Hoh-hum Inn: October 07, 2010

The first frost I remember happened sometime during the night of October 6th. The next day, my gear iced-over and my hands crabbed and numb, I wandered a quarter-mile when I passed a bed-and-breakfast. It was just sunrise when I knocked on the door.

A woman opened the door and looked out with an expression that read nothing different in visitors than from the obituaries. She liked to state her purpose in sentences composed of single words.

"Dishes. Silverware. Coffee," she said, swinging her arm in short arcs. "Breakfast." She pointed at a long, unfinished wooden table with a spread of cornbread, hash browns, eggs, bacon, jam, cheese, and juice.

"A lot of company upstairs?"

"No."

Her husband, one of those butter-fed farmers whose waistband has outgrown any belt, sat himself down with us. He and his wife used to take stock into the park, leading llama and horse trains up near the Blue Glacier, before storms closed that trail. Since I had just crossed the Olympics, we had something to talk about and took turns agreeing with each other.

They were - the husband and wife - part of the old Olympic mayflower crew. For both of them, their however-many-great-grandparents had come out when the territory was still disputed. Then with the fervor of the newly settled, they had furiously taken to the chores of the peninsula: cutting trees, staying dry, breeding children.

But, this being a land that measures its rain in feet, the first two were never done to satisfaction and the children were always covered in mud.

"They called them stump ranches," he said. "And that's what we've got." He nodded to the window and to a wide pasture below, his dairy herd wandering around the man-high stumps of cedars, cut some time when presidents still had beards.

"Loggers now leave the stumps and leave the branches. Used to have to take them all out since it interfered with salmon runs. But then fish and wildlife changed their minds and said you have to leave the branches, and even bring them back if you took them away. They don't know what the salmon want."

This being around the time when a genetically-altered salmon was being put before the FDA, I asked him his thoughts.

"I don't think they want that either."

I was not, as it turned out, the only one. A Swede, visiting Seattle for a conference, came downstairs. We continued talking about the topics most favored in those parts: logging and rain. I am not necessarily anti-logging so much as I am pro-tree. So I was glad the farmer had no particular loyalties either way - this being spotted owl country - and that roadsigns now read "Jobs grow with trees" instead of anti-owl slander. ("Up to our necks in owls," as George Bush senior had said, " and out of work for every American.")

I drained my coffee and set down my fork. "More?" the woman sniffed. Then, allowing herself an overdraw of words, "The pig gets it otherwise."

"Maybe I'll take some."

She bagged up the rest of breakfast while the Swede got in his car.

"Lunch?" she said, offering me the bag.

"Yes. What do I owe you?"

"Nothing."

"I can pay. I've got money."

"Nope." She turned her head.