The mountains between the rainforests along Puget Sound and the desert country to the east, where Washington State’s apples are grown, is a magical land all its own.
As Kate explains in my novel Peel:
We followed a trail to Silver Falls, which threw its glittering spray higher than the plunging torrent. Its roiling emerald waters churned through a gorge so narrow I was tempted to try leaping it. Miscalculation, obviously, would prove fatal. A sixty-foot long trunk of a fallen Douglas fir had shot like an arrow over the lip, and, in the whirlpool below, shattered into three pieces. If a mighty tree couldn’t survive, just consider a swimmer’s odds.
I remembered the last time we were here. It was early winter, and all the low greenery was encased in ice. It was magical. The high passes, where we’d just been hiking, had already been closed by…
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