Second-growth forest hugs both shoulders as the road rises and falls over the island's old bones. Catch the saltwater glinting west through the trees while the land quietly tightens toward the pass.
Rust-red bark peels off a madrona leaning right out over the asphalt, smooth and cinnamon against all that Douglas-fir green. Keep an eye on the gaps in the trees out to the west — that silver wink between the trunks is saltwater, the channels threading the San Juans, and the light out here has a scrubbed, oceany clarity to it, like the air came in off the water and never quite warmed up. The road keeps curving, second-growth forest close on both shoulders, the pavement rising and falling with the island's old bones. Crack a window. That's salt and cedar and warm needles. Something's pulling the land tighter up ahead, and you can feel the quiet sharpen into waiting.