BE DRIVEN TO DISTRACTION WITH GAEL ARTHUR  AS SHE TAKES TO

THE 
CHUCKANUT DRIVE ©  

                

Bellingham City Hall - 1892

I come from a family of drivers.  Growing up, weekends were generally devoted to driving around seeking the ideal picnic spot by a river or up in a mountain meadow.  Summer holidays were extended road trips in the three to ten thousand mile range, planned months in advance with the AAA Guide Books (I can still interpret their cryptic acronyms and the sister language of the Michelin Guide). 

The three-week trips are now merely artifacts of another time, but the day trip remains a preferred means of escaping the routine of living in the city.

The beauty of a drive without destination or deadline is that you can follow your nose, your stomach or your heart, depending on the day and the curves in the road.  

You have the luxury of investigating that 
"For Sale By Owner"  sign down a dirt road.  You can stop and talk to the llama farmer or wander through a nursery, discovering plants you can't appreciate when you are rushing in looking for fungicide.

With no particular goal and the self-imposed commitment to take my time, I headed off to the Chuckanut Drive, just south of Bellingham.  From the right brain perspective, the drive didn't start until I took the Chuckanut Drive / Fairhaven Exit 250 the border traffic and the I-5 are much like the prep work before a dinner party (you have to wash the kitchen floor, but it is not relevant). 

Just off the freeway, Fairhaven is a friendly little community that lured me out of the car to do a bit of investigation.  Indeed, Fairhaven is a town that deserves a day or two on its own.  It was too early for lunch for me but not too early to wander into Village Books and marvel at the wonderful combination of new and used books, offering a delightful eclectic selection. 

The Walking Tour of the area showcases a lovely collection of residences and stores built in the town's heyday, the 1890s.  But this is a driving day, so I mark this down as a place to return, making sure to book a session at the elegant but unpretentious Chrysalis Spa as part of the day.

Five minutes outside Fairhaven, on the Chuckanut Drive, I am free.  Free of all the mental exercises (How many kilometers is 35 MPH? Is $1.55 US per non-Imperial gallon better or worse that 72 cents Canadian a litre? I wonder if that cop on the I-5 had his radar gun on?), I concentrate on what is important.  The drive, the road winding through rain forest, blue sky and water peaking through.  The arbutus trees tell me I am close to the water.  How close?  Without thinking, I turn down a road that says No Outlet.  Down to a lower level across the railroad tracks to houses on the water with carefree gardens and friendly dogs. 

Back up the hill to the Drive, but another turn into Larabee State Park, again without thinking.  The spotless campground and picnic areas are almost deserted.  The only thing disturbing the seashore is a clutch of 10 year olds trying to collect the best starfish.  I have a brief return to reality as it registers that I probably cant take starfish across the border.

When Chuckanut ends, I head for La Conner, even though the 1500 acres of tulips that make it famous will be covered with sandy topsoil for another nine months.

La Conner on a weekday is pleasant, with few real tourists wandering through the compact town centre.  Locals sit in the bookstore sipping iced espresso milkshakes (oops, I'm back in analytical mode, wondering if the book sales ever exceed the coffee revenue).  

Back on the street, wandering past the kitsch that seems the same in every small seaside town the metallic seagulls on the walls, the dreamcatchers and the stained glass, things that must sell, because the stores are clearly prospering.  And everywhere, women strangely the same, sitting on benches eating ice cream its a Stepford Wives moment.

And then, the purpose of the trip, revealed through an open door framed by windows with blinds lowered against the heat of the late afternoon.  A compelling sign on the door:  This is a difficult store for children ­- please watch them carefully.  The Wood Merchant (709 S. First Street, 360-466-4741) is a store that is difficult for adults as well.  Every offering calls out to be touched and caressed.  The exotic woods and lustrous finishes exude quality and craftsmanship.  I am seduced by the sensuous woods carved into kitchen implements like cupcake icers and sorbet scoopers ­ how can I have lived this long without them?  Wooden kaleidoscopes that look like telescopes and boxes of every size, with secret drawers and invisible seams.  A store where needs and wants collide.

Really, all we need in life is quality ­ and this store has it.  I linger, and watch as other patrons fall under the spell of the carved woods from all over the world, transported to another place or time.  The store is ready to close and the people are not ready to leave ­ I suspect they have this problem every day.

The drive ends as I hit the I-5 and head north, on cruise control.  I briefly contemplate turning off at Bellingham, and heading into town, to the Bellwether, just for a quick bowl of the Coconut Lime Seafood Chowder with Chili Oil, then decide I am better off facing the border the line-up situation has always been the unknown element of the trip.  Besides, I have the recipe (refer to this issues Bon Appetite) and can make a fair imitation of it.

The guy at customs asks the litany of questions, then looks at me and says. "You had a good day, didn't you?" Yup, and I've got the tan on my left arm to prove it.

Fact File