Sunday after a long weekend. We are returning home after circling the Olympic Peninsula in a
clockwise direction. If the peninsula were a clock, Hoodsport would be at 4:00. To say Hoodsport is a small town would be an overstatement. Thirty years ago, it was even tinier. Today, it has a winery bearing its name, a dive shop, and a gas station with mart. It appears to be thriving with other industries along the Hood Canal and up into the woods. Still, it’s gone from tiny to small. Coming here is like returning home.
Hoodsport is located on Highway 101, and is the cross roads to the highway leading to Lake Cushman. Curt and I lived at Lake Cushman. Hoodsport is where we bought necessities and was our last connection with civilization before we headed to our little trailer at the state park.
We head up to Lake Cushman and I look for the former state park. It was sold to an Indian tribe during hard times. The Indian tribe runs it as a campground. After many tries, I locate the former park and stop in at the entrance booth and get permission to look around. Nothing looked familiar. I stopped by the lake. Even it didn’t look the same. When Curt and I were here it was a good 20 feet lower showing stumps of sawed trees from one end to the other. We called it stump lake. The clerk at the gift shop was no help. I resigned myself that the location where Curt and I lived was lost forever. Then, I headed out and stopped by the booth again.
The attendant at the booth was a teenager when Curt and I lived here. She’s from the area. She tells me
that the state park left a “shop” that hasn’t been touched. She pointed to a side road that was off limits to the public. I had found it.
Directly across from this road was the ranger’s house. We had dinners there and Curt and I even baby sat their two young kids while the ranger and his wife were out.
The shop area was exactly the same except more junky, not the well organized facility worthy of a state park. The utility trailer Curt and I lived in was gone. But a wooden structure of its exact size and position was in its place. Everything around the trailer rang with memories. The entrance to the shop area where the bathroom was and where Curt lifted a log for exercise. The place we parked our truck had a truck there. The place where I weeded and was attacked by yellow jackets. And most importantly, the two-room shed where we stayed.
By the time I found this area, the family was crashed out in the car. I dragged Mark out to take some pictures of me. My determination to find this place wiped out Michele and the kids. I guess they just didn’t appreciate the moment. Curt returned here about 10 years after we left in 1984 and reminisced with Dave the ranger. I’ve come too late for that. By the way, I’ve written a small book about my time with Curt. It’s called “Blended Years: A True Story of Friendship and Misadventure.”Just 25,000 words and a bunch of photos. Some day to be self-published.
Abstracts Today 