Each headland presents a beach of distinction. Some have sand made from dark volcanic rock, and packed so hard that a deer leaves few tracks on it. Some beaches are filled with a whitish, loose sand that flows freely between the toes. Others have sand, too coarse for packing, that is streaked with pebbles. Some of this sand is so loose and heavy that half of every step is lost in backward movement. A few are a millennium from hard-packed sand, being lined with boulders and ledges of rock that tides without number have yet to pulverize. Pieces of ships, wrecked on hidden reefs, are often added to the pile. Once I came across a fishing vessel quite intact and sitting upright in the sand, as if in a drydock for repairs. And it is on these Olympic beaches that one can find the prized Japanese glass balls that have broken away from the fishing nets they help float and drifted thousands of miles across the Pacific … The force of winds and tides is often so great as to change completely the character of some beaches from one year to the next … Augie and I shopped for lunch on a beach of hard sand where a clear, cold stream came tumbling out of the forest onto the white beach. An Oregon alder with mottled bark leaned out over the beach. A one-masted steamer far offshore headed north. Dry chips of firewood made a quick fire, and we propped our teapot over the flames. The beach was almost as hard as concrete, and this smooth sand extended even beyond the limits of low tide. This day the ebb tide washed the shore softly and quietly. A spotted sandpiper, feeding near the shore, suddenly jumped into the air after an insect sailing by. The leaning alder, hard sand, the crackling fire, and gentle tide made an idyllic scene that I carried for years in my memory.
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