Hardly refreshed after my fitful night, I scooped up my belongings and made for the “other side of the ridge.”

 

 

 

I rounded the knoll away from the dunes and found a steep path leading up the other side. The bright sun warmed my back and lifted my spirits. I allowed myself to believe I would find a thriving, joyous community over this hill.

 

 

 

Upon reaching the precipice the warm air became a cool, moist breeze while the sound of the lapping waves was exchanged for the distant rumblings of morning thunder.

 

 

 

I looked out over the valley beneath me and saw the slope on the
opposite side. Further out over the rolling hills, clouds assembled.

 

 

 

From the crest of the ridge, I took a path that descended into the valley below.

 

 

 

The path broadened into an abandoned logging road and led to the valley floor. At the bottom of the hill, the road took me to a pool that might once have been a loading ramp to move timber to the mouth of the stream. I decided to continue on upstream.

 

 

 

Farther up the creek, the water barely moved. Ripples disrupted the mirrored water only when I dislodged a stone or twig. Looking at the sheer cliffs surrounding the valley, I wondered if the threatening thunder might soon turn this elongated pool into a raging torrent.

 

 

 

As I made my way to a bend in the still creek, the first raindrops began to fall. I had not planned on rain so I tried to stuff all of the camera equipment into my bag and resigned myself to getting wet. At the far end of the bend, on the opposite side of the stream, I noticed the ruins of what looked like a mill.