King Oscar and the lighthouse

If you've lived around the Puget Sound for any length of time, you know about The Gray.

It has other names, of course. The Gloomy Season. The Big Dark. The Drizzle. Or, as they say in a particular movie, "It rains nine months of the year in Seattle." The constant overcast and light-to-heavy rainfall, combined with our location above the 45th Parallel, means that from November to March the Puget Sound skies are almost unrelentingly dark, foggy, or both. If you don't already have Seasonal Affective Disorder, you'll start to develop a touch of it in midwinter. You need to develop strategies to fight The Gray or it will overwhelm you and shut you down.

Now if this were a normal time, I'd fight The Gray by being with people. I'd visit family and friends. I'd go to Bremerton's nerd pubs and play pinball or cabinet video games. I'd strike up conversations with friendly strangers in the library. I'd gather with local geeks to play board games. I'd go to storytelling nights and hear about people's adventures from their own mouths. I'd meet people and I'd make friends.

But this is not a normal time.

I don't want to get sick. I don't want to make other people sick. I can't be successfully frugal AND spend much time with local friends, since it takes time and money to visit our old stomping grounds on the Eastside. And with a couple of rare exceptions, I haven't gotten out enough to meet any new people around here. I've been strongly isolated. And isolation is no way to fight The Gray.

What to do?

Well, if you're me, which I am, you knit and crochet while listening to back episodes of The Magnus Archives, putter around the house, cook, read library books, spend way too much time bingeing YouTube videos. And when you tire of that, you go troll hunting.

Today, since Captain Midnight was determined to DM some D&D deeds of derring-do, I was on my own for the afternoon. The Gray was lowering and unrelenting, but it was not a day to stay in. So I stole CM's jacket, gathered up the usual bundle of accoutrements (vitamins, water bottle, hot chocolatey goodness) and made for the ferry to Vashon Island.

You might not consider Vashon a prime spot to hunt for trolls, and ordinarily I'd agree with you. It's a fine place to find aging hippies, bike-eating trees, and (if rumor is correct) several ferocious local strains of cannabis, but until recently the only certain locale for Scandinavian cryptids was under the Aurora Avenue bridge in Seattle.

And then Thomas Dambo and crew came along and shook things up. But we'll get to that in a bit.

It usually takes a while to drive from our current digs to the Southworth ferry dock in Port Orchard. It usually takes even longer for the Southworth/Vashon/Fauntleroy ferry to show up -- so much so that on the rare occasions when I've used it to get back to Kitsap from Seattle, I end up waiting so long that I'd have made better time just driving around Tacoma and up the peninsula. CM and I usually refer to it as "the cursed ferry." So to my great delight, I didn't have to wait more than 10 minutes for the cursed ferry to arrive at Southworth Dock. And it didn't take another 10 minutes to make the crossing from there to Vashon.

Despite the gloominess of the day, I enjoyed my first look at Vashon Island. I couldn't live there, as there's no hospital or even a basic medical clinic, and everything has to reach the island by boat or helicopter. But it has a remarkable number of creative people per capita, and it's beautiful.

I drove merrily through the cute little downtown area, took a turn to the left and continued to follow driving directions for... far longer than I'd expected. How long should it take to reach any spot on an island of 37 square miles? As the roadway narrowed and twisted, I pulled over and sent a quick text to my siblings: "This place is in the middle of nowhere. IF I SHOULD FALL, TELL MY STORY"

Just then, though, the end hove in sight: the upper parking lot of the Point Robinson Lighthouse. 'Bout time.

(BTW, if you're new to troll hunting, look around for clusters of painted birdhouses like these. They're a sure sign that trolls are nearby.)

Since I'd never been to Point Robinson before, I was also curious about the lighthouse. And at the time it seemed like a lot of people were paying homage to King Oscar. So I thought I'd just pop down and see the lighthouse first.

This turned out to be a mistake. Not the seeing-the-lighthouse part, the taking-this-route part. I headed down a forest trail that quickly became slick with mud and crud and slippery fallen leaves, and there were no handrails to cling to. Frankly, it's a minor miracle that I didn't slip and fall on my butt, BUT(t) somehow I SLOWLY worked my way down, walking like a little granny, and made it to the end of the path relatively unscathed (though it's a good thing my shoes were designed to be laundered).

And here's what I found!

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

Ah yes indeed, very nice. 

No official tours until Mother's Day, more's the pity. But we're good at showing ourselves around the place.

After taking a few more attractive foties...

...I decided to head back. Though by this time I'd figured out there was another route up to the parking lot, so I didn't have to run the mud gauntlet again. Which is good, because I don't think my shoes could've taken it.

Lessee, what was I doing here again? Oh yeah.

In a circular clearing not too far away... there was King Oscar holding court, surrounded by birdhouse clusters on poles. And a lot of fans.

If you're curious to know more about him, there's a helpful plaque nearby that goes into more detail about Oscar and about Thomas Dambo, the Danish artist who created him (and other trolls) out of local scrap wood.

Like most wise rulers, Oscar's staying off his feet today.

He looks so much more handsome in person than he does on the sardine cans. Also I like his birdhouse crown. Very chic.

Someone had used a few local clams to give him a fabulous pedicure. As you do.

I handed my phone to an innocent bystander and proceeded to commune with the King.

Now we're officially BFFs. If you can't be a king, it's at least nice to know one.

I wasn't through exploring yet, though.

Not far from the King's court was this mysterious object.

Other than possibly being some kind of cryptic municipal art, I have no idea what it was.

If you know, do clue me in, won't you? I'm most curious.

And then I ran off and took goofy selfies in front of a mural because I could.

Anyway, that's one way to fight The Gray. And it worked pretty well if I do say so myself!

Lookout and labyrinth

Hello, folks! It's been a while.

What have I been doing, you may ask? Well, Captain Midnight and I moved. We're still in a nifty computerized Batcave somewhere around the Puget Sound, but in a slightly different location. And this time, we bought the place.

Since our new place is not just in a new town, but in a whole 'nother county, and since I really don't know anyone around here other than Captain Midnight, Miss V and Charlie-cat, the move has been more than a little discombobulating. It doesn't really feel like home yet -- more like a very long stay in a very large hotel room -- so in an attempt to drive myself out of a funk and get a general feel for the area, I've been running around looking for strange and wonderful things to see and do. So far I've found the eight-foot-tall gnome outside a random residence, the cute little waterfront shopping area, the amazing pizza joint, the hobbit hole, the most scenic drive from the docks to our house, the wooden troll that guards a local nursery, several hole-in-the-wall spots that sell fantastic pancit and lumpia (there's a large Filipino presence here), our local library and, yes, Trader Joe's.

But one of my favorite discoveries, made thanks to Atlas Obscura, was one I visited today -- the Halls Hill Lookout and Labyrinth, near the south end of Bainbridge Island.

Red arrow shows approximate location of today's adventure.
Map courtesy OpenStreetMaps.

Bainbridge is only physically connected to the mainland by one tiny bridge at the far northwest end of the island, spanning Agate Passage. So aside from the traffic that flows off the ferry from Seattle past the town of Winslow, up the state highway and across the bridge to the rest of the Kitsap Peninsula, most of Bainbridge is the road less traveled. The whole island functions as a kind of artists' retreat, and everywhere you go there are signs of creative people at work.

Today's adventure is no exception.

Halls Hill Lookout, which overlooks Blakely Harbor to the south, is a privately-owned park that's open to the public. It's been here for some time, but the labyrinth is a relatively recent addition.

The mosaic labyrinth was completed in June 2014 by Portland-based stone artist Jeffery Bale. Most of the work was completed with stones gathered from local beaches around the island, but there are also a few glittery surprises to find.

Well, let's follow the yellow brick road, shall we?

And here's what we find at the end: a Chartres-style labyrinth worked in stone.

Labyrinths like this one are meant to be a kind of walking meditation. There's one path in, and the same path out. The path twists back on itself in unexpected ways, so that if you are walking the labyrinth along with someone else who's much farther along on the path, you may be walking side by side at times. When you reach the center, you are encouraged to pause, recharge and seek mental clarity before turning to retrace your steps to the entrance.

There are numerous flowers worked into the stone of the labyrinth's path.

Also wonderful found objects, like this metal lock embellished with a Hindu deity...

...and geodes and other shaped rocks and shells as well.

I walked the labyrinth today seeking something very specific. I'll let you know if I find it.

Anyway, there's more than just the labyrinth to be discovered. This, for instance, is the community prayer wheel, cast by artist Tom Jay and first displayed here in 2004.

If you spin the prayer wheel nine times, it rings a 300-pound bell inside. (I tried it; the bell made more of a CLONK than a BONG sound, not as impressive as I'd hoped.)

Well, moving on.

The paths and gardens in this area are meant to look like composed wilderness. The trees and other plantings are mostly local species. (Lots of salal berries!)

There are also plenty of places to sit, look out over the landscape, and compose your mind.

And as you look around, you may find other faces looking back at you.

This bridge over a small stream is cut from one massive tree trunk.

There are beautiful views of the harbor. Here's a peek at a swim dock out in the water.

Everything feels well-planned here; even the dormant grasses are a beautiful gold against the green.

Yet another face staring back at me, this one high in a tree.

Just by the entrance, there's a little dahlia cart out today. It's prime dahlia season in this area.

Everything for sale here is offered on the honor system. You take what you want and leave money in the box. Fortunately, most visitors are honorable.

I did catch this little visitor making off with some nuts. (Sorry about the blurriness; he didn't do a great job of holding still.)

Who knows whether the labyrinth does what it's meant to do, but any connection to nature and to art is bound to be healing. I left Halls Hill feeling much more composed and calm than I was when I entered. (Also hungry. Time to get some dinner.)

Desert Scout

It's been a while since I did any municipal art blogging, hasn't it?

So here's a wooden sculpture I've somehow missed a couple of times, in the hallway of the Redmond Library. It's called "Desert Scout," and unsurprisingly it's by Dudley Carter.

It's especially interesting to look at the fine details of his work; much of it is deliberately kept rough to show the grain of the wood, but his stylized signature shows he's capable of smooth, finished work as well.

A visit to Oxbow Park

Today I went to the Museum of Flight.

But since you can read about this museum pretty much anywhere on the net, forget that.  I'm going to tell you instead about a city park in the Georgetown neighborhood of Seattle.

It's a pleasant little place called Oxbow Park.

The Georgetown Community P-Patch can be found in this park, and a picturesque garden spot it is.

Don't believe me?  Fine, I've got proof.

That would certainly explain the crick in my neck.

No one was out actively gardening today, but there was plenty to see.

Kale!

Ripening black tomatoes!

Mysterious lacy fronds!

And some shocking pink flowers, blowing in the gentle breeze.

Every now and again a low-flying plane would go by overhead, since this neighborhood is near Boeing Field.  Or maybe they were there to check out the other draw of this neighborhood park...

...the Georgetown Hat and Boots.

Here be the hat...

...and thar be the boots.

You may now be asking yourself, as well you may, "What on earth are these huge cowboy castoffs doing in a Seattle city park?"  Well, gather 'round the campfire, cowpokes, gonna tell y'all a story...

If you've read about the Teapot Dome Service Station here, you may have already divined that between the 1920s and the 1950s the United States went through a novelty building craze, creating various functional structures designed to look like enormous versions of everyday objects.  And you'd be right.  Many of these were constructed along the state highways in the hope that the unusual sight would entice visitors to stop and gawk and spend a little jingle while they were at it.  (My mom remembers with fondness the Giant Orange stands in California, where her family would stop on road trips and buy orange juice so cold it was almost slush.)

The hat and boots began life as the "Premium Tex" Texaco gas station in 1954.  It was part of a larger planned Western-themed shopping center called Frontier Village, which largely failed to materialize.  From what I've read, the hat originally formed the roof of the cashier area, and the boots were restrooms (the dark boot for men, the light blue boot for women).  Eventually the gas station closed, but the Hat and Boots -- even in dilapidated condition -- became a Seattle landmark.  When there was talk of tearing down and/or moving the structures, the Georgetown community stood up and said no.  They passed the hat (well, a smaller version of the hat) and worked with the city council on getting the structures refurbished and moved to Oxbow Park so they could be enjoyed by future generations.  And in 2003, that's just what happened.

I took a quick peek under the hat.  Happily there were no giant flakes of dandruff in evidence.

Each boot still has a door in the heel where the restroom used to be.  Word on the street is that these days it's used as storage for park maintenance equipment.

I kinda like to imagine the size of the cowboy who could fit into these boots.  (Or the cowgirl, for that matter.)  Still, after all the work the people of Georgetown did to save the hat and boots, I also hope nobody ever comes by to retrieve them.