A Mother's Day Tradition

Mother’s Day Hikes at Dungeness Spit

An essay by Kathy Englert

It was not our intention to create a tradition. We had simply wanted to do something special for our first Mother’s Day as a family. Our daughter, eight months old at the time, had never been camping, so we decided it was time for her to experience sleeping in a tent. After all, we knew she would be doing a lot of camping as she grew up. Why not start her young? But where should we go? An established campground would be best–at least the first time out.

Hiking the 5-mile beach at Dungeness Spit. Photo courtesy Kathy Englert.

Dungeness Spit–-a natural sand spit that reaches five miles into the Strait of Juan de Fuca (making it the longest natural sand spit in the world)–-seemed the perfect choice. Located on the Olympic Peninsula near Sequim, it would be a reasonable drive from our home in Seattle. It had a campground with beautiful, secluded sites, a sweet little playground, and, the biggest draw of all, a beach–-five miles of beach! Dungeness Spit has one other attraction as well: an old lighthouse at the very end. We knew people who had walked all the way out there and back (10 miles roundtrip –- in sand). But that would have to wait until Meg was older. There’s no way she would tolerate such a lengthy hike at this point.

I look back on that Mother’s Day, my first as a mother, and marvel at what we were starting–without even knowing it. That impromptu decision twelve years ago to introduce our young daughter to the joys of sleeping outdoors has lead to something far more meaningful than simply camping as a family.

That first trip did hold a few surprises, however. Camping with an infant was tougher than we had anticipated–keeping the dirt out of her mouth as much as possible, finding a comfortable nursing position in a tent, quieting the cries in the middle of the night to keep from waking the entire campground. But not all the surprises were negative. Simply camping again, something my husband and I did frequently before Meg was born, was a joy. Adding to that the experience of sharing it with our young daughter was one of those indescribably warm moments only a mother can understand. Dirt in the mouth? Cries in the night? It was part of the package–those were required hurdles to jump as we introduced our young daughter to the great outdoors. Our frustration vanished as she giggled in the playground swing, threw sand in the air at the beach, and stared with curiosity at the campfire.

The biggest surprise of all came the day after we arrived, which was Mother’s Day. We packed some food and water, a few spare diapers, strapped Meg into her comfy backpack, and headed to the beach once more. My husband was eager to try the walk to the lighthouse. In the brief time that we had been a family, it was becoming increasingly clear that he had no intention of scaling back. To this former competitive triathlete, a 10-mile hike on a flat beach was as simple as a stroll through the park. And his philosophy since becoming a father seemed to be “Let’s push her when she’s young. That way, she’ll never know it any other way!”

The hike began on a spongy path through a mixed forest of towering second-growth cedars, hemlocks, Douglas firs, and spruce trees. Filling the spaces in the canopy was a variety of leafy deciduous trees, the green of their new spring leaves ignited by the sunlight. A delicious quiet descended upon us. At the end of the short forest trail, we came to an overlook high above the beach. There, stretching out into the water, we caught sight of the spit, with the lone figure of a lighthouse perched near the end, impossibly far away. After a steep descent out of the forest, we were on the beach.

As is true on most Northwest beaches, driftwood was scattered everywhere –- and I don’t mean bits and pieces. There were huge logs, stripped and bleached by ferocious coastal storms, giant root balls tipped on their sides, their root tentacles reaching in all directions each one resembling a monstrous octopus. Rocks of all shapes and colors, polished to a remarkable smoothness by sand and water, covered the beach, making walking a challenge. It would be particularly tough at high tide. Lucky for us, the tide was low. Above was a sky so big and blue I could hardly believe it was real. And rising behind us were the snow-capped peaks of the Olympic Mountains. Mixed into this were the sounds of waves lapping the shore, the occasional cry of a bald eagle, the distant barking of a seal. It was paradise.

We made frequent stops, giving her a chance to disembark and stretch her little legs (mostly by kicking them in the air since walking wasn’t in her skill set just yet). We’d snack a little and talk about the birds and the rocks and the seals, and then we’d load her in her padded throne and start down the beach again. In what seemed like no time at all, we rounded an elbow in the spit and saw the lighthouse –- within striking distance! This was beginning to look possible!

Having the lighthouse in sight was all the incentive we needed. Our pace quickened and soon we were there. “Welcome to the New Dungeness Lighthouse,” read the sign. “Tours Available” For the time being, we shelved all thoughts of the return trip, ignoring the fact that we were actually only at the halfway point of our journey. We had done it! Frankly, I was shocked. We walked up the path to the lighthouse grounds – a bright green square of grass that seemed comically out of place in the midst of the grays and browns of the beach. In the middle of the green square was a flagpole from which hung a huge American flag, snapping in the wind. Between the snaps of the flag, I could hear the whir of a sprinkler – without which grass would never survive in such a place.

We released Meg from the backpack, plopped on the grass, and took off our shoes. My toes seemed to cry, “Freedom!” as they absorbed the coolness. As we munched on apples, gorp, and cheese, a gray-haired couple approached us. “Welcome. That’s a pretty young hiker you have there!” After a brief chat, we discovered that they were actually staying out here as lighthouse keepers for a whole week. “What a blast that would be!” I thought.

From 1858 to 1994, the lighthouse was operated by full-time keepers, but with the advent of automated light and fog signals, the U. S. Coast Guard, who owned the lighthouse, decided to board up the buildings. A group of locals banded together, formed the New Dungeness Lightstation Association, raised needed funds, and obtained a renewable license with the Coast Guard to be the official caretakers –- thus saving the historical lighthouse and residence. Ever since then, the lighthouse has been staffed 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, by volunteers.

We learned that part of their duties as Keepers (in addition to taking care of the buildings and the grounds) was to serve as tour guides, taking visitors to the top of the lighthouse. So up we went, round and round the circular stairway, with the final few steps up a steep ladder –- a bit challenging with an eight-month-old.

I’ll never forget my first glimpse of the view from the top. Surrounding us on three sides was water in varying shades of green and blue. Across the Bay, houses dotted the hills of Sequim. To the south, the snowy, jagged Olympic Mountains reached upward, providing a backdrop so perfect it was breathtaking. Across the Strait were the distant hills of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Directly below was that silly little plot of green grass. And stretched out in front of us in all its glory was the entire length of the spit – visual validation for our sore legs and feet.

Hiking Dungeness Spit near Sequim, Washington. Photo courtesy Kathy Englert.

I soaked in as much of the view as I could. But soon it was time to go. We still had a long walk ahead of us. As we left the lighthouse, we donated a few dollars to the New Dungeness Lightstation Association in exchange for a smooth beach rock imprinted with a picture of the lighthouse. (Meg now has twelve of these.) We thanked our tour guides, reloaded Meg into her backpack, and walked slowly away from the lighthouse. It was hard to leave.

All too soon, we were back, leaving the beach to walk up the steep hill leading into the forest –- with a stop at the overlook for one last view of where we had been and what we had accomplished.

As we drove home, I said, “That was the perfect way to spend Mother’s Day! Let’s do it again next year.” And so it began. A tradition was born. Since that first trip, we have never questioned our plans for Mother’s Day weekend. We carve out the time, even if it means missing what we would normally consider an important event. For us, this has become the most important event of all. But each year we wonder if we’ll make it, crossing our fingers that both Meg and the weather will cooperate.

A few years ago, an incident occurred that assured me this tradition had taken a solid hold. It was another gorgeous Mother’s Day morning and I had gone for an early stroll along the cliff above the water. When I returned, Meg was awake but looked terrible. She had just vomited. Weather and willpower had come through for us all these years –- but sickness is sickness.

“Maybe Dad could carry me partway,” she pleaded.

“Sweetheart, you’re much too big for that now. You can’t help it that you’re sick. It’ll still be here next year and we’ll try again then.” I tried to hide my own disappointment.

“Let’s wait a little while. Maybe I’ll feel better,” she said.

“Okay. We’ll slowly pack up and then see how you feel.”

She ate a little breakfast and somehow found her energy again, convincing us she was fine. I was skeptical. But she really did look better. So off we went –- and it ended up being one of our best outings yet. This tradition had become part of her.

There are constants that greet us each year – the predictable long wait in the ferry line to cross Puget Sound, the search for the perfect campsite, the race to the swings when we first arrive, that serene forest trail leading to the rough and rugged beach, and, of course, the lighthouse –- standing its ground for 150 years. But there are things that change, too. Sometimes we see bald eagles, osprey, or other birds of prey soar overhead. Other times, they seem to be in hiding. We’ve seen the water of the Strait change from gentle laps on the shore to huge, raging waves. And far out in the water we’ve watched enormous tanker ships, cruise ships, naval ships, and even aircraft carriers head towards the mainland or out to sea. We’ve even witnessed the lengthening of the spit itself. It grows by 13 feet every year!

Mother and Daughter at Dungeness Spit Lighthouse. Photo courtesy Kathy Englert.

What doesn’t change is our determination to keep this tradition alive. This year, when Meg and I raced to the swings, I couldn’t match her stride. My emotions swelled as I watched her fly through the air – -her long legs pumping back and forth, her blond hair flowing behind her. I can’t stop her from growing up. I wouldn’t want to. But I can hold onto this tradition as long as possible –- tucking little memories from each year safely in my heart. And something tells me that she will do the same.

Kathy Englert is a writer from Seattle.