2thegalapagos
Welcome Home.
Every home has a story. Some homes are easy to recognize as such. They might come with four walls, a fence in the front, a title in hand, a mailbox and a house #.
And then there are other sorts of homes. The ones that you know immediately by the familiar bond you feel that can't be explained. Perhaps you've only been there a handful of times, or even once, but that's unimportant. You've been here before. You will come here again. Welcome home.
You won't find our home on any tourist maps. There is no address one could send mail to. At first glance, it's just a roadside off of a ghost town in Eastern Washington. We didn't know what we were looking for when we first drove over the mountains from Seattle in search of a place to make ours for a night or two, but we knew it when we experienced it. A small sand dune provides privacy from the road that runs behind our camp. Trains pass regularly through the day and night, close enough to shake the earth under our tent. The Columbia River is here, a majestic giant that carves its way through Washington state, before finding its outlet into the Pacific Ocean.
We are at a bend in the river, positioned perfectly on an East/West plane. In the mornings, the sun hits the hills in the west and turns them into a brilliant gold.
Here is a more complete look at our home in the daylight (and again, Tammy can be seen in the distance doing yoga near our tent). The railroad tracks on the hillside behind the tent:
www.flickr.com/photos/2thegalapagos/10264187754/
This is our second trip home together. Tammy had been away in Australia for a year, feeling a bit isolated so far away from familiar places and people. We decided one afternoon to return to this special place, and arriving just as the sun was setting, it made sense for her to pull out her yoga mat, and I quickly snapped this shot to help remember the moment.
Welcome home.
Welcome Home.
Every home has a story. Some homes are easy to recognize as such. They might come with four walls, a fence in the front, a title in hand, a mailbox and a house #.
And then there are other sorts of homes. The ones that you know immediately by the familiar bond you feel that can't be explained. Perhaps you've only been there a handful of times, or even once, but that's unimportant. You've been here before. You will come here again. Welcome home.
You won't find our home on any tourist maps. There is no address one could send mail to. At first glance, it's just a roadside off of a ghost town in Eastern Washington. We didn't know what we were looking for when we first drove over the mountains from Seattle in search of a place to make ours for a night or two, but we knew it when we experienced it. A small sand dune provides privacy from the road that runs behind our camp. Trains pass regularly through the day and night, close enough to shake the earth under our tent. The Columbia River is here, a majestic giant that carves its way through Washington state, before finding its outlet into the Pacific Ocean.
We are at a bend in the river, positioned perfectly on an East/West plane. In the mornings, the sun hits the hills in the west and turns them into a brilliant gold.
Here is a more complete look at our home in the daylight (and again, Tammy can be seen in the distance doing yoga near our tent). The railroad tracks on the hillside behind the tent:
www.flickr.com/photos/2thegalapagos/10264187754/
This is our second trip home together. Tammy had been away in Australia for a year, feeling a bit isolated so far away from familiar places and people. We decided one afternoon to return to this special place, and arriving just as the sun was setting, it made sense for her to pull out her yoga mat, and I quickly snapped this shot to help remember the moment.
Welcome home.