days 138-160—a pacific life

If I could choose my legacy, I’d have joined Lewis and Clark’s expedition. Despite the obvious perils, I can only imagine the immense joy of being among the first to see the Pacific Northwest.

And not dying through it all. That was probably pretty cool, too.

Thankfully, traveling this past year has been just as satisfying. No matter how many mountains, lakes, coasts, or skylines I’ve seen, they always make me pause.

We spent most of July exploring Idaho, Oregon, and Washington. Their beauty defies words. But I’ve never been one to let that stop me.

Idaho

Our first stop was an oasis on the border of Idaho and Utah, aptly nicknamed the Caribbean of the Rockies—Bear Lake.

The turquoise water was so clear, I could study my hands from its depths. It was only supposed to be a quick stop, but one hour turned into three, and just like that, we weren’t leaving.

As we drove along, the shoreline was dotted with swanky second homes and modest cabins, both equally suited for memories. In nearby Garden City, it was much the same with mom-and-pop restaurants and t-shirt shops.

Deeper into Idaho, we jumped back into the water once more, but this time aboard two paddleboards from Banbury Adventures. Not long into the four-mile journey, we realized our paddles didn’t extend. However, we didn’t want to turn back or bother the teenager who helped us, so we paddled on our knees.

By the time we reached Blue Heart Springs, our backs and cores were aching. Still, we docked our boards and braved the frigid waters, luminous and teal, cradled by volcanic cliffs.

Oregon

As we neared Bend, the once-vibrant sky dulled to sepia, and through the vents came an unwelcome perfume. Acrid and biting.

I turned to Google, though I already knew.

On July 15, the Cram Fire, burning about sixty miles north of Bend, had grown to over 29,000 acres. Level 3 evacuations were underway, and roads were closing fast. Smoke levels in Bend were already unhealthy and expected to worsen.

We were lucky to move on. Since it was already nearing dusk, we set our GPS for Salem, where we would later reminisce about the coffee from Java Crew.

Though we had bookmarked several things to do, nothing excited us more than seeing Taylor, Michael, and his parents in Michael’s hometown of Eugene. We arrived at Carrie and David’s home for a long weekend, where we were greeted with undeniable warmth.

We explored Eugene from the summit of Spencer Butte to the tie-dyed toilet paper at the Saturday Market. In between, we were spoiled with cookies, pancakes, and focaccia, and visits to favorite spots.

As we left Eugene, I had a surprise for Trent. This took months of quiet planning, though the roots of the surprise stretch back 12 years, when his oldest brother, Joel, bet him that he wouldn’t have the same abs at 30. True to his word, Joel promised to visit sometime this year to check. Trent knew he’d come, but not when or where.

Just off Highway 101 in a town frozen in its 1950s peak, Joel waited for his moment.

Trent didn’t question the random Seaside hotel, nor hesitate when I asked him to pop into the brewery while I waited outside. When the bartender asked, “Are you Trent?” he was only mildly confused. But when he opened the menu and saw a shirtless photo of his 18-year-old self staring back at him, his realization was immediate. So were the hugs and laughter.

I don’t recommend keeping secrets from your partner, but I’d keep this one a thousand times over again. And yes, he won the bet.

Over the next few days, the three of us retraced the steps of The Goonies, visiting Ecola State Park, Cannon Beach, and Astoria. We mingled in local haunts nestled on bridges, ordered off secret menus, and posed beside Lewis and Clark themselves, marking the end of our Oregon trail.

Washington

After so many reunions, we crossed into Washington, just us again, to explore more coastal towns.

East and west coast beaches have their trademarks with their jagged cliffs versus wide, gentle sands. But the hardest thing to describe is the difference in the air. Softer somehow. Like the ocean has exhaled.

As I carefully examined what lay beneath my feet, I remarked, “It’s less salty here,” almost as a question. Surely the surplus of rocks in place of sand helped, but also the guards of alders and evergreens.

If you ever get the chance, stand at the northern point of Rialto Beach. I’ve never taken a deeper breath.

I needed it, too, with my left pocket overflowing with rocks, and my right arm occupied with driftwood. I didn’t yet know what I’d do with them, only that they were imperfect and exquisite, and that was enough.

Just outside the Twilight-famous town of Forks, we camped in the Hoh Rainforest, where the trees felt more like citizens than paupers, and the forest floor was carpeted in familiar ferns. It was whimsical and grounding in the same breath.

With most trails in Olympic National Park off-limits to dogs, we explored nearby Lake Crescent and Sequim’s aromatic lavender farms.

After falling in love along the coast, we headed south to see Mt. Rainier in all its skyline glory. Again, there were dog restrictions, so we took a scenic drive, stopping at Reflection Lake and Narada Falls.

In the quiet of the late morning, Mt. Rainier was a sovereign presence, watching over the unspoiled landscape. Wildflower meadows rippled at its feet, while alpine lakes mirrored its snow-laced flanks, and waterfalls traced its ridges like threads unraveling from a spool.

In these moments, I started to wonder if legacy isn’t about discovery, but presence.

At Alder Lake, we set up camp for a few days. Afternoons filled with long swims, cliff jumping, and turkey sandwiches—like we were kids again. Except now we make our own sandwiches and nobody yells at us for swimming after eating.

When we were ready to move on, we headed north to tour Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest and the North Cascades. Our first glimpse of the area’s serenity was a 7-mile hike to Lake Valhalla, followed by a weekend camped beside Twin Lakes. Can you sense the theme?

There, we completed one of my favorite hikes so far: Winchester Mountain. After 3.5 miles with over 1,300 feet of elevation gain, we were rewarded with panoramic views, including Mt. Baker, Mt. Shuksan, Mt. Larrabee, and Canadian peaks.

At the summit, I thought about success—how I define it now versus before, and what I would have said a year ago if someone had dared to ask.

Society wouldn’t call this year an achievement. But I’ve read 49 books. Visited 4 countries. Explored 20 states and counting. Taken thousands of steps, picked up new hobbies, and returned to old ones. But most of all, I’ve prioritized people over everything.

Traditional success remains a flawed measurement.

I’ll likely never make history like Lewis and Clark. But maybe that was never the point.

Maybe my life can still be significant. Not on a grand scale, but to a few people at least. At most.

Maybe my absence won’t be noticed in a boardroom or a history book, but it will be felt at a dinner table.

Maybe I won’t have a specific life, but a pacific one.