Lily and I drive up the Teanaway to get away, bond. We pull the Pilot over at mile marker 11, where the trail report says you should start: pass the gate that says No Motorized Vehicles, head up the private logging road, turn left up the road before you get to the modern bridge over Indian Creek.
We leave the Pilot, which feels like pushing off from shore, to open sea: a dirt road disappearing into a valley, the promise of higher meadows, good views, drinking water, spring flowers.
Two hunters emerge in full camouflage with rifles and masks, from Tacoma. Out all morning, nothing. Looking for turkeys.
Lily has been drinking caffeine now, in the Starbucks Refresher drink, and also through packets of Gu we suck down. She starts talking and doesn’t stop. The sky is blue and the air crisp, it’s Saturday: me and my daughter, dreaming about…
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