beginner’s eye in mind, the mountains opened before me. I instantly noticed the consistency of peaks. How they ridged and rippled as they met the sky. The peaks appeared to be a collection of identical twins, except for one. Protruding from the back there was a mountain with a bowl-like summit. This bowl tilted toward me and held a thick, beautiful blue and white glacier. It was Mount Olympus towering at 7,890 feet. My mind left me wandering in wonder about the age of the glacier and the ways of the high-altitude snowpack.
I began to imagine the rain shadow that this ridge creates on the peninsula. On the southern side of these mountains, lies the Hoh Rainforest. That region receives an average rainfall of 144 inches per year. As the weather and moisture travels to the northeast, the Olympic mountains ring the water and moisture out of the clouds, leaving the far side of the peaks to only receive an annual rainfall of approximately 40 inches.
If the rock of these hypnotizing peaks were anything like the cliffs I had previously driven by, then they were also the color of dark brown, slow drip, brownie batter. White powdered sugar snow was sprinkled in the crevasses of the summits that surrounded Olympus. In complete awe, I slowly breathed the vista in. As the time passed, my mind had the space to carve this into some of the deepest parts of my memory. I was able to not only capture, but profoundly experience this ridge, this moment, this National Park.
Looking back, I think about if I had not seen the man gazing across the valley, I wouldn’t have stopped, remembered the ridge, or would be sharing this nugget of wisdom with you.
With all of that being said, here’s what I have for you:
Don’t just take a picture. Be still. Sit with your environment. Make observations. What do you see and feel? What is different about the vista before you than others you have experienced before?
I invite you to enter each place with a beginner’s eye. See the magic, feel the enchantment, acknowledge the blessings in their ancient creation.