We’re leaving for the West coast on Friday, and of course my creaky old joints are lancing me with stabby excruciating pain. I have seen my doctor. I have pills. Because I must restore myself with red cedar, Sitka spruce, sea stacks, tide pools, banana slugs, great herds of sea urchins, and the ocean and the mountains, I will get there if Mary has to carry me on her back.
The Olympic National Forest is also where Mary and I had our honeymoon, 35 years ago. If ever I could just ditch all my responsibilities and retreat somewhere to avoid everything, this is where I’d go. But don’t bother looking for me. Just be satisfied with the news that, if I vanish, sightings of hairy ape-like creatures in the wilderness of Washington state will spike.