The Lake

Beautiful Lake Chelan from Tsillan Cellars' vineyards.

Lake Chelan.

In the dead of winter - my down coat a veritable extremity and my pallor closely resembling the hue of a bone fish - I close my eyes and dream of that place.

I pull up a picture from the previous summer and stare with yearning.

I think of my afternoon swims to the floating dock.

I imagine myself on our deck, the frosty glass of my mixed drink a reprieve from the heat.

I smell the balmy wind as it blows down through the winding channel of the lake.

I see the orchards and the vineyards that run for miles, and the sun setting below the crisp and jagged line of the forested Cascade Mountain Range.

This isn't just any lake. No, Ma'am.

Tsillan Cellars vineyard, overlooking the lake.

Long and narrow, it cuts deeply through the foothills of the Cascades.

On the far west end is the remote hamlet of Stehekin, reached only by foot, air, or water. Then there's Manson, a small, quaint town on the north shore. Finally, Chelan, the lake's biggest city, which sits on the far east end.

The lake is fed by roughly 100 glaciers that trickle down from the surrounding mountains. Which makes the water a liiiiitle bit chilly, but so clean and beautiful. In certain places, the color rivals that of the Caribbean.

It's the third deepest lake in the Unites States, with a maximum depth of 1,500 feet {though the eastern-most end, near the city of Chelan, seems pretty shallow in comparison...you can usually see the sandy bottom}.

Having a drink at Benson's.

There are over 200 acres of wine grapes and over 20 wineries in the area. My favorites {in no particular order}: Tsillan Cellars, Nefarious Cellars, Benson Vineyards Estate Winery, Vin du Lac Winery, Tunnel Hill Winery, Karma Winery. New vineyards and wineries are cropping up ever year.

There are hundreds of miles of hiking trails in the summer, and in the off-season, when an average of 39 inches of snow typically falls, the hillsides beckon to the winter sport enthusiast.

The lake gets over 300 days of sunshine. What the hell?! Being a Seattelite, and living only 160 miles east, it's hard to believe that such a place exists within driving distance.

Chelan is one of my very favorite escapes year-round. If you haven't already visited, you should definitely make plans. Learn more here.

As a child, I spent my summers vacationing on the lake, and as an adult, I still spend as much time in Chelan as possible.

I love this lake, but I am only the latest in my line of people to feel that way.

Back in the late 1800s, my Basque ancestors ran massive herds of sheep through the surrounding hillsides.

Dusty, tired, and stinking of lanolin, they'd often stop to rest in what was then the small town of Chelan. They would stay with their friends, the Campbells, a family well-known today for their lakefront resort.

My great-grandma returned to visit the Campbells for her honeymoon in 1918.

Her grandson, my father, spent many summers playing on its shores.

And fittingly, The Russian and I honeymooned in Chelan and Stehekin, as well.

Now, our children come with us.

The days and weeks blend together in a glorious mess of sunscreen, grimy feet, and pink cheeks.

So, like me and all of those relatives before me, they will grow up with the smell of lake and pine forever embedded in their memories.

For us, it's a second home.

A place to escape to or put down roots.

Whatever it is, it's surely amazing.

For the Love of Eggs

I think eggs are beautiful.

Bird eggs, specifically. {Snake eggs give me the heebie jeebies...too soft and elongated....bleck!}

I love the gentle shape of birds' eggs. I love their milky colors. I love their hard shells.

Brown, white, cream, peach, blue, green. Speckled.

Visually, they're perfect. At least to me.

That's not to say that I can't appreciate the taste of an egg. I'm an omnivore, after all. {But puulease keep those hard boiled abominations away from me!}

Yes, I do eat them, but this is about my appreciation for their outer beauty.

I love to run my fingers over their sides. To feel the weight of them in my hands.

They make me happy.

And have you heard of the Tinamou?

Tinamous are from Mexico, Central America, and South America. They're plain birds - brown/gray/tan, ground-dwelling creatures with trim, little bodies.

Nothing to write home about, at least not in my bird-judgin' opinion.

But don't let the bland plumage fool you. Tinamous lay the most gorgeous eggs. Ever. EVER.

Deeply colored and glossy, they come in a myriad of colors: turquoise to pink to aubergine to slate to dusty rose. They're coated in a porcelain-like shell that gives them the look of carved and varnished stones.

I've never seen these eggs in person, but I guarantee if I did, my heart would flutter.

In fact, I had an egg-induced flutter moment the other day at a friend's house.

They've got a coop and run in their back yard, and those three hens of theirs produce more eggs than they can handle.

Several had already been laid, but we waited patiently while one slow-moving old biddy took her sweet, sweet time finishing up. We'd crack the door to the nesting box and she'd squint her dark eyes at us, as if to say, 'Seriously? Have you no shame?'

We did not. And we checked back every few minutes until she begrudgingly retreated to her roost.

That night I made a spinach, garlic, and mozzerella frittata with those eight lovely eggs. They tasted soooo much better than store-bought {at least in my imagination}.

Even if it was a little sad to crack 'em open.

Oh, for the love of eggs.

Sky to Sea

Looking west up at the top of Hurricane Ridge.

I look out at the Olympic Peninsula each and every day. At least once.

Sometimes I drive out of my way just to park the car and stare.

And each and every time I am consumed with wanderlust. 

I know it's not Nepal, and it's only across the water, but there's something about that place that makes my inner vagabond sing {and yes, I know you've heard of her before}. 

The mountains, of course. They're jagged, deeply forested, and snow-covered.

My eyes are drawn to them, just as they are to chocolate covered caramels sprinkled with sea salt.

Yep, they're that awesome.

Really, its the green places that get me. The forested bits.

The trail at Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge. 

There are five different types of forests in the Olympic National Park, classified by their elevation zone: Coastal, Temperate Rain Forest, Lowland, Montane, and Subalpine.

Worldwide, there are countless forests, but these ones...I swear they're different. Truly special.

They're quiet and old, loamy and dark. They resonate in her head and heart, and wipe the chaos from your mind. 

And then, there's the water.

Surrounded by the Puget Sound, the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the Pacific Ocean, our Peninsula is heavy on the wet stuff.

There are islands, rivers, lakes, spits, waterfalls, harbors, bays, beaches, off-shore sea stacks, and tidepools. In essence, water is everything out there.

And, as you might have guessed by now, I also love the water.

So, over Father's Day weekend, we caught a ferry.

Our destination: Valley of the Dungeness.

Mister, hiking along a strip of coastline in Sequim.

More specifically (and less dramatically), Sequim - a little town placed precariously on the northwestern most point of the contiguous United States.

Now, say what you will about rainfall in Washington State, but leave Sequim (pronounced Skwim) out of it.

This town falls within the rainshadow of the Olympic Mountains, collecting a scanty 16 inches of precipitation per year.

That's on par with Los Angeles, people.

And because of this unusual fact - less rain, more sun - the region is known for its lavender fields. And retirees. And hipsters. And organic farmers. And outdoor nuts. And regular folks just getting by.

I like it a lot.

So, Sequim served as our homebase, and along with my parents, we stayed at the Juan de Fuca Cottages. On the water and surrounded by pastureland and livestock, it was the ideal escape for us urbanites.

Walking back to the Cottages.

That first afternoon and evening was chill. We took some deep breaths. We frolicked.

Correction: I frolicked. My children just copied their crazy Mama.

We ate dinner at Alderwood Bistro, a kickass restaurant in the downtown core that uses
local, organic, and seasonal ingredients. Their homemade ketchup is divine.

The next day, we explored.

First stop, Hurricane Ridge.

Of all the mountain areas, this is the most easily accessible. The road is open 24 hours a day during the summer months, and several days a week in the winter.

And there are hundreds of trails just waiting to be trekked. Literally hundreds.

I've snowshoed up there before, but this was my first visit in the summer. Sweet, sweet, sun-in-my-face summertime.

No frostbite for us, no sir.

Aaand, of course there was still snow. 

Thankfully, I'm a forgetful person - the sort with a stash of winter wear in June. So, we dug into the center console, and in no time at all, my children emerged from the car ready for the elements.

Accidental preparedness - gotta love it.

Deer grazed on hillsides. Marmots sunned themselves on snowpacks. Clouds blew over the peaks and down into the valleys.

We walked along several of their snow-free paved pathways and picnicked in the woods. 

It was beautiful. You should go.

Second stop, Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge and Recreation Area.

To be honest, my expectations were low.

I love beaches – the raw, wild, and rocky kind. I've seen more than my fair share of them, and I expected this to be the same as all the rest.

See? Careening children and snap-happy people welcome.

Yeeaah. I was wrong.

The whole experience begins with a beautiful, mile-long hike through the woods.

Trees are dense, air is moist, ferns are plentiful.

The trail is well-maintained and wide - perfect for careening children and certain distracted people (eh-hem) who don't watch where they're going because of rapid fire picture taking. 

Near the end, the path descends down toward the water. And it's breathtaking, that first glimpse.

The riotous pounding of the waves, the wind that whips hair and sculpts old-growth evergreens.

And this is no ho-hum sand spit, either.

This formation is one of the world's longest natural sand spits. It's 5 1/2 miles long, and quite narrow. 50 feet wide at its narrowest point.

The stunning Dungeness Spit.

At the far end is a lighthouse that's been guiding ships since 1857. Hiking out and back takes a whopping 10 hours. And wow, the kids were troopers!

Just kidding. We got about 20 yards and called it good.

Being somewhat of a beach stone freak, I set to work examining the rocks. The kids set to work playing with seaweed (cool) and rolling in the sand (not cool).

Love the beach, hate the sand. Ah, the irony.

We took a few Father's Day pics, watched the bald eagles overhead, climbed the towering piles of driftwood, and enjoyed the view.

To the left: shrouded outline of the peninsula coastline and the Olympic Mountains. Ahead: Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the Pacific beyond. To the right: distant mass of Vancouver Island.

And when the waves began to crash a little harder, and Mac began to whine a little louder, we took our cue to leave.

Crab craziness out there.

Back through the coastal countryside, with its lavender fields and sea spray cottages. Back for one last lazy night by the sea.

Thus our peninsula adventure came to a close, because the following day was spent journeying home - though any drive that includes a ferry ride can hardly be considered bad.

* Takeaway: come prepared for any sort of weather, make some plans but not too many, visit the mountains and the water, and frolic as much as possible.

Sky to Sea in one weekend. The End. :)

Looking southwest at the top of Hurricane Ridge.

The beach in front of the Cottages.

Hurricane Ridge

Mister, taking the path down to the beach.

Memorial Day

It started with my mother's father, a man I never knew. We scrubbed his grave every Memorial Day weekend.

I remember the bucket of sudsy water, the brush sloughing grime and moss from his headstone. The puttering of my mom and her mother as they cut the flowers and placed them in the buried vase.

And now there are so many other graves to clean - ten in as many years. Some we get around to, and some we do not, but it always feels good to do this little thing.

Some soap and cheerful blooms. An hour or two at most.

Week in and week out, a lifetime of love - that's what they gave us. And now we visit them on this day, to clear their names of debris, to keep them company.

To make them real to a generation beyond.

Alongside us, my children do this little thing now, too. And together, we all remember how amazing a close family can be. 

A Sanctuary of Sorts

When my brother and I were little, my parents built a home for us. A big, yellow, farm-style house on acreage.

Down a gravel road, surrounded by sky-scraper tall evergreens, and far from the noise of surrounding neighborhoods, we spent our youth. 

We dug tunnels; we tromped through the buttercups; we cared for the horse, cows, sheep, and dogs; we built forts; we made bonfires; we played hide-and-seek in the field, grass taller than my head.

As bucolic as life can get in suburban America. 

And I loved it.

Conversely, my own family has settled in the city. Albeit a quieter, more isolated, neighborhood in the city, but still...it's a life I never envisioned for myself. One with close neighbors and the never-ending sounds of energy and movement.

And, I love it, too.

So, I count myself lucky that my mom and dad still reside in the same home in which I was raised. On the same property, with the same forts, woods, and grassy fields. A sanctuary of sorts.

And on those days when I desperately need to escape the hubbub of my urban existence, we pile into the minivan and hit the road. Bound for Nana and Papa's house. 

I let the kids loose on the property. They squeal and run and wiggle, just like puppies in the sun.  

I kick back in a lawn chair with a gin and tonic {my own sort of giddy revelry}. And everyone is happy.

Even back then, knee-deep in awkwardness and teen angst, I adored my home - that place my parents built for us out on the fringes of my known world.

I'm so pleased that my own little kiddos can discover it anew - all its quirky, beautiful, hidden secrets.

Which only makes me love it more. :)

Vagabond

Boarding the Fauntleroy Ferry. 

I love a good road trip, always have. The planning, the anticipation, the freedom, the pit-stops, the destination. It's all good.

Honestly, it hardly matters where I'm headed or how many nights (if any) are involved. As long as there's a journey, I'm down. I mean, come on - what's not to love?

Road Trip Breakdown:

~ You wake up early and pack the car. 

~ You drink coffee and forgo breakfast. Breakfast is for suckers.

~ You lock the door and pray to God your feline isn't hiding inside {and she usually is, having worked her way into some incomprehensible space the size of a matchbox car}.

~ You're off!

~ You fret about the feline and return to the house. And, yes, she is there, tucked under your bed, next to a bundle of big, grey, woolly socks, which is quite clever because she's always looked rather like winter wear anyway. 

~ You place both the feline and the socks outside, just to be sure.

~ You're off...again!

~ You swing through a drive-thru coffee stand and hit the interstate. 

~ You watch your city shrink in the rear view mirror, and you look ahead at the yellow lines that run on into infinity, into every unshaped adventure you've ever had the pleasure of imagining.

~ You narrow your eyes, grip the steering wheel, and slam your foot down on the accelerator. Just kidding. 

~ You set the speed control at seven over and Pandora to the Black Keys station. And you relish that giddy feeling that never ages, no matter how many years have crept up. 

Yes, it's a little romanticized - feline bit aside, of course, though that would also occur in my imagination because there's just no way out of that scenario.

Basically, I'm a closet vagabond - minus the shifty nature {at least I'd like to think so}. It's the grand romance of a road trip that gets me every time, the giddiness that I touched on before. That sweet, pure shot of life's goodness.

The Russian and Honeybee, cruising the Sound.

As a young family of five, we've had to find our own way of creating the road trip adventure. Because taking off for a week isn't usally an option, and sometimes you've only got a day to play with.

A day, seemingly short, can be packed to the brim with unexpected exploits. Thus, Family Adventure Day was born. And no, we don't shorten it to F.A.D. - all three words, please. 

Several times a year, we choose a random destination - usually within 100 miles of our home. I pack for every possibility {because we don't do much planning}, and we head out bright and early, not to return until bed time.

It's awesome. 

This last weekend Family Adventure Day took us to Vashon Island, a long, skinny strip of land in the southern end of our Puget Sound. 

KVI Beach, Vashon Island.

We hopped on a ferry, stopped at the local grocery store, and asked the clerk where he thought we ought to go. And so, we found our way to KVI Beach, which had the most beautiful stones and was a perfect place to eat lunch and watch tankers lumber along. 

Then we moved onto Maury Island, a small island connected to Vashon by an isthmus (narrow strip of land) that the locals built in 1913. 

We found the Point Robinson Lighthouse and beach, a long and curving shoreline littered with crab, clam, and mussel shells. Which led to several discussion about why we don't need to keep every special {read: stinky/partially living} treasure that we find on our travels.

And, true to Family Adventure Day form, our plans took an unexpected turn when an accident on the main road to the ferry terminal forced us to miss our boat and return to town. 

And since splitting the last beaten up banana just wasn't gonna cut it, and we were all hankering for pizza, we ended the day with some pretty great pies from Rock Island Pub & Pizza.

There you have it. One day, two islands. 

Yes, we slept in our own beds that night, and it's true that we never went anywhere near an interstate. 

But, still, I felt it - that giddiness. As we piled in the car, the feline glaring at us from our front deck, my inner vagabond let down her hair.  

Heartstring Girls

Last night was the dark and dreary sort. A night for kidnapping, if ever there was one. 

In a flurry of clandestine giggles, I was absconded with into the rain and wind. Into the cozy, Old Town glamour of Stoneburner. Into the {perfectly timed} care of my friends.

And I was a willing captive, plied easily with cocktails, nettle and potato pizza, roasted beets and cauliflower, and, finally, donuts. Of course.

For almost three hours, we lost ourselves to the candlelight and chatter. We cackled and swore, whispered and divulged. 

A snippet of heaven.

These friends of mine - these heartstring girls - stole me away. They knew what I would need when I did not. {And yes, I need more than drinks and donuts}.

Last night was the dark and dreary sort. A night for kidnapping. And I loved it.