A Pilgrimage to Home
Photographs and narrative by Robert S. Harrison
For My Grandfather Elmer Allison Ball
"He was a good Joe"
As I started pedaling down the gravel driveway and turned right on Fisherman Bay Road, I felt weight lift from my shoulders. I worked hard this summer. I played hard, too. I was beat. And now, as autumn began to color the trees, I was setting off on my first solo bike trip to a place of great importance in my life and childhood: a pilgrimage to my grandparents’ graves. To visit them, to commune with them.
I planned to take the ferry to Fidalgo Island, bike over Deception Pass and down Whidbey Island. I would ferry across to Port Townsend, then pedal along the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula before meeting my mother and her partner at Lake Crescent. We would then climb Mount Storm King to the beautiful little overlook where my grandparents' ashes are spread.
My grandfather was a professional photographer. I follow in his footsteps. I decided to photograph this journey in black and white as a tribute to him. He could have taken many of these same photographs half a century earlier. In others, the progression of time is clearly visible, even with the slower pace of life in these lands.
I planned to take the ferry to Fidalgo Island, bike over Deception Pass and down Whidbey Island. I would ferry across to Port Townsend, then pedal along the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula before meeting my mother and her partner at Lake Crescent. We would then climb Mount Storm King to the beautiful little overlook where my grandparents' ashes are spread.
My grandfather was a professional photographer. I follow in his footsteps. I decided to photograph this journey in black and white as a tribute to him. He could have taken many of these same photographs half a century earlier. In others, the progression of time is clearly visible, even with the slower pace of life in these lands.
Portrait of me, Deception Pass
As my first day came to a close, I went to the beach and read.
I drank a beer.
I looked out over Puget Sound and saw the Olympic Mountains, my destination, rising out of the water.
I listened as jets took off from Whidbey Island Naval Air Station.
I felt free.
Crawling into my borrowed tent, I tried to sleep. I had decided against bringing a sleeping pad and the hard, cold ground leached what little warmth was in my body. The air was musty. I had carelessly let my feet get wet earlier, they turned frigid.
The Navy flights did not cease in the darkness. The tent shook as the jets flew over and over.
By five in the morning, I had enough. With no more sleep to be had, I packed up in the pitch black and headed out.
Breakfasting at Cranberry Lake, it started to rain.
Under the protection of a tree, I ate two hard boiled eggs from the day before.
Otters played in the distance. Birds skimmed the calm surface of the lake.
It stopped raining.
I started pedaling down SR 20.
Under low, grey skies, I passed the Naval Air Station and headed down the west side of the island searching in vain for coffee and warm food.
I came upon houses in disrepair and a small strip of forlorn shops. I got off my bike and started to walk. I looked down for a moment and then lifted my head coming face to face with a man holding an assault rifle dressed in black.
I froze.
I looked again, noticing a police insignia on his bulletproof vest.
A raid was happening in front of my eyes.
Without a word, I quickly continued on.
Growing up, Fort Casey was a favorite place for birthdays, with massive squirt gun fights on the ramparts. My friends and I running everywhere, huge water guns gushing.
Other times, my father, brother and I played hide and seek in the bunkers, luring each other into the darkness only to jump out screaming.
One weekend, my family stayed in the old officers’ quarters.
It had been years since I had been here.
This time I read Martin Luther King's writing on love and Jesus.
I contemplated the guns.
These positions had never seen combat, but the two massive guns on display bore pock marks of shrapnel along their barrels, scars of a far away conflict with the Japanese.
Crushed bone and steel.
Destroyed lives.
As I rode the path out of Port Townsend, my bike chain started making cranky noises. It was hard to pedal. I stopped and flipped the bike over to see what I could do. After lubricating the chain and futzing around, it was none the better. Time was short. I needed to cover plenty of ground before sundown. I kept riding.
As the trail headed inland I came upon an industrial complex. Looking at it from the beauty of the trail, I saw our collective future: our pristine environment on the right and destructive industry on the left, polluting. The narrative made perfect sense and the photograph materialized instantly.
As I rode on, I saw a sign about recycling. The paper mill in the photograph focuses on recycling and limiting green house gasses.
Today I tested my limits and the limits of my equipment.
When I had researched the route from Port Townsend to Sequim, it appeared to be part of the Olympic Discovery Trail, a well-maintained bike route generally separate from the main road. However, this section was miles of biking on winding roads with speeding traffic and barely any shoulder.
I pulled over to double check my map. A bus came up and stopped. The driver offered me a ride. Caught flatfooted, I thought quickly and decided to continue on my bike.
I immediately lamented seeing the bus fade into the distance. What had I refused?
My bike continued to strain and clank, the chain jamming occasionally.
My knee started throbbing.
I struggled to pedal up massive, winding hills as cars and trucks rushed past.
On Highway 101 things got better. A feeling of safety returned with the wide shoulder. I pulled off for dinner, a Subway sandwich from the last town. Food gave me a boost, but my back tire went flat during the meal. I re-inflated it, hoping it would hold until I found a campground. The sun was creeping toward the horizon. I still had miles to go.
My knee continued to throb.
The tire slowly deflated. I refilled it every half hour or so, taking the opportunity to massage my knee.
Just after sundown, I made it to a campground near Sequim. There was a notice about needing reservations. I wheeled my bike around the locked gate and, bleary eyed, pedaled down the trail. A group of people with Down's Syndrome tried to be helpful, but their chaperones let me know the entire place was booked for their event. No one knew of the state campground that I was trying to find.
I continued on the path hoping to get close enough to the water and far enough from the group to pitch my tent in privacy. The trail led right into the campground I was looking for.
Relief.
I had ridden from before sunrise until after sunset, going over 55 miles on an aging mountain bike.
I set up camp and made a bonfire. As night surrounded me I looked up at the stars.
I slept on a picnic table out under the heavens.
I had decided to be as thrifty as possible in preparing for this adventure. I chose to ride my old bike, which my mother had bought for me years before for only $10. It belonged to Holly B, who had ridden it to work at her bakery on Lopez for many years.
I borrowed a tent, panniers - those bags that fit on the back of a bike beside the wheels, sleeping bag, and a head lamp. I had purchased a bike pump, extra reflector, and spare inner tube for safety's sake. It came in handy this morning. I had only changed a bike tire once before, on a kitchen floor in Morocco. After about half an hour and with the assistance of a Leatherman and fork, I was back in business.
I stopped to take a photograph.
I immediately heard the clopping of horseshoes on pavement and waited for a moment. An exquisitely dressed gentleman with a cowboy hat appeared on a horse. He stopped and asked if I needed help. His sincerity and kindness struck me. I thanked him and let him know that I had stopped to take a photograph and was not in need of assistance.
"It is a nice day for a ride," I said.
"Everyday is a nice day for a ride up here," he replied.
Moments later he was riding on.
I made it to Port Angeles in the early afternoon. I had already decided to treat myself to accommodation that included a bed.
When I got in, I met the owner of the hostel. A nice young fellow with a wife and two kids. The hostel had been booked full for a funeral, but they offered to let me stay in their living room. He setup a screen and little cot with sheets for me. I didn't even fully fit on it and yet it was still divine.
We talked life and I listened to his politics. It was strange to hear and participate in a conversation. I had only been on the road for a couple days, but the relative quiet of a solo journey had sunk in.
I wandered through the little town. Enjoying watching the world twist and turn around me, without me.
Roadside Memorial for Dick Jones
I headed out on Highway 101 for Lake Crescent.
Stopping at a little diner called Granny's Café, I ate a second breakfast. When traveling under one's own power, lots of food becomes essential.
Soon I was on my way again, making it to Lake Crescent a little after noon. I sat on the pebble shore, enjoying the water.
Mom and John arrived and we ate lunch at the lodge. It had been nearly a decade since I’d been here and twenty years since my family had vacationed here during my childhood.
It felt good to be here again. Ancient familiar memories blended with the present.
By early afternoon, we were climbing up Mount Storm King.
We took our time, enjoying the scenery, and a few breaks.
Near the end of the maintained trail, we ducked off the path to find the little memorial site where May Maw and Pop Pop's ashes are spread.
We found the buried Ball jar containing the list of all our family's previous visits. As always, we told family stories and tried to remember details from previous expeditions.
Unscrewing the lid of the jar, we found the two little plaques placed there so many years ago.
Elmer A. Ball
1923 -1990
"He was a good Joe"
A Loving Family Was His
Crowning Achievement
Jan Willows Ball
1920 -1994
"She traveled life as
an adventure, with
grace, style and
loving encouragement."
1923 -1990
"He was a good Joe"
A Loving Family Was His
Crowning Achievement
Jan Willows Ball
1920 -1994
"She traveled life as
an adventure, with
grace, style and
loving encouragement."
The trail from this point to the top of Mount Storm King is steep and treacherous, covered with slippery shale. A sign warns hikers to continue at their own risk. My grandparents always hiked to the top, Pop Pop usually carrying his bulky old four by five camera to the summit where, year after year, he took black and white photos. They reveled in the adventure and the accomplishment, making the climb together well into their 60s. It was a point of gentle pride that, while their children and grandchildren loved to hike this mountain, none but May Maw and Pop Pop made it to the top.
For this journey, I envisioned finally achieving the summit, too. Mom and John stayed at the gravesite. I hiked on.
Fatigue was hitting my body hard. The sun was setting and steep cliffs dropped off on both sides of the narrow trail.
I stopped to see and absorb the scene around me. I longed to remember my grandparents, to honor them.
The high point of my journey.
What was the point in pushing it and getting hurt? Of rushing in failing light to a physical location, when I could go back to their graves and spend time remembering my grandparents?
I decided to turn around, I would make it to the top next time I told myself.
I hiked down the trail to where Mom and John were waiting. We sat near my grandparents’ graves, telling more stories. Memories of me, barely three years old, standing on Pop Pop's workbench rattling off the names of all of the tools. Of Pop Pop trying to teach me to say my name, "Spen-SER" and me trying so hard to get it right with "Pem-BERT."
Finally, it was time to retrace our steps down the mountain.
We stayed the night at the Miller Tree Inn in the sleepy town of Forks.
Best known, until just a couple years ago, for logging and trying to ban Dr. Suess's The Lorax, Forks was transformed by the Twilight books. A life-size vampire hung in the window of the inn. Copies of the books were everywhere.
We slept late and had a nice breakfast. I’d been here in 1994 for May Maw’s funeral, playing cribbage with Uncle Arthur at the same breakfast table. He is gone now, too.
The next morning we explored Rialto Beach on the Pacific Ocean.
The journey continued.
Mom and John dropped me off at Port Angeles and I boarded the MV Coho bound for Victoria, British Columbia to see my friend, Alex. The two of us played soccer in elementary school near Seattle.
All my previous adventures were about going somewhere distant: exploring Morocco, India, Turkey, Spain, Thailand, France. This time I was never more than a hundred miles from home, but I was moving through time and inhabiting many different worlds.
My grandmother was Canadian. She and Pop Pop may have taken the same ferry to Victoria years ago.
I pondered how the places might have changed since they visited this little city and traveled these very same trails.
Al and I caught up, then wandered. Finding ourselves at the cathedral, we sat quietly on a pew.
"Our home is an historic building of great beauty and profound spirituality, whose doors are open daily for worship, prayer, meditation, or just to visit. We welcome people of any faith or of none; we see ourselves as a safe space within the city, committed to bringing diverse folk together." - Dean's Welcome
Looking back towards America
The next morning we went for coffee across the street from Al’s apartment.
Minutes later I was heading North on the Galloping Goose trail to Sydney where I would catch a ferry home.
Minutes later I was heading North on the Galloping Goose trail to Sydney where I would catch a ferry home.
In Sydney, after devouring one of the best omelets of my life at the Third Street Café, I boarded the ferry for home.
When I was young, riding a ferry to school and back every day seemed to take forever. Today, time floated by, dreamlike. I arrived in Friday Harbor and got lunch at the Doctor's Office, a great little café. Boarding the inter-island ferry back to Lopez, I started to see people I knew. Kim, a teacher from high school. Bill, a family friend.
As the boat glided through the water, I finished Peace Pilgrim's book. Geordie gave it to me for my journey and it was a good companion along the way.
I walked my bike off the ferry at Lopez feeling strong. My body was solid after days of riding. It would be a short victory lap home.
Thud.
The back axel popped out and the wheel jammed against the frame. This had been a persistent problem since I changed my tire in Sequim. I took the bags off, flipped the bike over and got to work. Friends stopped, offering help or a ride. I thanked them and declined. No way I was giving up now.
Minutes later I peddled on. Arriving home just before sunset, I grabbed a beer and headed for the tree house. The sun dropped below the horizon.
I was home.
