For anyone who feels the need to spend some time on the beach while in Ferndale, here is how to do it:
1. Begin going west on Main Street. Cars are preferable. Scooters are acceptable. Attempting this on foot is discouraged as Ferndaleans are not, in general, very pedestrian friendly.
2. You will go over a hill, at which point Main Street will become Mountain View Road despite the fact the hill you just cross obscures the mountain entirely from view.
3. When you see the sign for Intalco, veer right onto Rainbow Road. Rainbow is actually quite drab, but wisely circumvents the aluminum plant, which makes Rainbow look fascinating by comparison.
4. Rainbow arcs back towards the west and, passing Kickerville Road, becomes Henry Road.
5. Take the train crossing at as close to 43 MPH as you can. It is, as the sign says (if you’re going slow enough to read it), a “Rough X-ing.” Trust me, 43 MPH is the sweet spot. At 50, you might hurt yourself, and at 30, it’s like driving over a curb. At 43 it’s… well, try it (P.S. This is only true in the Westward direction. Do NOT attempt this on the return journey!)
6. Henry road will stop at a T, yielding to traffic on Gulf Road. Take a left. If you happen to be doing this on a sunny day during the right time of year, the sunlight on the water is blinding and beautiful, viewed through a telescopic tunnel of trees, like this:
Of course, today was not at all like this. It was warm — hell, from a high of 28 degrees on Saturday, the temperature flirted with 60 this afternoon — but windy and showery. Large fragments of the beach, which had been clobbered by a much more significant windstorm several weeks ago, were still laying soggily around the muddy parking lot, making for interesting driving. It was high tide and the wind driven waves were probably in the 3-4 foot range. Being the idiot I am, I headed North and crossed the outlet of the wetlands area immediately adjoining the beach. This had me walking on a stony, driftwood strewn strip of land between 2 and 5 yards wide, surrounded on both sides by water, and pelted by rain.
Now, I have a fantasy about taking a winter camping trip to the long stretch of Pacific Coast between Rialto and Ozette at least once once in my life, to see that great body of water in its greyest, sternest mood. I may still do so someday. Let me say, though, that my enthusiasm for winter beaches went from 120% to 85% within the space of about 40 minutes. The wind and waves were positively violent. Crossing the mouth of the wetland was the most intimidating part — the surf had pounded the slough’s mouth full of driftwood, like a cork being pounded into the mouth of a bottle, and I had to cross this ad-hoc bridge while it was being jostled and hammered by the waves from the seaward side. They were shaking beneath my feet. Some of them were the fragments of what had been whole logs just a few weeks ago.
By the time I got back to my car, drenched from chin to scalp above and knees to shoes below, the path I’d walked — a pleasant stroll four months ago, in midsummer — felt a great deal longer than I remembered it.
I would still like to look upon the Pacific when, quoting Frost,
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before
However, I shall have to consider the logistics of that particular journey very carefully. I felt good about my outing when I was done (and especially after a cup of hot tea) but, damn it, it took three hours for my pants to dry out.
It was odd, driving back towards Ferndale, to see the patches of snow still tucked away under the eaves of the woods and in patches of brambles. They seemed to linger much longer than they should have and, strangely enough, little clouds of blueish mist hung over every patch. Quite a pleasant atmospheric effect.
