It is Steve’s birthday and I want to do something special for him. “No gifts,” he says. “I don’t need things.” Since our Wyoming trip we are into experiences.
Years ago I had stayed at the Lake Quinault Lodge on the Peninsula. I remembered the elegant, rambling old lodge, nestled in the Olympic National Forest, on the edge of a clear, blue lake. Manicured lawns, encircled by quaint walkways and charming flowerbeds, flowed down to the water. A dock stretched out beyond, strung with lights for a romantic evening stroll.
The lobby gleamed with polished wood and a massive river-rock fireplace, plush area rugs and deep leather couches. A winding staircase reached up to a balcony above the grand room. It had the feel of an old hunting lodge, frequented by the rich and famous.
The rooms were luxurious, lit by their own fireplaces and a five-star dining room offered gourmet cuisine.
Guests at the Lodge came expecting the royal treatment and dressed for the occasion.
The Lodge seemed like the perfect memorable experience. I made our reservations and was assured we would be able to eat in the dining room. Excitedly, we counted down the days.
Our adventure was to begin with a ferry ride across the Sound to the Peninsula. We would drive through glorious autumn colors for three hours until we reached our destination.
But, the night before we were to leave a storm blew through the area, lightening striking our ferry out of service. Our beautiful fall drive became a trip down the freeway, through Tacoma, and over the windy Tacoma Narrows Bridge. No worries! The sun came out as we entered the Peninsula so we managed to find country roads that meandered to the Lodge.
As we approached the Lodge, the previous gleam evaporated and I realized time and COVID had taken a toll on my idyllic memories.
Months of forced closure caused the fragile old building to decline without constant care. While the lawn was mowed, the walkways and flowerbeds were littered, overgrown, and neglected. The dock had sunk into the water; now just a raft reachable only by canoe.
A skeleton crew struggled to keep the place open. Warning signs instructed us to mask up and keep our distance. The woman who checked us in may have smiled; who knows. We learned that the restaurant was take-out only.
The guests are dressed for hiking, camping, and outdoor sports. A family with young kids struggle up to their room with a large cooler for their meals; indoor camping.
After checking into our room a quick survey found a clean room but the glass surrounding the gas fireplace was so smoked up we could barely see the flames.
In our room we ate a lukewarm salmon dinner and chocolate lava cake from takeout containers. No linen tablecloth, china and silver, no candles and crystal, just a biodegradable container and plastic silverware.
We had packed dressy clothes to wear. Instead, we wore the jeans we had traveled in. Disappointment turned the sparkling evening I had imagined to a dull, faded substitute.
After my dreamed of birthday dinner we had planned to find a place to dance. Since COVID all dancing has been cancelled. Our illustrious Grand Poobah, pain in my backside, Governor Jay Inslee has decreed that there will be no couples’ dancing by anyone over 65 and not living together.
Back home, Steve and I search out wooden floors wherever we can to sneak in a few forbidden dances. Once we danced on the deck of a church near my house when no one was around.
Not to be deterred, Steve suggests, “Let’s dress up anyway and go find someplace to dance.” I feel like Cinderella.
It’s dark now and the lobby is scattered with groups of twos and threes sitting around quietly, masks on. No one is having any fun, anywhere. A room I had scouted out earlier has three guys watching football. We finally settle on a wide hallway between the lobby and souvenir shop where the public restrooms are.
Slipping into our dance shoes and out of our coats, we waltz, nightclub two-step and west coast swing to Sade, Simply Red, even John Denver. People come and go from the restrooms.
As we are waltzing to John Denver’s “Annie’s Song” a woman stops to watch. “Do you mind if I video you?”
We are used to dancing in public and feel no self-consciousness so I say, “Sure!”
When we finish she says, “Thank you, you made my day.”
After several dances, Steve and I are lightly sweating and openly laughing. It feels good to be happy, to feel normal again. We decide our final dance will be “Party for Two” by Shania Twain. He turns up the volume; we are having our own party for two.
Then a man approaches from the souvenir shop, mask on.
“I’m sorry to break this up; I’ve looked the other way as long as I can. You’ll have to go now.”
Just like that, the bubble bursts. The party is over; fun is not allowed. I’m not sure if it was because we were dancing without masks, if the music was too loud or if we broke the solemn protocol of the day.
As we change our shoes he tells us we are actually living up to the origins of the Lake Quinault Lodge. Built in 1926, it began as a speakeasy during the days of Prohibition. The dock that led out into the lake had once ended in a floating dance floor where partiers drank and danced, free from governmental restrictions.
We humans will always find ways to celebrate life and freedom, and Steve and I will continue to seek out the perfect wooden floor to dance on.
The next morning we left the forest amidst pouring rain, high winds, and thunder, and no plans to return to this remote corner of our world again.
Belonging 