Standing ahead of me as I wait to buy a postcard are two women dressed for hiking. Not the full-bore serious official activewear head-to-toe type with broken-in boots, but at least hats, calf-length khaki-colored pants, long-sleeve blouses, sensible shoes. Short gray hair and weathered skin pegs them as maybe retirement age, which makes sense for a Tuesday in autumn. The setting: a national seashore near a major metropolis, popular—as in crowded—most weekends. As a refuge from the big city, the park functions best on weekdays.
The information desk at the visitor center has only one staff member, and the trio is discussing the park’s map, spread on the counter between them. Reading a map takes less skill than folding one but more than consulting a high-tech device.
On the left, A is short, wiry, fit looking; at her side is B, carrying extra weight. They sound like long-time friends. At least one of them has been here before. I can’t help but overhear them. The few others in the visitor center/gift shop are in line behind me, thumbing through their digital pacifiers. There’s no clerk in the gift shop.
They are asking about hikes: What can the ranger, C, recommend that’s challenging but not too? The ranger suggests a nearby trail.
‘I don’t do steep,’ B warns. ‘You,’ she says, looking at A, ‘should come back with your serious hiking buddies for that.’
The ranger circles another trailhead on the map. ‘This is flat but lovely.’ She’s pointing to a beach.
‘But that’s the road to the lighthouse,’ B says. ‘No, thanks.’ Despite the ‘thanks’ she sounds as though you couldn’t force her at gunpoint to drive that potholed asphalt.
I know what she means, having driven the 20+ miles to the lighthouse the day before: a narrow rutted old highway, the last stretch of which is ‘Not maintained by the county’ according to a sign, which made me wonder what a road maintained by the county is like.
‘We also want to see elk,’ A says. ‘What’s a good spot for that?’
The ranger taps the top end of the map. ‘Here’s where you want to go. This has the largest concentration in the park, and they are in mating season, so you should get to hear them bugling.’
‘That sounds good,’ A says. They discuss distance and best viewing points.
‘Once you park at the trailhead, you can hike all the way to the end, about 4.5 miles. The first half is fairly flat, but then you get inclines.’ The ranger must sense B’s disapproval. ‘Of course, you don’t need to go the whole distance.’
‘Nine miles round trip? We’re not doing that,’ B announces.
‘As I say, you can turn around at any point. You’ll definitely see elk there.’
‘Great,’ A says. ‘What about these beaches nearby?’
‘They are easy access: short drives, very little walking to them.’
‘Showers?’
‘No, although they have restrooms. The ocean’s too cold for swimming here.’
‘We’re not swimming,’ B says. ‘But wading we want to do.’
‘Yes, it’s going to get hot today,’ C says. ‘There’s a nice little unmarked beach along the bay north of this town.’ She points to the map. ‘You just pull off to the side of the road. There’s no parking lot. The water’s salty but not as much as the ocean, and the temperature is around 60 degrees.’
‘Can we rinse off there?’ B asks.
‘There are no facilities. If you want a shower, go to the state park up the road about 7 miles. There’s an entrance fee of $8, but there are showers.’
I already know what B will say: ‘We’re not paying $8 to rinse our legs.’
The line extends five people deep behind me. Maybe I don’t need this postcard, but now I’m curious to see when they will stop talking and actually head to these places they’ve discussed. Will the ranger ever come up with a perfect plan? Call me D for discouraged.
‘What about mosquitoes?’
‘They shouldn’t be a problem now.’
She’s a ranger, not a travel agent, I think. I’d be checking my watch or smartphone if I had either, but I don’t because I would only look at them, which would irritate me. Relax. I have plenty of time to bird watch at the estuary. Sure, earlier is better, but you need to travel in hope, open to what you might encounter.
Back to the weather: Maybe forested trails would be better, given the unseasonably high temperature? What did C recommend?
Maybe you’ll brush against poison oak. Or sprain an ankle on the rocks. Perhaps a seagull will shit on your head. Maybe you should have stayed home. As my patience declines, I wonder again about the need for this little souvenir. It appeals to me because of how much I’d enjoyed swimming in open water the day before. The card depicts a loon dispensing a line of advice. It’s not the sort of thing I usually buy.
I glance behind me at the growing line. Escaping lines of people was a key reason for visiting the park. I want to warn the indecisive twosome: ‘If you don’t stop talking, you’ll never get out of here to enjoy the outdoors,’ but I don’t. Instead, I reread the card, which advises ‘Dive into life!’ and remember other advice: This too shall pass.
Pat Tompkins is an editor in northern California. Her shortest fiction has appeared in Mslexia, Nanoism, KYSO Flash, and other publications.
Photo by Clark Young on Unsplash.
