Forks to Port Angeles

Looking back at Port Angeles, Washington, from the Strait of Juan de Fuca

Half the motel decides to leave Forks at 6 a.m. A smiling gentleman in his mid-sixties mentions this to me as we pack our respective cars. Everyone has somewhere to go.

Sandra and I are headed to Port Angeles. The drive takes us along Lake Crescent, which looks beautiful and serene but which is also the site of at least two nasty car wrecks. Russell and Blanch Warren lost their lives to the lake in 1929, while a 1960 accident had a happier ending, with all four occupants surviving a plunge into the icy waters.

The road winds along the south shore, through the massive (i.e., larger than Rhode Island) Olympic National Park. Sunrise reflects off the lake's surface, illuminating cabins on the other side.

We finish yesterday's Tillamook cheese. Nothing says “good morning” like chunks of garlic chili pepper cheddar.

The drive takes 75 minutes. Once at Port Angeles, we find the ferry landing and park. Leaving the car alone in a lot for 10 hours as we sail off to some other country fills me with an unexpected anxiety. Who will feed it? What if it has to go to the bathroom?

But these are silly concerns. It can always pee on the asphalt.

Kalaloch Lodge to Forks

From the log book

We drive past Destruction Island and its lighthouse, as well as the Hoh and Bogachiel rivers, finally arriving at Forks around 7 p.m. Just before twilight.

Before Twilight, published in 2005 as the first of what I later refer to as “a popular emo-vampire book series whose essential message is that women are only as valuable as the men they covet,” Forks was a small logging town in a remote corner of the United States. It is still that, but because the characters from Twilight live in Forks, it is also a town full of shops that attempt to capitalize on the series' popularity by slapping the name “Twilight” onto everything.

The motel we stay at offers Twilight-themed rooms. You pay extra for those.

We stay in one of the cheaper, less creepy rooms (these are teen-aged lovers, after all) that is best described as being devoid of anything to do with Twilight. This is its charm, and so we celebrate by sharing a bottle of MacPelican's Scottish Style Ale brought with us from Pacific City.

Sandra tries to make reservations online for tomorrow's ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria, but that doesn't work. So we call the ferry company. The woman at the other end of the line says that they can't offer reservations this late but assures us that there will be plenty of room for passengers and cars alike on the 8:15 boat.