Ferries ain’t no thing but a chicken wing to many Pacific Northwesties, but until I’d traveled to Nanaimo, a larger town on British Columbia’s Vancouver Island, I’d never taken one alone. Driving aboard was childishly thrilling, akin to reaching the next level of a video game; the worlds I’d conquered during my travels thus far—deserts, farmland, mountains—were all “played” on land. Here was the water level, and a new kind of notch in my figurative travel belt.
I’ve gone and lost my photos of the drive between Seattle and Vancouver, B.C. Gone are the images of Chuckanut Drive, a coast-hugging road that occasionally opens up to panoramas of Bellingham Bay. The day and everything in it – the sky, the water, the sand and the road – were nearly the same shade of gray. The water receded back some couple hundred feet; low tide, I supposed.