A quiet southbound glide through Douglas-fir and rust-barked madrona, with silver flashes of Puget Sound between the trunks. The island narrows around you as the road builds toward the channel ahead.
Rust-orange bark peels off the madronas crowding the shoulder, smooth and bare as muscle against the dark green Douglas-fir behind them. Roll a window down. That's saltwater on the air, cool and mineral, threaded through with cedar and sun-warmed needles. Watch the gaps in the trees off to the west, where the forest thins and the light goes silver, that's the Sound, the San Juans laid out low and blue on the water. The road carries you south and easy here, no hurry, the firs leaning close overhead. You can feel the island narrowing around you, the trees pulling tighter, the land quietly gathering itself toward something. Stay with it. The good part's coming.