Dungeness Recreation Area and Sol Duc Campground
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We packed up to leave Dungeness Recreation Area, heading off to spend the next three nights at Sol Duc Campground in Olympic National Park. Before hitting the road though, we made one last foggy trek out to the spit, a sandy stretch that juts five miles into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The air was cool, the tide was out, and the beach had a quiet, ghostly vibe. Perfect for birdwatching. Killdeer and sandpipers zipped back and forth on the sand, while the swallows swiftly darted overhead.
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The main event was the seagulls. Hundreds of them camped out on the beach. I had flashbacks to the old Alfred Hitchcock film "The Birds", that 1960s thriller where flocks of birds suddenly go rogue and start terrorizing people. I inwardly hoped this would not be the setting for the Pacific Northwest sequel.
Naturally, I approached with caution. No sudden moves, no eye contact — just in case they’d seen the movie too. Other beachgoers, including Danny, took a more intrusive approach, charging into the flock and watching the gulls explode into the air in a feathered frenzy. Miraculously, I escaped unscathed. Not a single unsolicited poop bomb from above. The seagull gods must’ve sensed I came in peace.
Before we left the beach, Danny channeled his inner beachside Picasso and crafted a little art piece out of seaweed, pebbles, and sand. The end result looked like some kind of mythical sea creature. We left it behind as an offering to the tide gods. May it confuse the next beachcomber.
Sol Duc Campground turned out to be a spacious and scenic spot, tucked under towering trees with plenty of room between sites. That said, almost the moment we arrived, the neighbors were at it, serving up a hefty dose of campground drama.
One of them lounged on a log, casually munching on a snack. The other was having a full-blown meltdown: running in circles, bickering, and squaring off with the snacker like it was about to go down. The snacker didn’t even flinch, just stared back with the deadpan calm of someone used to this nonsense.
When the troublemaker’s tail started whipping around like a wind-up toy on overdrive, I knew this was much more than spat. This was straight up squirrel reality TV, and it was riveting.
Naturally, I approached with caution. No sudden moves, no eye contact — just in case they’d seen the movie too. Other beachgoers, including Danny, took a more intrusive approach, charging into the flock and watching the gulls explode into the air in a feathered frenzy. Miraculously, I escaped unscathed. Not a single unsolicited poop bomb from above. The seagull gods must’ve sensed I came in peace.
Before we left the beach, Danny channeled his inner beachside Picasso and crafted a little art piece out of seaweed, pebbles, and sand. The end result looked like some kind of mythical sea creature. We left it behind as an offering to the tide gods. May it confuse the next beachcomber.
Sol Duc Campground turned out to be a spacious and scenic spot, tucked under towering trees with plenty of room between sites. That said, almost the moment we arrived, the neighbors were at it, serving up a hefty dose of campground drama.
One of them lounged on a log, casually munching on a snack. The other was having a full-blown meltdown: running in circles, bickering, and squaring off with the snacker like it was about to go down. The snacker didn’t even flinch, just stared back with the deadpan calm of someone used to this nonsense.
When the troublemaker’s tail started whipping around like a wind-up toy on overdrive, I knew this was much more than spat. This was straight up squirrel reality TV, and it was riveting.