The Palouse (Seattle to Sandpoint, Idaho, 492 miles)

The drive out of Seattle was beautiful, a little treacherous (mountain driving in snowy areas), and extremely boring. I'm not one prone to boredom, raised as an only child and left to my own devices I could easily create whole worlds and fill them with people always up to something, probably dramatic, maybe terrible, with long, fragmented story lines that would stop abruptly when the clothes shopping was finally done (yawn) or the bus arrived at school (double yawn). 

Probably Mt. Defiance, in the misty morning.

But driving is different. You do have to keep most of your attention on the road, whether racing down the highway at 75 mph or tap, tap, tapping those brakes through endless construction zones. As I-90 East begins to traverse the Cascade mountain range, miles and miles of road is cordoned off by traffic cones. It is clear that the road is in bad shape, with big cracks and canals running through it in places. What was peculiar about the scene when I passed through wasn't the obvious infrastructure problems of a major highway--America is full of infrastructure problems--it was the fact that it was a weekday morning and there were no road crews to be seen anywhere along all those miles of one lane, jammed traffic. Not one single, solitary human in a hardhat, not one piece of road repair equipment. There was also no sign of work being done on the road itself--no torn up sections, scored sections--nothing. So what's it all for? Just cordoning off the dangerous sections? A check of news stories and posts suggests work has been done, but I saw none of it.

I am not sure when I became aware that I'd entered the Palouse region of Washington state, but it was well before a sign informed me that I was indeed on the Palouse Scenic Byway. I was really here, in one of the top places on my wish list.

According to Wikipedia, "[t]he Palouse (/pəˈluːs/ pə-LOOSS) is a region of the northwestern United States, encompassing parts of southeastern Washington, north central Idaho and, by some definitions, parts of northeast Oregon. It is a major agricultural area, primarily producing wheat and legumes" (x), but that's just geography. What brought me across Washington to Idaho was the promise of beautiful, rolling hills, like a picture out of a dream or something one might imagine while riding the bus to school, lost in thought at the train tracks, head against the glass, breath steaming up the pedestrian view of an early Wichita morning. Wikipedia informs us that "[t]he peculiar and picturesque loess hills which characterize the Palouse Prairie are underlain by wind-blown sediments of the Palouse Loess that covers the surface of over 50,000 km2 (19,000 sq mi) on the Columbia Plateau in southeastern Washington, western Idaho, and northeastern Oregon." (x) In other words, it is a wind carved wonder, now bent to the will of agriculture, which affords otherworldly views as one drives through this strange landscape, a patchwork beach made not of sand but of barley, lentils, and in great abundance, wheat [x].

As I drove, the patchwork quality of the scenery was very evident, with bright yellow, shorn wheat fields dominating the kaleidoscope, punctuated with rich greens of late season crops and freshly tilled, dark brown soil, all in patterns conforming not only to property lines, but to the ceaselessly undulating hills. I even saw a few farmers working their land with small farm equipment, easily managing the steep curves, bends, and twists as though they were nothing. I suppose a lifetime, or even a season, of practice makes perfect, but from a Kansan's perspective, it was a topsy turvy world more common to Escher paintings than practical, work-a-day life.

One of the best spots to view the Palouse region is from the top of Steptoe Butte, just north of Colfax, Washington, near the eastern border of the state. The drive up the steep incline is very precarious, with spotty guardrails and thin passageways where only one car can fit. Luckily for me, I was all alone on my trek that day, probably because it was late in the season for tourists, but also because dusk would be falling soon and photographic opportunities were waning fast.

I did not go all the way to the tippy top because I'd reached my freaked-by-heights threshold for the day, but there was an easy turnaround and parking area just below it that offered some pretty spectacular views. It was a particularly fantastic day that, while mostly sunny, also saw intermittent rain storms in clusters all across the valley. I tried capturing these as best I could, but I guarantee seeing them was far better than anything I was able to photograph.

I have a million pictures winnowed down to just this thirty or so, shared here, some with more explanation in the captions, as needed. The drive through the Palouse region was truly a magical experience and I would strongly recommend (shove, harrass, threaten, ask nicely, whatever works) that you find yourself there someday, as there is nothing else quite like it in this world. During the research phase, I was able to view some incredible shots others have taken of the region, which seems to have something new and exciting for every season, with colors changing with the progression of the crops, bright green and lush in the spring, to white, snowy hills in the winter. It's a place you could visit every season and see something entirely different...but always only barely of this world.

On to the photos...

Scablands Rock Formations

First view from Steptoe Butte

Puyallup Public Library, Puyallup, Washington

For the next two days, I was in a fog of writing. My illness had set me so far back that I needed the time both for catching up and healing up. At night I prepped for the next day, made plans for future travel, and watched The Blue Bloods. During the day I went to the Puyallup Public Library to photo edit, catch up on emails, and write like a highly caffeinated and supernaturally articulate squirrel.

When I first entered the building, I was impressed with the architectural choices they'd made--the bronze highlights and second floor bridge being my favorite aspects of the design. As I ogled the joint, I stopped by the front desk to make sure my venti iced coffee would be okay (it was) and to ask how to pronounce the town's name.

Foyer wall.

Foyer chandelier. 

Say it with me Puyallup. Pew, and in church pew where you sit and learn about Jesus. Allup, as in gallop, the thing that horses do when kicked.

After taking those initial photographs, I was pretty focused on the many tasks at hand, so I remember little about the library itself. It was easy to get to, had gobs of parking, you could eat and drink there, and I sat in the college prep section because all the SAT, GMAT, etc. books were right across from me and would snag my attention every once in awhile when I was lost in thought about some thing or another.

Children's section. 

Obligatory stacks shot.

The patrons were respectful and quiet for the most part, with little yips and yawps here and there, and the children's section was all the way on the other side of the library on an entirely different floor. Brilliant!

One of the things I do remember was the chiming of the clock tower, which is positioned directly above the library. You might imagine that it was a distraction, but I actually found it charming and comforting...and that's only when I noticed it at all. If it did yank me out of the zone, it was for the best, anyway, because I'd remember to stretch and move positions from the clenched gargoyle stance I usually take when typing at the computer.

Bronzed wall.

Bronze wall and bronze plating in the window. 

I'd love to say more about services, but can only tell you that it served my specific needs perfectly. I had a desk to myself, an outlet in the desk, and even a little desk lamp for the parts of the day that got cloudy and rainy. As I've said before, remembering so little of a library really isn't such a bad thing, especially when you feel like you've accomplished something at the end of the day.

Remember that episode in Star Trek The Next Generation...

...I think these things boost the transporter beam.

Bridge from the 2nd floor. I didn't cross it because I don't know why.
Bok bok bok? 

View of the bridge from below.

One more look outside.

The Seattle Public Library, Seattle, Washington

 

The Seattle Public Library is a delectable spider of a building, rising up (ever rising, somehow in motion without motion) from Seattle's rain soaked streets in a contorted, crack-boned, glimmering miracle of glass, concrete, and steel. Since I'd looked it up before, I knew what to expect, but the massive audacity of it still managed to knock a bibliophile on her figurative arse.

But while the exterior might trick one into believing that its design is meant as nothing more than a stunt, entering the library from the 4th avenue side--a mellow, understated introduction--and gliding up the escalators to the grand third floor quickly reveals a multitude of brilliant, exciting, and dynamic choices in design, structure, and function.

First floor, aglow in light.

I moved through the entire structure with my mouth agape and transformed from a fairly articulate modern humanoid, to grunting, knuckle-dragging sub-ape, owlishly pondering her first eclipse. And that's really what the Seattle Public Library is: An eclipse of a known form, rendered new and electrifying. I was, quite simply, in awe. I didn't know whether to study or pray there.

I'm not even going to attempt to describe the architectural details of this place. Instead, I will rely only on my sub-ape vocabulary and beg forgiveness later. Only real architects could speak about this library with any level of intelligence, anyway.

The third floor is dominated by the "Living Room," which is possibly the most insane living room ever conceived of by a board room full of supervillains squabbling over carpet swatches and upholstery samples. A meeting that probably ended with four shot, two incinerated via laser, and one devoured by a shark in the subfloor "Ocean Room" replete with live coral reefs, stingrays, jellyfish, and one very unlucky handyman named Steve.

Stairway to Heaven.

View from my chair in the Living Room. See the Red Room behind
the mesh wall? I saw figures moving under the red lights but couldn't
figure out how to get back there. Will they let me live there? What is
The Secret? Ahh, thanks Wikipedia.

This massive column rises all the way to the top. The
elevators are on the back side of it.

One of several wild carpets in the Living Room area.

The third floor is open at the center almost to the top of the building, with much of the living room space open at least a couple of stories. All of this vast openness would seem an inevitably cacophonous mess, something to be fled from instead of embraced as a place of study, reflection, or immersive reading, but it is somehow calm, even meditative. This was the case when I visited, at any rate, so it's possible that the place gets downright rowdy, but even with the noise of people talking, the sound was somehow tempered. Magical soundproofing? Or just magix? Lasers?

Front entrance to the third floor--I forgot how dang
hilly Seattle can be. 

This is a cool thing that is cool, featured above the
information desk on the third floor, right inside the front door.

All the light in the world.

Stacks on the third floor.

Stacks on one of the "Books Spiral" floors.

A view of the second floor from a higher floor.

Desks around the exterior of the Books Spiral.

So Many Desks!

I traveled as close to the top as I could get before walking down the "Books Spiral" that occupies many of the midlevel floors, with Dewey Decimal numbers marked in the concrete as you walk past each row of stacks. The library's capacity is truly mind bending, and I loved the clever layout, where stacks could be accessed either by interior staircases or long, winding ramps.

The exterior space on each of the Book Spiral floors was taken up by desk after desk after desk. Since I was going to be walking around the Market and downtown, I didn't want to lug my laptop with me, so I'd left it behind at the Air BNB. It was a genuine bummer not to get a chance to take my place at one of the zillion or so desks available to patrons, but it was enough just to get to experience such an exquisitely weird library.

 At the tippy top, where Robyn advised I should definitely go (Robyyyn), you hook around a corner from the elevators and there is the teeniest, tiniest little walkway where you can look over the side and just pee and pee with terror. Or, you know, just stand there and try not to cry. I will admit, it really did test my ability to face my fears. It's about an eight or nine story drop, and everything down there looks quite tiny. The air is extremely still and I was hyper aware of my breathing. It made the skywalks in Salt Lake's main library look like the low diving board at the kiddie pool. (Yes, one you could die from, but still.)

Soundproofing or Space Station Xenon?

The edge of reason.

Aaaaaaiiiiggghhhhh.

My friend Amanda mentioned that this was her "local library" when she was in school, a fact I found both wonderful and unbelievable. I couldn't imagine being so lucky, to have something so intensely special and singular at your disposal day in and day out. So much of life is quite ordinary--go to suburbia and revel in its rigid squareness and vaulted ceilings with rebate chandeliers and you will know what I mean...hell, go to most libraries, whose function overrides whimsy, charm, or any intent on breaking out of the Library mold. If you've read along through even some of this blog, you will notice trends in architecture, color, lighting, etc. It's what boards are meant to do--bring together all the ideas and apply practicality, sustainability, frugality...in consensus. This is why the Seattle main library is magic. You can buy their "Rem Koolhaas" cover story, but I'll always believe in that board of supervillains, throwing ideas and knives around a mahogany table (festooned with levers and buttons alight with eeeevil), coming up with all kinds of crazy, and making this magnificent arachnid, alive in all her glittery splendor.