I last posted two weeks ago. At the time I thought I’d found someone to assume my lease in Seattle, but it fell through and it looks like I’ll be here until October 9th. That’s not necessarily a disaster, but a month each in Vancouver and Seattle doesn’t give me much stop-and-smell-the-roses time in order to make Los Angeles by mid-November.

At any rate, much of the last two weeks was, to put it mildly, damn terrible. A surfeit of bugs in a client’s website - some of my doing, some not - resulted in multiple testily-written emails waiting for me every morning when I woke up, all of which ended in “right away” or “ASAP”. Stressful. I also was beginning to go crazy sitting all day on a hard wooden chair at the kitchen table of my small apartment near the interstate. I’m a very solitary individual but when I started talking to myself at the supermarket I decided I had to change something.

I’d seen the term coworking while researching my trip but I did some further research this week and found Office Nomads, in downtown Seattle. For a 15-minute drive and $25 a day I’d get a real computer chair and desk and work among other free-lancers and small business owners. On Thursday, I went in.

It occupies the top floor of an old brick building in a mixed commercial and residential neighborhood, and has a few rooms with different vibes: a large main room with assorted tables and desks and the receptionist/owner’s desk, a few private conference rooms, a space with plush sofas and coffee tables covered in magazines, and “The Cave”, a darkened area lit solely by computer monitors that only a programmer could love. When I walked in I was half-expecting to see one big square white-drywalled room with card tables and folding chairs, but I was pleasantly surprised. It was about a third-full of an eclectic group of people in their 20s and 30s wearing t-shirts and jeans and talking about wireless protocols, DNS servers, and web advertising revenue models. Sure beats the kitchen table.

It took a while to get used to the ambient noise of other people working, but, seeing as I’d been drifting into the dangerous habit of quitting work earlier and earlier to take a nap or read, it was good to have an impetus to stay at my computer until 5:00. However, at 3:00 on Friday afternoon two guys passed around a hat and then disappeared, returning shortly with a few six-packs of Pete’s Wicked Ale; everyone’s work output diminished noticeably after that.

Friday night I figured I’d take advantage of my location and play some poker. There are dozens of casinos in the area but I still had to wait a half-hour to get a seat at a $3/$6 Texas Hold ‘Em table. I threw down five twenties and started playing. I’d never played at a casino before so it took a while to get used to the fast pace of the game, but I managed to hit a few big hands, and then some more, and had around $450 by 2:00 a.m. At this point all the intoxicated and the amateurs left to eat and sleep, and my competition got much tougher. I found myself playing against four or five others who showed a lot of experience at the table. Two of them were actually dealers who’d worked earlier and were now playing on their time off. I knew I was in trouble but I was having fun, and my stack dwindled until I lost the last of it when I kept betting my full house against a new guy who’d just joined us and pulled 4 10’s on his first hand. It was light when I walked outside and I did a double take when I checked the time. 8:00 a.m.

My lesson from that night is that I’m better at poker than drunk players, but worse than people who actually work at the casino. To be fair, that’s a relatively wide category.

Needless to say I didn’t get much done on Saturday. Napping and college football. In a striking contrast, on Sunday my agenda included napping and pro football. And buying some jeans at the mall.

So, no pictures of lions or tigers or bears or mountains this time. But I’m actually not dreading Monday morning. Which counts for a lot.

My stay in Canada ended on Tuesday. After a few cursory questions from the US border officer, (”What’s in the big black garbage bag?” “A body. Uh, I mean, dirty clothes.”), I was back in the USA. I actually breathed a sigh of relief when I filled my truck with $3.85 gasoline - I had paid $1.38 per liter on the way to Whistler the previous week, which equates to about $5.00 USD per gallon.

My apartment is in Tukwila, Washington, a few miles from downtown Seattle. Unfortunately it’s also just a few miles from the SeaTac (Seattle-Tacoma) International Airport, and arrivals and departures are faintly audible all day long. I couldn’t find an affordable place to stay elsewhere in Seattle - short-term housing has been by far the biggest pain-in-the-ass on this road trip - and this particular landlord had a 12-night open window between tenants, which she kindly provided to me at the prorated $1495 monthly rate. I will be checking out of here on Sunday the 21st.

After an uneventful week I drove to Mt. Rainier on Saturday to get away from the airport and two major interstates that are located within walking distance of my apartment.

The landscape quickly turned into mile after mile cow pastures and pine trees, except for a quick passage through the Muckleshoot Indian Reservation, which was plastered with neon signs inviting passersby into a thousand-car parking lot sitting at the feet of a huge casino. The road wove on through small Enumclaw, Washington, which instantly made me feel at home for the first time on this trip.

The eye-wateringly strong smell of many animals packed into a small place hit me as I passed by an enormous red barn advertising “Livestock Auction Today.” Main Street was partially closed off for a car show and I could see rows of angle-parked cars with their hoods raised like stacked dominoes, revealing mirror-polished cams. A plastic Budweiser sign in the convenience store where I bought my coffee proudly proclaimed that Enumclaw was the hometown of NASCAR star Kasey Kahne. The town reminded me of Liberty, SC or Lannet, AL or any of a hundred small southern towns.

The Evergreen State is impressively treed in this area. Although it was nearly noon and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, several times I had to remove my sunglasses and turn on my headlights while driving through a canopy of pine trees that blacked out the road beneath it. There were almost no signs of civilization within 50 miles of the park entrance, and I could only pick up one radio station. The Allman Brothers sang “Ramblin’ Man.”

And every time there was a break in the trees, I could glimpse the mountain. Mt. Rainier dominates the landscape of northwest Washington - it is visible from almost everywhere. It’s not the tallest peak in a series of peaks, it’s the peak.

I paid $15 at the park’s entrance and studied a hiking trail map. I decided to drive up to Sunrise, elevation 6400′. I stopped at a few scenic overlooks on the way.

I parked at Sunrise and hiked up to First Borroughs, elevation 7000′. I was above the treeline now.

I hiked up to Second Burroughs, elevation 7400′.

Even several miles of rocky trail from the parking lot, there were many hikers up here. Usually they thin out considerably after a few hundred yards of hiking, but I could always see about a dozen people on the trail ahead or behind me.

One shaggy-haired, barrel-bellied man of about 35 was slowly making his way up the mountain when I passed him from behind. “How’s it going man? This is my day off from the kids, I gotta make the most of it.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” I agreed, looking back.

“So what do you do for a living, man?”

“Web developer.”

“Yeah,” he continued, not hearing my answer, “I’ve got family that are bounty hunters.”

Not knowing the proper response to this unsolicited information, I nodded my head.

“Hey man, you know this guy?” He stopped and stood up straight, stretching his black tee shirt down towards his belt buckle. It almost made it.

The shirt was emblazoned with a large picture of Dog the Bounty Hunter. “That’s my uncle, man. The Dog. He’s great, man, me and him go way back. Got the same mullet and everything.” He removed his dirty baseball cap so that I could indeed confirm his statement.

“That’s cool,” I said. “Well, see ya.” Luckily, he wasn’t a very fast hiker. I didn’t see him again.

The final peak, Third Burroughs, was accessed through an unmarked but well-traveled trail and involved losing 400 hard-earned feet of altitude, then hiking across an expansive rocky ridgeline.

One of the best parts about this hike was that it was almost completely above the treeline, so that I always knew exactly where I was in relation to my starting point and eventual destination. That was a drawback at times, though, when I looked back and could clearly see people camped out eating lunch at a spot I passed a tough hour ago.

Also, because of the unchecked exposure, I am at the moment sporting an impressive sunburn.

Third Burroughs, elevation 7828′. The view from the top was, like most things in nature worthy of a photograph, wholly incapable of being photographed.

On the way back down, I took a different trail which was literally cut out of the steep side of the mountain, looking down at the valley below.

The entire trek was about nine miles and took me five hours.

The coup-de-grace came as I was driving back down the mountain while the sun was beginning to set. I rounded a hairpin turn in my truck and came upon a series of cars parked on the middle of the road, people hanging out of the open windows. I grabbed my camera. Anywhere else it would have been for a fender-bender, here I knew it was for wildlife.

In Yellowstone the sight that caused traffic to stop was buffalo and coyotes. Here it was…SASQUATCH!

Just kidding, it was a bear.

^ I can now profess to have seen a bear in the wild. If I were old enough to have a bucket list, that would have been on it.

On Saturday, for my final weekend in Canada, I visited Whistler Ski Resort. It sits about two hours north of Vancouver and is accessed via the almost unbearably-scenic Sea-To-Sky Highway, which runs along the eastern side of Howe Sound for most of the drive. I listened to a Canadian country station as I made my way north, but somehow “I’m Alberta Bound” just doesn’t have the same ring to it as “Amarillo By Morning.”

I had was wearing several layers and had packed a sweatshirt in case of inclement weather, but it was very warm when I pulled into Whistler, and the sidewalks were clogged with strolling couples in flip-flops and shorts. Whistler is less a ski resort than a small town - it’s not the lodge-and-rental-shop cluster of buildings that I’m used to. The main village covers a huge area and looks like a Tanger Outlet Center. If you ever find yourself skiing and decide you need to pick up some lotion at L’Occitane and sunglasses at Tommy Hilfiger, you’re covered. There were definitely more shoppers than those intent on participating in outdoor activities.

There was very little snow on any of the runs, and none at all over by the lifts. Crowds of mountain bikers waited in line for the gondola and a chance to ride down the dirt paths which, in a few months, will be crisscrossed by skiers and snowboarders.

I had planned on riding to the top of the mountain and hiking around up there, but that would have involved me cramming into the gondola with bikes and bikers after shelling out $40 to ride for just one round-trip. There were trails all around the base of the park so I set out on them.

They turned out to be a little too civilized. Much of it was was groomed gravel - or, ugh, paved - and meandered past million-dollar houses and impeccable golf courses. I can’t in good conscience call what I’m doing “hiking” if I round a turn and see a man wearing an Izod shirt pushing a baby stroller and talking on a cell phone. I finally found some dirt paths and wandered down to a secluded lake. I might add that this took place after passing a first, not-so-secluded lake, whose beaches featured a whole host of very white and very naked people. Some of the men were doing the lay-on-your-side-propped-on-your-elbow-with-one-knee-up pose which is reminiscent of a bad 70’s family portrait in front of a fireplace. Imagine squinting your eyes and opening a can of Vienna sausages.

^ Not that bad, but close. And naked.

Anyway, the lake.

I was pretty hot by this point so I contemplated taking a swim. I removed my shoes and socks and stuck my toes in the water. It was about the temperature you’d expect from a lake at the foot of a Canadian ski resort, that is to say, my skin immediately went numb on contact and halted any thoughts of submersing my entire body in it. But it was pretty.

^ It was weird seeing even the topmost runs devoid of snow. I figured they would keep at least a slushy base around all year.

^ On the way home, I stopped at a scenic overlook above a deep valley.

^ There were a few people on the right side of the road watching this rock with binoculars. I don’t know if there was anyone rock-climbing the face of this thing, but that would’ve been pretty impressive.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Seattle. I found a place to stay and will be there until October 9th.

The sun finally came out this weekend and on Saturday and Sunday I visited the small Crescent Beach in nearby Surrey. I parked in a small lot and walked past cottages with impeccably groomed yards and brightly colored flowers that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dr. Seuss book.

^ One thing I’ve noticed up here is that a lot of time is spent on yard maintenance. Carefully trimmed bushes, eloquent flower arrangements, and shaded arbors are the norm, rather than the exception.

A few beachfront shops selling fish and chips clustered around the main public beach. As with the aforementioned houses, the effect was almost laughably idyllic, like the ersatz city in The Truman Show. A long gravel walkway followed the beach in each direction, and I walked on this, away from the people. The sand disappeared and the beach got rockier.

I was almost alone here, a few hundred yards from the main beach. I passed a volume-enhanced Baby Boomer sitting on a towel reading a book. He was cross-legged. He was naked. I walked faster.

I found a large flat stone and stretched out on it. It was just warm enough to enjoy the sun.

The high Asian population in the greater Vancouver area is understandably accompanied by an enormous amount of Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai restaurants. Even on the beachfront strip, signs advertising sushi and wanton soup are are numerous as those selling homemade gelato or fresh crab legs.

I haven’t eaten out much this trip, so for lunch on Tuesday I walked into one of the larger Japanese restaurants downtown and was seated. On the starched white tablecloth was a container of soy sauce, a glass of water, and a pair of paper-wrapped chopsticks. Uh-oh.

I ordered a teriyaki chicken plate that came with rice, a small salad, several large pieces of sushi, fried vegetables - squash, I think - and miso soup. Still no silverware.

In the end I think I did relatively well, considering that my previous experience with chopsticks was fairly limited. The rice was the hardest part, and I did resort to using my fingers for the sushi. I never figured out what to do with the soup so I left it alone. I searched online that afternoon and found that it’s acceptable to pick up the bowl and drink directly from it; I had guessed that in the restaurant but didn’t want to go down that potentially embarrassing route unless I was completely sure.

The food was good, though.

How cold are the winters there? What does the yellow sign above “30 km” mean (#528)?

I guess that sign meant that to watch out for joggers in the area; I’m not really sure. It was rainy and in the 50’s all week but the sun came out and it warmed up to about 70 over the weekend. This area definitely has one of the mildest climates in Canada: I think the TV weathermen reported snowfall this week for Banff and some of the other ski resorts. I’m not really sure how cold it gets during the winter here, on the coast.

Breathtakingly beautiful scenes. I would find it hard to give up a place with so much natural beauty available.

Yep it really is nice. I can see why people would move here, especially from other parts of Canada. There’s not many other places where a ski slope is just a few hours from a sandy beach.

Vancouver was also chosen to host the 2010 Winter Olympics and people here are very excited about that, especially with the recent publicity of the summer Olympics.

^ Clock in downtown Vancouver counting down to 2010 Olympics. Photo from Wikipedia.