I spent my morning at the Happy house poring over maps and tide charts, drawing out a plan for the final days of my hike, and calling the Olympic National Park office to get my permit. I actually had no issues getting one; I listed out the campsites I wanted to stay at on each day and each had availability.

I said my temporary goodbyes to the other hikers – I was planning on staying with the same Port Townsend trail angel as Rebecca and Marguerite, and all five of us were planning to finish the trail together on the 13th. I didn’t have much time to beach-walk to the ferry at Fort Casey before the tide came back in, so I set off pretty quickly. I wasn’t sure exactly where to go, but just decided to walk west until I saw the beach.

The only beach access I found was via a private boat ramp. I trespassed as stealthily as I could until I was on the wet, rocky shoreline.

The vast expanse of round rocks made this beach walk fairly uncomfortable, but the novelty didn’t wear off over the five miles. Pelagic cormorants stalked the shoreline like little grim reapers waiting for their next kill. The intertidal zone stunk like decaying animals, and a light drizzle threatened to turn into something more.

I appreciated the moodiness of my surroundings, and today it was not punctuated by the horrific screams of low-flying jet engines.

The beach walk was broken up by a brief jaunt on a sandy trail that switchbacked up the bluff (0989P). I took a brief respite under a tree that had been planted at the top of the bluff and continued on my way. The trail was very populated, filled with families coming from Fort Ebey or Fort Casey state parks. Up on the trail, I heard a loud horn signalling that a ferry was departing for Port Townsend.

It was just after noon by the time I made it to the tip of the island. I didn’t have much time before the next ferry, so I didn’t spend much time at the state park.

The ferry landing had four or five lanes for cars and zero lanes for pedestrians. I weaved my way between the long lines of cars for a while until I found any sort of pedestrian signage. It was nice to skip the line – there were only about 5 people in the pedestrian line, plus a dog belonging to a cyclist. The dog was adorably poking its head out of a little bike trailer.

I made small talk with the other pedestrians. One of them warned me about the stink of Port Townsend: A paper mill west of town would occasionally cover the town in a nauseating stench. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with this information, but at least I knew.

 

 

I went through the rest of my trail mix and cheez-its standing on the deck of the ferry, letting the wind whip around me. It was cold, but I was dressed in layers with leggings and a rain jacket. A stranger asked me for a photo and took one of me in return (I can’t seem to find it). I could see Port Townsend getting closer in the distance.

Once in town, I beelined for the post office to retrieve the last package from my former self. As usual, it contained razors, shaving soap, maps, batteries, powdered milk, and pack liners.

Port Townsend's post office

I sat on a curb outside the post office to pore over my maps for the next section. I was so excited to get back into the mountains on real trails, and for the final beach walk.

The rest of my time in the cutesy town of Port Townsend was relaxing and fairly uneventful. I went to dinner with Rebecca, Marguerite, and one of their friends who they met on the Te Araroa. We stayed with an older trail angel couple, Dan and Lys Burden, who were more well-known as hosts for long-distance bikers – their house was quite full of guests, so I slept on my sleeping pad on their deck.

I took a zero day and bummed around town all day, sipping too many cups of coffee on the docks, calling friends and loved ones back home, binging on wifi. I ate an artisanal scone with clotted cream. A life of decadence and hedonism.

Back at the house, I made dinner with Rebecca and Marguerite, then got in a long conversation with Lys, our host. She and her husband were prolific touring cyclists, and she told me a bit about their adventures, and then about the native people who used to live in this part of the country, and the whitewashed history of their first encounters with white settlers. I went to sleep on the deck again with a full belly, very ready to get back on the trail the next day.