There's just no place like it...

"When the uniqueness of a place sings to us like a melody, then we will know, at last, what it means to be at home."

- Paul Gruchow

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For those who don't know: The famed Seattle Space Needle. Built for the 1962 World's Fair, and still spinning today.

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There wasn't a whole lot of intense travel going on when I was a wee lad. A seven-mouths is a lot to feed, fourteen legs a lot to keep up with, and seventy fingers a bit too much potential for an emergency room visit... 

Suffices to say there were perfectly valid reasons why a whole-family allocation was reserved for the rare family visit to Tennessee or Minnesota, or the occasional funeral that beckoned attendance from my papa, the sole scion of the Strawn-Family line. 

Thousands of honeybees storming the fields left the air feeling like it was alive and humming throughout the 50,000-people + draw of the Washington State Lavender Festival in June.

Oh, but I loved those road trips... I'm not saying that I was always chipper and well-behaved, though. My little brother and I certainly knew how to generate some genuine havoc in the way-way backseat (beyond the clenched claw of my father's disciplinary vice-grip...).

But I loved the anticipation, the build-up and the bustle of the Last Day, when we'd finally pile into that blanc, 1980-something GMS suburban (moniker: the Great White Shark ("The Great White" for short)). I'd be awake all night to giddily pack, unpack, and re-pack over and over again up to the last few minutes.

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I loved the food we'd have presented to us. I loved listening to accents change, and dialects take "bubbler" to replace it with "drinking fountain,""soda" with "pop," and "you" with "y'all." I loved how the air smelled different, the light looked different, and the air felt different.

I just loved it. 

I loved the scenery on the road. I loved spotting limestone cliff-faces that jut out from grassy hills, and precariously rooted trees clinging to their stony perches with roots like the gnarled fingers of a weathered sailor gripping the ship-rail in a storm. I loved seeing the landscape spread out before me as we crossed suspended bridges over the Mississippi, straining my neck while trying to look one way then the other, feeling desperate to take in as much as I could before glistening river waters were once again robbed from my sight by distance. I loved seeing cities approach in the night, like a nest of shimmering land-stars that steadily rise from the dark ground to form sparking pillars in the black heavens. I loved watching the world slide past in blurs, green, then yellow, then green again, then blue... 

Were they quite right.

After graduating high-school, I took the summer off to enjoy a little freedom, and then jumped into the workforce, eventually landing myself a consulting job in Madison, WI. It was a great job, and a really great town. My family was a few hours away, and I had promising prospects for promotion. Things seemed on-track.

Then I looked down the road, peering into the future.

I noticed the professional trajectory that I was on, and it was one that would lead me to places devoid of my passions. It was time to change.

So I finally moved to the Northwest.

Granted, we never went too far. While schoolmates would jet-set to Paris, St Thomas, Tuscany, and London, I visited Hillsboro, Kohler, Minneapolis, and the Wisconsin Dells. Looking back, I feel grateful to have those small adventures in my memories. They were simple, modest, and family-driven. They mean a lot to me to this day.

That said, my parents mentioned once that if we ever did embark on a long-distance vacation, they would be sure to steer clear of the Pacific Northwest. Why? Because they knew their tree-hugging, mountain-climbing, water-loving son would never leave, if he had the chance to taste it.

The majestic Mt. Rainier in the morning light

I've never seen chromatically compelling cloud layers like there are in the skies over the peninsula.

Despite decades of appeal that sang to me over the years, I had never visited, didn't know anyone, and had only a quick, online street-view to orient me when I arrived. My first stop, after putting bags down, was a weekend trip to the Olympic Peninsula- home of Pacific rain-forests, coastal sea-stacks, and stunning alpine ranges.

I was dazzled. I was enamored.

I was home.

Visiting my parents in Wisconsin is a blessing and a joy (honest! Sure, they may be reading, but it's true, I love to see them and spend time with them. They make it worthwhile). My family's home is reliably wherever they happen to be.

The Pacific Northwest, however, has been MY home. More than any other geographic location I've been to, this region feels more like an embrace by the land. 

I've been no place like it. Traveling tales of more the experienced world-wanderers has also affirmed this notion: There is no place quite like the Pacific Northwest. 

And so I will miss it. I will miss the small-town with skyscrapers that is my Seattle. I will miss weaving through the flurry of Pike Place Market on weekends, smelling the oven vents of Piroshki-Piroshki's Pastries and sampling the  fresh-roasted hazelnuts. I will miss the splendid merger of nature and concrete jungle in Freeway Park and the city's arboretum. I will miss the incessant aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafting from every other building, and the complete circle of mountains barricading the horizon, Mt Rainier's majestic present at the helm. I will miss the colors of the flora, the 10:30PM sunsets, the boat-bedecked water-ways, the concrete river of I-5, splitting the city in two, the basking locals in Cal Anderson field, and the sun breaking dawn over the Cascades' serrated tops. 

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I will miss it all.

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Video credit: James Cashman

There is no place quite like it.  

But there is more to see, more to do, more to experience and grow from.


It's time to explore the world. It's time to make it better.

The clock is ticking...

09012015

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