MARY, JUNER, JURLY, & AUGURST (Just some of the many months with 'R' in them).

Uncle Rico did a quick back-of-the-napkin calculation. "144 beers." he mumbled, "assuming we each drink 12 beers a day".

"I assume bringing water would be entirely out of the question?" I broached.

But he just looked at me as if I were entirely crazy. I didn't know about Kip for sure, but I was having a hard time fitting the concept of 12 beers a day into a low carbohydrate eating routine. I was also having a hard time fitting 48 beers into my kayak.

In an act of unparalleled beneficence, Uncle Rico stacked my ice chest on the towering pile of gear extruding from the cockpit of his stable fishing platform/drilling rig/aquapod, relieving me of my ill conceived plan to tow it in a leaking rubber raft.

We set off around the sheltered south side of Long Island on water so smooth you wouldn't even think it was Willapa Bay, where 9% of all oysters in the United States are grown (thank you Wikipedia entry on Willapa Bay).

Pinnacle Rock...in the distance.

We had stayed at the Pinnacle Rock campground back in 2011, and though we would eventually explore much more of the Island on this trip, we were quickly seduced by the easy availability of non-private oysters close to shore - a feature not so much in evidence at the other campsites on the West side of the island. 

As always, we vowed only to eat the things we could find in nature...144 beers (or so)  not withstanding.

A middle aged lady and her son were camping down the beach from us. She seemed very knowledgeable about the island so we asked her what caused the holes in these trees. She said "Huge peckers hammered all these holes." she paused and then added, " I sure would have liked to have seen them in action."

Uncle Rico was only half listening and was consequently forced to ask, " Did you just say 'huge peckers hammered all these holes'?"

Kip, who had been paying attention, answered, "Yes, that's what she said."

This evening's entree, Oyster 'Po boy' sandwiches.

It took some time to fine tune the deep frying strategy for the oysters, but to sum up the research, the oyster's inherent gooiness lends itself to a 'dry' breading application and not so much a thick beer batter. Also, a camp tested condiment that proved to have multiple applications - Kraft chipotle flavored mayo - in a squeeze bottle.

According to Wikipedia, Willapa Bay is the 2nd largest estuary on the Pacific coast (The San Francisco Bay being the largest), and half the water in this mostly shallow bay leaves and enters with every tide. This makes for a fairly dramatic difference in scenery depending on the time of day.

Out on the bay, the dominant weather pattern established itself as a cool stiff breeze from the north that encouraged single file lines of low lying clouds to file past the island on some undetermined pilgrimage to the south. Meanwhile, the island seemed somehow inoculated from extremes in temperature, our camp sheltered by trees and perhaps topography.

In the gap between the island and the Long Beach Peninsula, trains of un-threatening clouds scurry southward on into the night.

Tired of waiting, Uncle Rico hauls the beer barge into the rising tide (If the tide won't come to Muhammad then Muhammad must go to the tide).

The promise of access to the interior of the island at Smokey Hollow Campground becomes something more like cruel taunting  when it becomes clear a population of mosquitoes, the result of exponential growth in ideal low swampy terrain, would be intent on accompanying us on any inland expedition.

It meant piloting our various watercraft into the wind driven waves, but we persevered until we reached the northern-most campground - Sand Spit.

Here the beach is delineated with great swathes of green and browning seaweed, as if the bay is some vast graduated basin.

I try to take a dramatic picture of Kip suitable for his cage-fighting publicity posters.

Clear evidence of old roads suggests a history of lumber harvesting. The roads evidently run the length of the island.

An ambiguous marking at an intersection.

Deep in the woods, Uncle Rico took time out to explain the life cycle of the Dungeness crab, and how, at suspiciously unspecified times of the year, the female crabs obey nature's dangerous imperative to climb the hills of Long Island to lay their eggs under the leaves of suitable ferns.

We counted ourselves fortunate to find a rare indigenous garden of jalapenos, especially since the receding tide failed to reveal any legal oyster sources.

Pinnacle Rock marks the location of our first campsite (far left)

As the tide continued to recede, the rotten stumps of enormous trees revealed themselves to be futilely clinging to sand in an obviously intertidal area. Uncle Rico began to share his theory that these giants had been victims of the massive Cascadia earthquake of 1700 (or so) when the activity of the Juan de Fuca Plate suddenly dropped established forests into the intertidal area. Of course, after the natural history lesson on Dungeness crabs, I was not entirely sure Uncle Rico's ideas could be trusted. 

After dark, and under a nearly full moon, a solitary oyster boat plied the incoming waters of the next high tide.

At daybreak, I began to notice new animals that made me question the wisdom of sleeping out in the open without a tent. This hand-size cricket/spider hybrid will likely be the source of countless future nightmares.

The trip back to the Pinnacle Rock Campground was like a big payoff for all the effort we had expanded paddling against the wind the day before. Now, the wind pushed us and the waves playfully nudged us, perhaps daring us to surf.

Tree hugger.

That's pretty much what she said.

Other fungus among us.

Oysters!

Kip samples his authentic French 'fortified' wine with the expected level of French snootiness and elegant decorum.

At moments, talking around the campfire, it seemed we were on the verge of solving significant world problems.

But we didn't take any notes...and by the time the moon was setting, I found I couldn't remember any of the answers.

And then the sun rose and the whole thing started again.

Oystergeddon: Willapa Bay's Benevolent Face

 Rhodesia Beach (Close to the Mouth of Willapa Bay)

(Drawing from The Five Chinese Brothers, by Claire Huhet Bishop and Kurt Wiese)

Tides.

They’re a mystery to me.

Sometimes I go to the beach and they’re out.

Sometimes I go to the beach and they’re in.

Until recently, my best hypothesis for the broad expanses of beach exposed at low tide was derived from a book I read in my childhood called The Five Chinese Brothers. The disappearance of all the water from a bay can be attributed, according to the book, to the first Chinese brother swallowing the sea. Since he can not hold the entire sea in his mouth for very long…

…I know it is unwise to walk out into the bay as far as Uncle Rico and Kip have in this picture. For instance, this would be a terrible time to hear the tsunami sirens.

Uncle Rico perfects his cockle hunting protocol. Gently dragging his rake behind him, he remains alert to the subtle impact of shell against rake.

We spend the low tide collecting cockles. From this strategic location, we know it will be easy to tell when the tide shifts directions.

When it becomes obvious the ocean is returning, we high-tail it to the Willapa National Wildlife Refuge Headquarters boat ramp…

…and set out for Long Island.

As on our last Red-Neck camping trip, we agree dinner will consist only of things that we capture.

Note to Beer Manufacturers: Interested in product placement like this? Contact Scott at The Narrative Image.

The tide is still rising, and the gentle incline climbing toward the beach means we’ll have to walk our kayaks to the shore, but unlike the mud sucking swamps of the west side of the island, the sandy mud on this side is firm, and the shallow water warm.

We find this site satisfactory.

We quickly set up camp…

…and quickly return to the bay to search for our dinner.

Oysters, scattered like gold doubloons from a recent shipwreck, lie in the water like dinner treasure. Eventually I bow to peer pressure and eat my first raw oyster. On one hand, I appreciate the nice little enamel plate. On the other hand, I wish I was more familiar with oyster anatomy and possible oyster parasites.

We strike-out with the crab trap. Oysters are shaping up to be the main course.

Tell-tale seaweed writes a clear high-tide warning in the rocks at the base of our campsite. Even Uncle Rico, Kip and I are able to read the message and manage to tie up the boats so they will be safe.

Kip breaks out the cigars.

Uncle Rico breaks logs into kindling.

(I’m not exactly sure who captured the wild parmesan cheese…but good job!)

With just a smattering of knowledge, a place that seemed inhospitable to me on my last visit suddenly seems like a haven of free seafood and desserts, a place where a tidal conveyor belt both pulls me to my destination and eventually helps push me back home.

During the night, I wake to the sound of waves slapping against the kayaks. But beneath the canopy of fir trees, there is no light and I see nothing. By morning, the water has retreated again.

A heavy mist saturates the trees and drips from the branches simulating rain that falls only on our camp.

A hot sun beats back the mist and dries out the camp.

The difference between high and low tide is stunning.

I don’t know about Uncle Rico and Kip, but I paddle away from Long Island feeling as if I’ve been granted a moment of grace, an instant in which a typically indifferent creation actually resembled a garden designed to sustain me, to nurse my hangover, and to warm me after the mini-death of unconsciousness.

I know it is an illusion – I know that this island can be as harsh and unforgiving as any ruthless business model – I know that luck is a factor – that some variables are unpredictable.

I think that in some ways, humans (at their best) have tried to cushion the hard aspects of nature by building social networks, by inventing insurance, by inventing banks and savings accounts, by finding ways to mitigate those times when bad luck works against skill and experience.

But I also think it is sometimes refreshing to cast one's self into nature, to ride the currents of impersonal physical laws and feel the judgment of a universe that isn’t driven by petty human selfishness.