Like many of us from Upper Left, USA, I’m a transplant; I’m a Midwesterner by birth, and not ashamed to admit it, but the mountains and the ocean have always had my heart.
And what I love about those places is their ability to make you feel small.
Standing on a beach, hearing the rhythmic rush of waves and feeling the power they hold within them, staring out over a seemingly endless expanse makes you and everything you worry about feel insignificant in the best way.
Being surrounded by mountains that have been there long before you and will continue to be long after you, gives you scope and perspective on life.
And the Pacific Northwest does this best.
Standing on Rialto Beach, with the roar of the ocean in my ears and the cedars towering far above me, I always feel as if I’m in another world, one inhabited by titans and gods.
The names of the landmarks take their cue from this way of viewing things; Giant’s Graveyard is only a few miles south of where I stand and the backdrop to it all is the Olympic Mountains.
Even laid on their sides, stripped of their branches, now just driftwood, the trunks of trees tower over my head here.
It won’t be long before I have to head back to civilization, and a job, and bills, and all the other cares of the world. But for now, I’m in another world entirely; for now, I’m in the land of giants.