BeachWalking
- skagitjack
- Jul 24
- 6 min read
I grew up a short hike from North Beach in Seattle. My brother and I would walk there alone from the time I was three. My dad took me there on dead-quiet winter nights if the tide was low to scoop up Dungeness crabs, the waters lit by a hissing Coleman lantern as we waded along the shoreline.
Through my adolescent years, my friends and I hung out there frequently, telling my parents, “We’re going to the beach…” and that’s all they needed to know. We would throw rocks in the water, build roads or golf courses in the sand, balance-walk on the railroad tracks, and watch the sun set and the stars come out.
I spent a lot of time walking there in the rain when everyone else was hiding indoors, or rowing a rubber raft between North Beach and Carkeek Park, or studying limpets for my Marine Biology class, or setting model sailboats adrift to float away with the wind, or just tasting the salt air.
I had my first kiss there, with a girl who would become my wife for 44 years.
I lived and worked at five beach parks in my career with State Parks: Camano, Cape Disappointment, Ocean City, Fort Worden, and Deception Pass. I still live near the beaches of Fidalgo Island.
And I first met Kath for a beach hike between Bowman Bay and Rosario. That worked out!
Yes, beaches carry much of my life in their grains of sand. Beaches mean freedom, wide open landscapes stretching into forever, always at the edge of civilization, holding no secrets, intimate and romantic with the constant rhythm of waves, a place of intrigue and discovery, of beauty and inspiration. They are always the same yet never the same, going through the highs and lows of life, of shifting sands, storms and heavy seas, always adapting and adjusting to whatever comes.
And thus my lifelong fascination with Dungeness Spit, five miles of sand and seashore, with wind and waves that have traveled a great distance to be there, and the faint silhouette of a lighthouse that looks impossibly far away. Its reputation as a long beach hike is a temptation hard to resist, but also hard to achieve without the commitment to make a go of it.
From the air, Dungeness Spit looks like a praying mantis, or a damsel fly with forearms, or a wishbone waiting to be broken. It is a major hazard for mariners hugging the coast to enter Puget Sound, intruding several miles into the sailing route from Neah Bay to Port Townsend. It’s only a few feet above high tide, so it cannot be seen until you are on it. Thus, a lighthouse was built at the very tip, first lit in 1857. Its replacement still stands, flashing its light 24/7 and sounding a horn when fog comes in on cats' feet.
I had been to the spit many times before, but always with a partner unable to walk very far or a gaggle of kids in tow. This year, this was my year.
And so I began to walk, step by step.
Dungeness strips a hike down to the basics. There are no switchbacks, no dramatic overlooks, no sudden revelations. Just a trail of sand and gravel, driftwood bleached by salt and sun on the high side, waves on the other, the unbroken horizon of water and sky, and the steady repetition of my footsteps. Wind, water, sand, breath.
The spit is filled with large stones at the high-tide line, a ribbon of sand in the mid-tide range, and slippery pebbles and gravel lower down. The sand is firm close to the water, but soft and mostly dry near the upper reaches. I found the walking to be easiest in the firm wet sand.
The tide was rising while I was there, though very slowly, so I made good time in each direction. But making time wasn’t my objective. True, I did want to get to the lighthouse, and I did want to get back before dinner, so those were motivators, but what I really sought was the peace and patience of beach time, being with the birds and pebbles and feathers and driftwood animals, taking in the expansive view of the San Juans and Vancouver Island, and letting the rhythm of the waves become the heartbeat of my soul.
And in that simplicity, the outer desires began to dissolve, and the inner ones came into focus. The hike had become less about arriving at the lighthouse and more about the joy of the journey. The hike became a mirror, a teacher, a quiet revealer of what’s already stirring. The solitude birthed thoughts that arise when the world grows quiet. The tide line, advancing and retreating, reminded me that life is a rhythm, not a race.
This hike shows you whether you’re someone who pushes through discomfort, someone who slows down to savor, someone who needs companionship, or someone who thrives in solitude. (I’m all of these.) These are character traits, not bucket-list items.
Bucket lists are about what can be checked off, photographed, and posted. They are only a record of where your feet have been, not who you’ve become. My character is shaped not by the places I reach, but by the way I walk wherever I am. By my commitment to tasks. By the actions I take. By the directions I choose. And by moving steadfastly toward what matters.
The lighthouse is visible for hours before I reach it. I see it. I aim for it. I walk. The distance doesn’t define me; the direction does.
The sound of waves became a companion. The gulls overhead were witnesses. The long, narrow beach stretching into the sea became a reminder that life often asks us to walk toward things that feel distant, uncertain, or slow to arrive.
And so we keep on.
When I finally reached the lighthouse, there was no fanfare, no one to say well done. It was just itself, as it has been since it was built, a structure to guide those who are unclear what direction they should take. And the beach continued beyond, off-limits to protect the wildlife who call this place home.
The goal was never the lighthouse or the end of the Spit. The goal was the journey itself, and what we bring to each moment of the journey, what we receive by paying attention, and what we can share because we were here.
Now it was time to go back, back to Kath, back to our campsite, back to dinner and to nighttime and to tomorrow.
Going back, the wind shifted, clouds gathered, the tide changed. The footprints I left earlier had already been erased.
The beach keeps no record.
But our lives do.
jack
For my 12-minute video that explores the area with me, click on this link:
For further details:
https://newdungenesslighthouse.com/wildlife-refuge/ Excellent site, especially if you want to be a volunteer and spend a week living in the lighthouse keeper’s residence.
The National Refuge site:
For a detailed history of the lighthouse, check out this website.
The New Dungeness Lighthouse in Clallam County, Washington, is the second oldest lighthouse in the state, having been first lit on December 14, 1857, making it the first completed on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Construction & Design: Built by the U.S. Lighthouse Service under engineer Isaac Smith and architect Ammi B. Young, the original station featured a 100-foot brick tower rising from a Cape Cod-style keeper's dwelling, with a foundation of Chuckanut Sandstone.
Historical Events: The spit is nicknamed "Shipwreck Spit" due to numerous maritime disasters, and it was the site of the 1868 "Dungeness Massacre" where 17 Tsimshian people were killed by S’Klallam Indians; keeper Henry H. Blake sheltered a surviving pregnant woman. The interior spit of sand still bears the name of Graveyard Spit.
Structural Changes: In 1927, the tower was shortened to 63 feet due to severe cracking from earthquakes and weather erosion, and a fourth-order Fresnel lens from the decommissioned Admiralty Head Lighthouse was installed.
Modern Preservation: After the U.S. Coast Guard withdrew its last keeper in 1994, the New Dungeness Light Station Association assumed management to protect and preserve the site, which remains a functioning aid to navigation open to daily tours.
Comments