Cold weather moved in yesterday. It wasn’t frigid by winter standards, but by the gentler measures of late fall, it was significant.
The wind and cold reminded me how hard it can be to drag myself out of a warm house into a brisk breeze. But it also reminded me that the body is a furnace stoked by motion. The colder I am, the faster I walk.
Yesterday I was almost running.
(One place where I wasn’t cold yesterday: a sunny bank full of warmth and glare.)
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There are 400 acres of park trails to explore outside my door. I’m hiking some of them every day. But as much as I enjoy the forest paths, I’m more drawn to Port Townsend’s residential streets and the houses that line them.
There are bungalows and A-frames and high-and-mighty Victorians. There are saltboxes, many-gabled wonders, and wood-shingled beauties turned on their sides, windows placed for maximum sea views.
The houses have vegetable gardens, apple trees, the last roses of summer. A place I spied yesterday is tucked behind a thick hedge. I imagine walking through that green archway up to the door beyond. 
Yesterday, I went for groceries. If this sounds like some sort of Old West expedition, coming down the mountain for coffee and sugar and flour, that wouldn’t be too far off the mark. Because it was an adventure, the adventure of public transport in a place I barely know.
I walked into town, but thought it would be better not to walk back, given the heaviness of my load. No problem. I’d studied the bus route, thought I knew what I was doing.
The first sign of difficulty was the road closure in front of the grocery store. I thought I’d accounted for it when I found a temporary stop, but actually I hadn’t. The bus that finally arrived wasn’t going my way. Instead, I had a lovely tour of Port Townsend from a bus driver who reminded me of Paul Giamatti.
“You missed the #2,” he said. “Best go back to the Transit Center and get the #3. I can take you there.” He did that, then I waited … and waited. As Paul was pulling out for another loop and there was still no sign of the #3 bus, he opened his window and shouted, “He’ll be here soon; he’s just fixing his bus.”
Uh oh. Fixing his bus? This didn’t sound good. But in fact the #3 did arrive minutes later, and a colorful cast of character hopped on, all with various forms of bag and baggage: shopping bags, sleeping bags, backpacks. Eventually, I was dropped off at the stop Paul suggested, walked another half mile or so, and was glad to see the barracks of the fort park where I’m staying finally swing into view.
I’m thinking now about those few hours in town, knowing no one, carless, dependent on strangers. I think about the kindness of the driver, and of my fellow riders. They remind me how much some people carry — and how little I do.
I enjoy taking photographs, and I take a lot of them, but I’ve never visited a place that a photo truly captures. A still image can’t communicate the broad sweep of an ocean vista, the tang in the desert air, the way a place speaks to you — or doesn’t.
Many places speak to me. I’m fickle in that way. Last month I was enraptured by Savannah and Charleston. This month it’s the Pacific Northwest. But in my defense… I do love all these places. Especially when I’m walking through them.
I strolled through Port Townsend the other day and took in its Victorian/hippie vibe, bought a small packet of tuna salad from one of its overpriced grocery stores, savored the views from Jackson Street overlooking Admiralty Inlet.
Returning to my little house, I passed homeowners putting their gardens to bed before the rain moved in, the omnipresent grazing deer, and the view you see above.
I plan to take this walk again soon.
Today I head up to the residency at Port Townsend, but yesterday was a break between prep and travel. A Seattle Sunday.
And not just any Sunday, but a crisp, sparkling one, temp in the mid 30s to start. I hoofed it east toward Lake Washington and strolled first down, then up. The water was so clear you could see the rocks at the bottom.
People were running and strolling and walking their dogs. The sunshine was intoxicating. I don’t expect to see much of it while I’m out here … so I reveled in it, too.
When I need ballast and rhythm, when I require that steady beat, there is usually one composer I turn to — J.S. Bach. I cue up the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 because it has the peppy piccolo trumpet I once heard can pop the blood vessels of its players, so high are its notes, so forcefully must one blow to make them sound.
But also because, like its confreres, No. 2 has a steady walking bass line, the solid quarter notes perfect for pacing one’s self, for staying in line, for moving along.
Although now associated with rock or jazz, the walking bass line has long-ago origins. Some theorists consider Bach its early master. And while this is important for musicians to know, it’s equally essential for walkers. We need a beat that will pulse all the way down into our metatarsal bones.
Although the trumpet notes of Bach’s Brandenburg No. 2 dance around on high, underneath them is the dependable meter of the walking bass. It’s a winning combination: the flourishes of the former, the steadiness of the latter. Together, they keep me going.
(Can’t imagine walking very far with this bass!)
A quiet walk on a cloudy day. A rarity here, and I savored it, strolling through the dim light, noticing how still it was, how few sounds I heard. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.
The pavement was damp from weekend rains and wet leaves slicked the path. There were twigs and small sticks, too. It was as if the woods had been partying and had yet to clean up after itself.
This morning I wake to more rain. I’m hoping it will stop later so I can take a walk. If I’m lucky it will be still and cloudy again.
Plants are parched. Streams are struggling. Some might say it’s time to water. I say … it’s time to cross a creek on stepping stones.
I was thinking of a stretch of the Cross County Trail close to my house (though not close enough to walk to, of course), which has thwarted me before because of an almost submerged stone crossing.
Yesterday the water level was low enough to make the crossing easy. And that single detail opened up a world of forest and creek and pasture. Plus one of my favorite sections of the trail, which skirts a bamboo-fringed pond.
Just as low tide reveals a wealth of sea life, shells and sand dollars, low water offers up paths for trekking, vistas for gazing. In other words, possibilities.
Yesterday I found the trail I was looking for. It was tucked away in a corner of the county that adjoins the Fairfax County Parkway and its monolithic soundproof walls.
The path featured several fair-weather stream crossings, but nothing that could scoot below or hang above all that parkway asphalt, as impassable as a raging river.
There was a tunnel under a lesser road, though, a dark enclosure that paralleled a stream. I took that — despite the warning.
Sometimes you have to walk on the wild side. Even in the suburbs.
