I twisted up and down mountain roads – familiar yet foreign – until I finally found the sign I was looking for, pointing my way to Port Angeles. The Salish Sea to the north and the snow capped peaks of the Olympics to the south, Port Angeles is a town of binaries. It seems to be at a flux point now, between industry and tourism, where the hip young wear the distressed clothes of the old head sailors and fishers they pass by in Safeway.
I rolled in hungry and haggard, destination unknown. Parking downtown, as downtown as you can get in a mountain town, I walked around in search of revival and found it at the Great Northern Coffee Bar. Folks are less inhibited out in the PNW I found, which cuts both ways as the baristas, while pleasant, had a quiet reservedness that would’ve easily been mistaken for contempt out east. I appreciated it. I had the best damned breakfast burrito I think I’ve had the pleasure of eating, giving me enough of a second wind to explore downtown more thoroughly. The weather was clear and 62 degrees.
An entire continent away, remembrances of Richmond still came through. Stopping through an upscale tourist shop, geared towards my exact demographic of image-conscious dirtbag, I found some pins from Wild Wander, made in Richmond, VA. Needless to say, I was excited to the confusion of everyone around me.
Port Angeles is one of those towns I could easily see myself living in. Close to all the outdoors activities I love doing, a vibrant local cultural scene, a distinct personality that hasn’t been snuffed out and then hastily recreated by corporate stooges, its only real blemish is the lack of a decent deli. Can’t always get everything. After aimlessly wandering through storefronts for a while more, I headed to the Royal Victorian Motel to check in. It was the right kind of dingy motel, with a little dirt under the fingernails but no bugs under the bed. They made no pretense of hiding its age, as the room was a mosaic of design decisions made over the course of the past few decades. Somehow the road noise was worse in the room than next to the road, but I was too tired to mind.
After a failed attempt to power nap turned into me staring at the wall while listening to Leonard Cohen’s 1977 LP “Death of a Ladies Man” I got back up and at it, ready to hit the town for dinner and to breathe in the salty air. I went back downtown, hoping for a decent slice of pizza. To my dismay, the one place with promise was closed for the week, leaving me to traverse the town for a dinner I could actually eat. Seafood allergies in a port town, not a fun combination.
Golden hour approached as I darted around alleyways and parking lots, letting the world guide me to somewhere that would answer the question of what I wanted to eat. I winded up at a porched shack, I think called 8th St Chicken, and it had to make do. I stood at the register for a few minutes before one of the guys inside turned around to take my order. I don’t know why, but it actually instilled a good degree of faith. At locations like theirs, you can only survive by having great food or great service, and I’d rather have the former. The gamble paid off, as I got served one of the best fried chicken sandwiches I’ve ever had with beautifully made hand-cut fries. Satisfied, full, and still needing to figure out what course to set the next day, I headed back to the Royal Victorian Motel.
Anxiety slipped in behind me as I entered the room. I vaguely knew what I wanted to do the next two days before I had to fly back east, but without a solid plan in place analysis paralysis kicked in. Too much to do, too little time, nobody to do it with. I do a lot of things alone. Not that I mind – I love some solitude, but at a certain point, as much as I hate to admit it, loneliness finds its way back to me. If I had somebody else to bounce ideas off of, add some strength in numbers making me feel more secure in this novel part of the world, I could be a bit more bold, more daring. I didn’t though, and dwelling on the fact wouldn’t bring me any closer to a decision.
I felt a deep sense of resentment towards the other half of myself. Here I was, fresh off of backpacking in arguably the most gorgeous place I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing, with the knowledge that no matter where I went the next day, it would also be gorgeous, perfect weather, I’d be beholden to nobody but myself, my flights were paid for, sent out here because my coworkers, my friends saw something special in me. And I’m fucking anxious, overwhelmed, and feeling… alone. Six hours ago I was on top of the world, in love with everything the Olympic Peninsula had to offer, and now here I was, not making the most of it.
To be fair to myself, I did have reason to be anxious. I have chronic leg pain and the drive to Port Angeles saw me considering sawing off my right leg entirely from the pain. If it was that bad after an easy hike with negligible elevation gain, how would I fare after some actually hard miles? Then again, only a few days before I had been on the AT dealing with significant elevation gain and loss. But I was with someone. I was forced to pace myself. Stop to smell the roses, eat the wild blueberries, and backpack because I enjoy it, not to physically exhaust myself to distract me from myself. I knew these lessons, yet I was worried that left to my own devices I still wouldn’t be able to follow what I know is true. A battle between the conscious and subconscious.
I finally settled on the idea of doing an overnighter in the Mt St Helens area the next day, as opposed to remaining in the Olympics in an attempt to get a wider range of experience in Washington. I wasn’t really sure that that’s what I was going to do, but it was a plan enough to allow my Type A self to stop overthinking for a bit.
A bit. What was this for, though? Why was I out there, extending my time in Washington? Nominally to experience the PNW, hike, backpack, spend time outdoors. See things I’d never seen before. It was more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. Yet melancholy persisted. I get like this on trips, it’s a consistent hump I have to get over and had I had more time I could’ve embraced the mental suck for 36-48 hours before getting a second wind and continuing on unfettered. In this case, though, 48 hours later I’d be getting ready to sleep before an early flight. I couldn’t just rest – I had to keep going. Keep pushing. Nevermind the exhaustion, nevermind the tiredness, nevermind the idea of relaxing during my time off, I had to make the most of my time. Who knows what’ll be of these lands if Trump gets his way. I… should know better. There’s no shame in a lazy day, but in the moment taking the foot off the gas felt like burning money, burning time, burning life. I had to be Jackson Anderson and Jackson’s goddamned out there. He does cool shit and runs that body down, together or alone. “A stateless knight on a quest for the Holy Grail of integrity” as it was once put, the successor to Kerouac and Thompson with more modern, progressive attitudes and maybe a splash more of self-restraint.
I can be all that. That persona of myself is a magnification, not a falsification. But it’s not everything. I’m a deeply anxious person, with my own traumas and my own unseen issues I have to overcome everyday. I can get overwhelmed easily. I love backpacking, climbing, paddling, and generally being outdoors caked in layers of dirt and sweat. I also love exploring cities, going to museums, cozy cafes, donning earth-toned menswear and being chic as hell. I’ve dealt with black bears, coyotes, and mountain lions, and I also have a stuffed Paddington Bear in my room. I can be multiple things. I was out there to enjoy myself, not prove myself or play a flanderization of myself, yet I still felt compelled to, with no audience, a continent away from anybody who knew me. I wondered why. What was this all for at the Royal Victorian Motel? I didn’t know, but I’d find out a bit more the next day, and for the rest of y’all, the next blog post. Cheers.