Salmon finale

It’s hot. There’s no other word for it, just plain hot. Coming down the high rise on the bridge, lake Washington looked like a giant bathtub full of toy boats. Cyclists in Ballard wore more skin than anything else, and the shady English Gardens at the locks were a cool spot to play the final concert of the season.

I had not planned to play in this concert, since we had reservations to be camping in a cool evergreen glade at Cannon Beach with friends. Haystack Rock, pretty as a picture postcard, gave us two lovely sunsets, and we went through two packages of Trader Joe’s new vanilla marshmallows before the inevitable happened: the dread Bad Camping Neighbor Blight. Along with Lost Luggage Syndrome, Darling Husband carries this curse, whereby the most pleasant and idyllic spot can be transformed into camping hell in a flash—and usually in the middle of the night when most people are sound asleep.

This time, we had our bellies full of white bratwurst, pan-fried potatoes and corn on the cob, chased by slushy margaritas and a diabetes-inducing number of riffs on s’mores (with macaroons, milk vs. dark chocolate, one-marshmallow/two/three, etc.). We had capped off the tasty meal with a delicious sunset over the Tillamook lighthouse, and tumbled into bed, grubby, tired and happy, and looking forward to sunny weather and grilled salmon for our final day at the beach.

Alas, it was not to be: the sound of crunching metal woke every adult with title to a car in the campground who feared it might be their fender, but it was only someone trying to back a dented trailer into the campsite the farthest from the entrance. At two in the morning. Did I happen to mention our tent was pitched in the campsite the second-farthest from the entrance? The half hour of painfully haphazard backing and filling was capped by the raucous lighting of a campfire and a celebratory round of beer to mark only denting their own vehicle. A head count made with bleary eyes the next morning revealed an even dozen denizens viewing our chocolate-pancake-and-bacon breakfast the next morning (while they munched on and discussed the virtues of vinegar-flavored potato chips). Darling Husband, a firm believer in order and rules, in this case the one that says only six people per site, spoke to the owner, who flummoxed us by flatly refusing to remedy the situation. Given the choice between spending another sleepless night fuming in our tent, we decided to trek home, with our salmon filets still icy in our Coleman cooler.

In spite of the hot weather, our downstairs was still cool, and the cat was very happy to see us. A quick glance at the calendar showed that we had plenty of other things to do this Sunday instead of dancing on the singing sands of Cannon Beach: the orchestra concert was high on my list, and Darling Husband could indulge in the first half of the European Cup final, pitting his Fatherland against the Spaniards. He will have to wait until our neighbors come home to watch the tape of the second half, where Berliners weep and Spaniards dance in the street, but none of us had to wait for the grilled salmon, cool cucumbers and buttery rice that we enjoyed al fresco, in the cool evergreen glade that we call our backyard.