Route 2

On route 2, looking west over our shoulders, white clouds were scribbled: a bashful acknowledgement of some grave mistake that had been made in the sky behind them. We had left Seattle like pioneers, headed for Gold Bar. The sky was gray, the clouds were close, and the trees were full and green and formed a low nave that occasionally brushed the roof of the Jeep. We passed through Snohomish, Start-Up, Sultan, and Index. Just west of Sultan, the Cascades become visible: a black block of mountain marbled with snow like a steak is with fat. Cheap live music was playing at every tavern on the road: In Start-Up, you could pay a $2.00 cover and hear the Monkey Cleavers. In Index, a hamlet of ten or so houses at the very foot of the Cascades, we played on a swingset and almost touched a waterfall that was melting out of the clouds, running down a mean, granite face. The air was cold and the seats were wet and we had that feeling of magnificence in our stomachs, for the rest of the ride home.