I don’t know what I was thinking when I left the house around 6 a.m. last month. Maybe the coffee hit too early, or maybe I was chasing that perfect Pacific Northwest morning — quiet, cold, and weirdly peaceful. Either way, I drove toward a trail near Kingston with no real plan except “walk until my brain wakes up.”
Except the fog was waiting for me.
It wasn’t the gentle misty type. This was “can’t see the sign in front of your face” fog. The kind where every tree turns into a shadow creature. But since I’d already driven there, I figured why not? A little fog never killed anyone… probably.
Five minutes in, everything sounded louder — every branch snap, every crow scream, even my jacket was somehow noisy. But the forest felt alive in a way it usually doesn’t when the sun’s out.
And somewhere along the loop, I realized I had definitely wandered off it.
Not dramatically. I just kept walking until the dirt path slowly transformed into a mossy carpet of “you probably shouldn’t be here.” For a second, I panicked. But then it felt… nice. Quiet in a way the world rarely is.
Eventually I found the trail again — mostly because I tripped over a root and fell next to a marker post. Graceful, I know.
But honestly, mornings like that are why I love the PNW. The forest teaches you to slow down. Or, in my case, it forces you.
