Above Photo: Even ‘Squatch is taking wise precautions!

Most of my nomadic friends are blogging less lately. There’s not as much to say when you’re locked down, rarely moving, or still rolling but staying outdoors for the most part. Insta photos of this river or that mountain? Yes. Blogging, not so much. The glorious exceptions are Stephen and Linda, who were in Europe when the lockdown occurred. Stephen was born in Ireland and they are married, so Linda is just about the only American in Europe right now! Follow them at www.thechouters.com.

For others still publishing regular posts, the virus looms large and dominates the narratives. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this shit. Sometimes I just want to read about something fun and frivolous. What is a reader to do when looking for escapist travel fare in the era of Coronavirus?

Voila! I’m going to tell you all about my Amaze-balls August, and you won’t even need a mask.

AND AWAY WE GO!

I got the call in the early afternoon on August 5; Nellie’s slide was finally repaired after over three weeks, and not a moment too soon. I had camping reservations the following day.

SOUTH HOOD CANAL

If you are ever in Washington and plan to visit Olympic National Park, don’t miss Hood Canal. I am so fortunate that The Hood is so close to my hood. I’ve already told you about Belfair State Park. This trip took me even further south along Hood Canal’s shores.

THE WATERFRONT AT POTLATCH

The Waterfront at Potlatch is a small campground, owned and operated by the Skokomish Nation. Not to be confused with Potlatch State Park, which is nearby, all rooms, cabins, and RV sites at the Waterfront at Potlatch have water views.

Since this post is virus-free, I won’t mention that the cabins and the rooms were closed to visitors, and all transactions for the RV sites were done remotely, or that tribe was doing an excellent job of taking care of its members. Even their nearby casino was closed.

I scoured the tribe’s reservations website for months to get a week at Campsite 5, which is larger, has the best views, and sits apart from the other sites. That’s Nellie over there on the left!

I spent the week picking blackberries for breakfast,

watching little fishies jumping in the water, and listening to the creek flowing into the canal. A seal visited every day, bobbing up to look at us curiously, but it was never close enough for me to get a good picture.

Nights were for campfires, which I rarely make, but we had one almost every night. A fire perfectly complements a dark night sky and a great expanse of quiet, black water. The trick was to stay up late enough, as it doesn’t get dark until 9:30 at night in the Pacific Northwest in August.

I didn’t take many day trips, both because of that virus I’m not talking about, and why leave a beautiful place when you get to have it for such a short time? One day I did head to nearby Lake Cushman because I had never been there before.

My driving tour included the Lake Cushman Rock, aka “The Rock,” a popular diving spot.

Three weeks later, The Rock was closed due to an increase in infections … oh, wait. Shhh, never mind.

Speaking of Lake Cushman, across Highway 101 from my campground is Cushman Power House #2 (1930), in Art Deco and Neoclassical Revival style, a lovely architectural gem with a devastating legacy.

Over 80 percent of salmon and steelhead runs in the North Fork of the Skokomish River were destroyed by these projects, which provided power to Tacoma, 60 miles away. In 2008 a settlement with the Skokomish Nation was reached, and in 2018 fish returned after a $62 million fish recovery project that involves two hatcheries and shuttling.

When I snag a spectacular site I invite my friends to enjoy it with me. Annmarie brought five pounds of clams from Taylor Shellfish in Shelton.

Izzy and Trudy grabbed lunch from the barbecue stand in Belfair for a picnic.

If this post wasn’t virus-free, I’d mention that we were all socially distanced, outside only.

Hood Canal in summer is the place to be for fresh food. One of my favorite places on the planet, Hama Hama Oysters, is seven miles away.

I had oysters for lunch for three days in a row.

In the Age of the Virus That Shall Not Be Named, I was thankful for green grocers; I dipped into open-air farm stands and markets for fresh produce.

RUN, TAMMY, RUN!

I not-so-jokingly told other campers coveting my site that I was going to have to be towed out of there. I didn’t want to leave, and I wasn’t quite ready to return to my Quaranteam; as much as I love them, we had just spent three weeks sharing the same living space, and I am used to the freedom of constant and immediate mobility.

It was August, and Friday. I wanted to stay at another waterfront campground up north, but it was first come, first served, so the plan was to arrive there on Sunday. For the weekend, I nabbed what I could get.

MIKE’S BEACH RESORT

Mike’s has been around since 1951, and it shows, in both charming and not-so-charming ways. The main property, with a pier, dive shack, beach, waterfront accommodations including cabins and airstream trailers, and patio with a stage for live music was so cute. I bet it would be a lot of fun to stay there in times that don’t involve that thing I’m not talking about.

Their RV campground, across Highway 101 and a little south, left a lot to be desired.

For starters, they hacked me off when they charged $20 per day, PER PET, for what for I have no idea. They didn’t even provide plastic poop bags.

The only spot available on such short notice was the smallest one, and it was so cramped I couldn’t even open the main slide all the way. The above photos were taken moments before the hordes descended; the place filled up like a 1890s New York tenement. I hid inside Nellie all weekend, avoiding the ubiquitous smoke of campfires, screaming children, and drunks. It was the perfect time to binge watch the BBC show “Last Tango in Halifax,“ and I recommend it if you haven’t seen it.

The only time the campground was quiet was one hour every morning. Staying at Mike’s entitles you to an hour of clamming and oystering on their beach during low tide. I’d had my fill of both clams and oysters, so I was content to take photos and run back to pick blackberries while everyone else was busy.

SALT CREEK RECREATIONAL AREA

Sunday couldn’t come soon enough, but I had to wait for all the other campers to leave before I could pull out. Thankfully they were all early risers like me, and I headed north on Highway 101 and west of Port Angeles, on the Juan de Fuca Scenic Byway.

The waterfront sites at Salt Creek Recreation Area, owned by Clallam County, are treeless and cramped, but you can’t beat those views of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. That’s Canada on the other side.

(If you’d like some shade and a little more space, there are reservable campgrounds along the bluffs.) I couldn’t have timed it any better, pulling in just as the only open site became available. The plan was to stay for one week, but I was immediately enthralled and booked for the maximum, 14 days. On a couple of days the sites cleared out and I had no neighbors overnight.

I’m not usually a big nature person, but in the times that we are experiencing that I am not at liberty to discuss, the outdoor activities at Salt Creek were just what I needed to pass the time. There was something to do every day, like walk the bluff trail,

tour the old fort site,

explore tide pools,

watch sunsets,

and hike trails. (Yes, yes, I hiked about two miles. Let’s not make a big deal out of it, shall we?)

There’s not much close by in the way of provisions, so I was thankful for the Joyce General Store, where they had a little bit of everything.

I went into Port Angeles for the Saturday Farmer’s Market, and they did a great job with traffic flow to deal with that unmentionable thing. It had been many years since I had visited Port Angeles. I tried one of my very first cases in this courthouse.

If you’re ever up that way, you can take the Black Ball Ferry to Victoria, British Columbia from P.A. I didn’t, because, well, you know.

Port Angeles is on the edge of Olympic National Park, and the dogs and I drove to Hurricane Ridge on a beautiful sunny August day.

They were taking good precautions with you know what up at the Visitor Center, but it was free admission day, and the place was crawling with people. We didn’t stay long.

The Quaranteam came to spend the night on the last weekend.

I can’t think of a better way to bid adieu to Nellie.

Yes, you read that right.

On my last day at Salt Creek, I awoke with an epiphany. Life is not virus-free, no matter how much I would like to pretend it is. There is no avoiding the world Coronavirus has created, and I’m afraid it is going to be like this for quite some time. It was time to regroup.

Next time, I’ll tell you all about it, and introduce you to my new place, Hunker Downs.