The Woman on the Ferry: Chapter 17
Tides of Change
Dear Readers, Welcome to my draft of chapter 17 of The Woman on the Ferry: A Journey of 1,000 Miles to Redefine Success and Discover Joy. If you haven’t yet, you can read the Introduction for free here.
Week 17: Tides of Change
Week 17 of my 1,000-mile quest, spanning September 8 to 14, marked a significant shift in both my physical journey and my inner landscape. As I left the dense forests of Washington behind and embraced the expansive beaches of the Oregon coast, I found myself grappling with profound questions about freedom, success, and the nature of time itself. This week's adventures took me from the twin rocks of Rockaway Beach to the cheese-making wonders of Tillamook. As I traversed the ever-changing shoreline, I found myself navigating an equally dynamic internal landscape, questioning my drive, my definition of freedom, and the true meaning of this journey.
Mile 800
Monday marked my final hike in Washington, a journey down the Pilchuk River Trail. What promised to be an easy woodland walk along an old logging road quickly took an unexpected turn. As I set out, two women and their dog were heading back, warning of gunshots they'd heard further along. It wasn’t hunting season and they didn’t know of any nearby gun ranges, adding an edge of unease to the air. I headed out, knowing I can always turn around, and found solace in the river's gentle flow and the satisfying crunch of autumn leaves beneath my feet.
The trail, however, fell short of expectations. Only a brief moment allowed me to step onto the riverbed, a fleeting connection with the water I'd hoped to follow. But it was the trail's end that truly struck me - a clearcut hill, stripped bare of vegetation. The stark contrast with the lush, forested hills nearby was jarring, almost nauseating. This abrupt transition from nature's abundance to man's devastation felt like a punch to the gut.
As I turned back, my mind kept circling back to the devastation I'd witnessed. Must progress always come at nature's expense? Have we become so disconnected from the magic of the natural world that we can carelessly wipe out entire forests, deface waterfalls with graffiti, and litter trails with plastic bottles? While most of my hikes had been on well-maintained state or federal lands, these more accessible trails near urban areas often bore the scars of human disrespect. It felt like a grim affirmation that we were indeed on the "hard path" of the Seventh Fire prophecy, hurtling towards environmental destruction if we fail to change course.
This final Washington hike should have been cause for celebration - I'd reached the significant milestone of 800 miles. Instead, it felt symbolic in a different, more somber way. Perhaps it encapsulated some of the gloomier days I'd experienced mid-quest. I'd approached the trail with hope and anticipation, only to encounter warnings and an ominous scene at its end. The experience left me ready to shake off the gloom.
Tuesday morning brought a sense of relief as I hitched up my Jeep and began the long slog through Seattle and Tacoma traffic. Despite the congestion, I felt lighter with each mile. I was leaving the dark forest behind, both literally and metaphorically, with the promise of ten days alongside the mighty Pacific Ocean ahead. The contrast couldn't have been more stark - from the enclosed, sometimes oppressive forest to the open expanse of the ocean. It felt like a symbolic transition, not just in my journey, but in my state of mind.
Barefoot in the Sand
As I crossed into Oregon, steering my rig westward, the landscape unfolded before me like a painter's masterpiece. Sandy beaches intermingled with rocky shorelines, while massive rocks stood sentinel in the water. The bays bustled with fishing boats, their activity punctuating the pockets of water created by nature's sculptural land formations. My anticipation grew as I drove to the county campground near Rockaway Beach, my heart leaping at the realization that I could walk to the beach directly from my campsite.
This transition marked more than just a change in scenery; it presented a test of sorts. My meticulously planned mileage goals had accounted for low-mileage travel day. But now, faced with the serene beauty of the coast, a new challenge emerged: Could I truly slow down? Allow myself to coast, at least for this week?
The beach became my new trail, infinitely more forgiving than the forest paths I'd left behind. Each time my feet hit the sand, I instinctively slipped off my sandals, reveling in the tactile connection with the earth. My daily walks took me from the jetty to Twin Rocks - two colossal stone sentinels rising from the sea. It wasn't until my second trek that I discovered the hidden magic: viewed from beyond, one of the rocks revealed an arch, framing the crashing waves like nature's own picture window.
Twin Rocks seemed to part the ocean, creating a mesmerizing wave pattern on the shore. This interplay of elements - the irresistible force of water meeting the immovable rocks - served as a powerful reminder of nature's dynamics. These opposing forces coexisted, yes, but in doing so, they transformed the entire beach beyond.
My coastal sojourn brought an unexpected delight in the form of the Tillamook Creamery. Through expansive glass windows, I watched the cheese-making process from a bird's eye view. But the true highlight? The ice cream, of course. I found myself drawn back to the creamery twice during my stay, each visit culminating in a cone of their creamery-exclusive marionberry swirl. These small indulgences, I realized, added a dash of sweetness to what could have been ordinary days.
Yet, as I savored each step on the sand, I had to acknowledge that nothing about my time on the Oregon coast felt ordinary. The rhythmic crash of waves, the ever-changing interplay of light on water, the salt-tinged air - all of it felt extraordinary, a stark contrast to the dense forests I'd left behind.
The Woman on the Boat
My first full day on the coast gifted me with blue skies and sunshine, a rarity during my stay. If it's possible to experience a beach "high" without any assistance, that's precisely where I found myself. The atmosphere was a stark contrast to the somber Washington forest hikes; each person I encountered on the beach offered a friendly "hi" or a wave. I walked with a lightness in my step, my smile as bright as the sun overhead.
As I reached Twin Rocks, I paused to gaze out at the ocean. There, riding the waves, was a fishing boat. In a moment of whimsy, my mind conjured up an image of Celeste on that boat. There she was, waving madly with a huge grin on her face, her voice somehow carrying over the crash of waves: "You're doing great, Brenda!" I found myself waving back, thinking, "It's great to see you again, Celeste."
As I watched the boat head out to sea, a deeper message seemed to emerge from the rhythmic lapping of waves: Life is not a race. Just like fishing, we dare to cast our line, combining our skills with the tools at hand, but ultimately unable to control the outcome. Will the fish bite? Will we successfully reel it in? One thing became clear - driving the boat faster won't yield more fish. It requires patience, and perhaps even stillness.
This moment of clarity led me to reflect on my own approach to life. I realized I'd often treated it as a race, one big 1,000-mile quest to be conquered. I'd turned efficiency into a game, constantly challenging myself to accomplish more in less time. But at what cost? The price had been burnout, a depletion of the very energy that fueled my pursuit.
The truth is, there's no finish line we must cross before some cosmic clock runs out. The relentless expansion of my to-do list, the constant feeling that I should be somewhere else, doing something more, achieving ever-loftier goals - perhaps these were misguided notions. Maybe, I mused, it's more about the pacing of life, savoring the journey rather than speeding through it.
As I stood there, feet sinking into the sand, I felt a shift in perspective. The ocean before me, vast and eternal, seemed to underscore the futility of rushing through life. Each wave took its time to form, crest, and break upon the shore. There was no hurry, no race - just a continuous, rhythmic flow.
As I turned to continue my beach walk, I carried this new understanding with me. My steps were more measured, more deliberate. I wasn't racing to Twin Rocks and back; I was experiencing every grain of sand, every salt-tinged breeze, every cry of the seagulls overhead. In slowing down, I found I was actually experiencing more, not less.
The Woman on the Boat - my imaginary Celeste - had once again offered a profound lesson. Her enthusiastic wave wasn't urging me to go faster or do more. It was a celebration of where I was, right here, right now. And in that moment, I felt a deep sense of contentment wash over me, as steady and sure as the tides.