It's amazing to me that the further away from home I am, the further from home "home" begins. Returning from a trip to Seattle, crossing the Hood Canal bridge into Jefferson County feels like entering my back yard. From this distance, it happens coming over Snoqualmie Pass, traversing the watershed between Eastern and Western Washington. Here is familiar territory. Here are road signs I've seen before. Here, I am within reach of friends. If the car breaks down now, someone can come to pick me up.
Soon, I am in rush hour traffic, flowing molasseslike through Issaquah, then Bellevue, then across Lake Washington into Seattle. My intention was to stop off and visit Rachel's sister, Margie, in the city before heading home. However, it is five o'clock, and the light will soon be failing. My intention is to try to make it home before dark. The trooper in Idaho cited me for driving without insurance - a $97 dollar fine. In Washington, the fine is $450 dollars. Driving at night with my disabled electrical system makes me an easy target for police. Between here and Port Townsend, I will have to avoid the Washington State Patrol, Seattle Police, Kitsap County Sheriff, Jefferson County Sheriff, and Port Townsend Police.
On the ferry to Winslow, I set up my tripod and take a final set of pictures in the light from the setting sun. Me, in my T-shirt from the rattlesnake museum, with the Space Needle as a backdrop - the requested picture for the museum's bulletin board. It is chilly, the moist air cutting through my clothes. Still, it is a joy to stand on the upper deck, feeling the wind, seeing the familiar banks of Bainbridge island coming closer, steeling myself for the final leg of the drive. As I get into my car below, on the auto deck, I check my mileage. 115990. More than eight thousand miles elapsed since I began this trip.
The bored-looking ferry operator waves me forward, hanging her dirty-blonde hair to one side, and I drive off into the twilight, one headlight glowing weakly into the encroaching Puget Sound evening. I try to keep off the main roads. From Poulsbo, I cut off onto a small side road, barely an alley. This leads to a larger back road. Then, back on the highway briefly until I've crossed the bridge. From the head of the bridge, a local-access road takes me as far as Hadlock. I slide guiltily by the sheriff's office, then down another backroad that, many turns later, will become my driveway.
Finally, I come within the Port Townsend City limits. Only a short hop now, past the thousand realty offices, the redneck tavern, to turn the corner at the pink stucco funeral home that marks Rachel's street. I pull up to the house, walk up the steps, knock, and open the door.