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Quilcene isn’t that boring after all

But it does shut down at 3 pm. I know this because I spent all weekend between there and Sequim with my favorite people on the planet, pictured here. Yes, I am one those people. Deal with it. You can find more photographic evidence here.

Malen had so much fun on New Year’s Eve that she decided another visit was in order, and Adam provided us with the perfect place to huddle together in the glow of each other’s radness: a friend’s parents’ house in Quilcene, perched on the top of a cliff 200 or so feet above the hood canal. Steep wooden steps provide access to the beach, where one can harvest, shuck, and eat fresh oysters if one is so inclined. I hate shellfish, so I passed, but I personally saw Roark “shuck and suck” three huge specimens on the first morning. Other than the beach and amazing view, the house is a fairly non-descript rambler with ample living space and a nice kitchen. It was the perfect setting for a weekend of carefree debauchery.

To start, we arrived at the house after midnight on Friday, and despite our general fatigue proceeded to stay up drinking and reveling until nearly dawn. We had grand plans for Saturday, including visiting the Olympic Game Farm that we ruined by sleeping til noon, making a long, amazing breakfast, and hiking down the beach before getting into the car. We didn’t realize, but Sequim is a long way from Quilcene, and everything in it closes at 3, including the Game Farm. We were really looking forward to feeding those llamas and elk, let me tell you. You can imagine our disappointment when we arrived at 3:30 to closed gates, only a couple roving peacocks to entertain us. We decided to cut our losses and visit the Dungeness Spit, practically right next door, but got turned away by our tardiness once more. We did attempt to hike past the prominent “Refuge Closed” sign anyway, but someone we assumed to be an authority yelled at us.

In the end, it didn’t really matter that we spent most of the day driving from disappointment to disappointment — even dinner was decidedly sub-par, at the only restaurant in town still open — because the overwhelmingly good vibes in the group made everything marvelous in spite of itself. A good group dynamic is hard to articulate and almost impossible to analyze, but whatever the ultimate reason, we all just got along splendidly. We spent Saturday night essentially how we spent Friday, but moreso, and again slipped off to sleep a little before dawn. Sunday we again woke late and had time for little else but cleaning before we had to catch our ferry to get Malen back to SeaTac on time.

Seriously, though: best weekend on my life. I’m prone to melodrama, so for the sake of accuracy I’ll tone that down to best weekend in memory.

Posted in Musings.

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