Moran State Park Part 3

The ship had struck something. This was what we had feared. The great Orca beast had stopped us in our tracks. The ship wasn't moving at all. Dear lord there must be a pod of them no less than 30 just waiting to turn the Hyak over and gobble us up like the last shrimp at a party that doesn't serve enough shrimp. We took note of the nearest land and went forth to the port bow to hurl curse words and coffee cups at our bloodthirsty hunters. What we saw next was unexpected. The vessel had not hit a pod of killers but a ferry dock bumper. We looked at each other, "Is there a stop before Orcas Island?" I said. "There is" replied Brad. "Lopez Island." 


So we meet again Lopez Island. A land having produced nothing greater then a bunch of dodgy barmpots and manky, po-faced trollops. With any luck we would be rid of this foul land soon and on our way to Orcas Island. A land that despite sharing a name with a savage, killer monstrosity was known to be a habitat of good and principled blokes. We couldn't get there soon enough. We departed the detestable isle and continued on with visions of shimmering lakes and flame scorched frankfurters dancing in our heads. After a long 37 minutes we docked at the lavish and superior Orcas Island. We gave a wink to the Captain standing proudly on the deck of the great Hyak and went below deck to find the gold Ford Focus. 


After a few short minutes we were off the boat with the freakish, monster Orcas behind us and up the hill towards Moran State Park. We made our way across farms laid out like almond slivers on a danish crafted by the hand of master Danish danish baker. It was enchanting. We turned the corner and could almost smell the sweet scent of paradise and freedom. The lake then appeared as almost out of nowhere. It grabbed our attention like the boss asking for your thoughts during a meeting when you were only half paying attention. We couldn't look away. It had us. 

We could have gazed into that splendid hole of h2o the rest of the night or until it got too dark to see, however we had a mission that wasn't yet complete and failing that would mean disaster. We had to find our campsite with no directions or cell phone coverage. Not since Hannibal and his Carthaginian army had crossed the alps during the Second Punic War had humans come face to face with such improbable odds reaching a destination. 

We knew the likelihood that not all of us would make it. That was what we signed up for. The glory that comes with claiming a piece of land of our own for 48 hours was worth any price. The thoughts of getting lost or trapped and never coming back at all was pushed to the back of our mind like a jar of old pickles in a fraternity house refrigerator. We continued on. But the campsite...was nowhere to be found.

To be continued.