Where the road simply ends at the water and the forest turns ancient: Douglas-firs too wide to embrace, moss-hung and hushed. On clear days Mount Baker floats above the channel. The park's wild, unvisited edge.
The road just gives out at the water, and the forest here is the real thing. These Douglas-firs are old growth, genuine ancients, trunks so wide you couldn't get two people's arms around one, bark grooved deep enough to lose your fingers in. Moss hangs off the lower limbs like green rope. The understory is sword fern and shadow, and the whole place holds a hush, the kind of quiet that has a weight to it. Through the trunks, off to the east, the channel slides past, and on a clear day the white cone of Mount Baker floats above the far shore. This is the wild, unvisited end of everything, the last stop on the tour and the oldest ground on it. No crowds find their way out here. Most folks turn around at the marina and never know this stood at the end of the road. Pull into the little lot. The forest road ahead runs flat and soft along the shoreline, and it's asking you to walk it.