Tikson Bros in Seattle

Up to this point in our lives, Ford, Brock, and I have traveled together across the country more times than I can count. Not to say our family vacations don’t forever bear a fond nostalgia — they do — but this occasion was different; it was just the boys.

I insisted that they visit me and they were able to book a trip on the same weekend. I gave them every bit of Seattle that I could in the time that we had. Craft beer, local restaurants, and the great outdoors stole the majority of our time.

They both arrived on Thursday while I was at work. I walked them through the train system and those suburbanites managed to find their own way to Capitol Hill, Seattle. We kicked off day (night) one by exploring Capitol hill, slurping down some ramen at Kizuki, and topping off the night with the world’s best ice cream. We watched a movie and crashed (as I had to work in the morning).

While my soul was slowly being sucked away at my day job (jk, I’m pretty fond of it), those two played tourist for a day and did so very well. I’m not even going to list out their Friday adventure as it would make even the newest Seattlite transplant cringe (read: me).

I eventually pulled myself away from work and Ford sought to demonstrate his competency as a local through his knowledge of craft beer. We fought rush hour traffic through the heart of Seattle to reach Holy Mountain Brewing, which has since become one of my favorites with its famous barrel aged sours and an IPA as hazy as orange juice. Have I achieved the status of the archetypal Seattlite yet?

As you may know, I recently moved to Seattle from Chicago and while there’s been no shortage of great food in Seattle, I’ve greatly missed drowning in Chicago-style deep dish pizza. It just so happened that just next door, a transplant from Chicago recently moved in as Windy City Pie. I won’t get too off track, but yes, the best deep dish I’ve ever had comes from a small Seattle pizza shop co-located with a whiskey distillery. If you’re in town and in doubt, you need to stop by.

After meandering around the city a bit more, we returned home to rejuvenate for the next day’s adventures.

We slept in and overloaded on carbs at Seattle’s best bakery before loading up the car for Brock’s first camping trip (!) and took the ferry across the sound. We drove a few more hours, passing Crescent Lake (below), to reach La Push, a quaint seaside town on the west coast of the Olympic peninsula with unforgettable views and largely tribal population.

We packed rather inefficiently and hiked about a mile out to the beach. We were met with stunning views of a sunset behind sea stacks. We set up camp, chowed our dinner of smoked salmon and Tillamook cheese, and enjoyed a roaring fire for a couple hours. We even took some time to pay tribute to our mother, as we were missing mother’s day the next day.

Right around the time we turned in for the night, it began to rain and persisted right up until I awoke the next morning. I specify when I awoke because Brock and Ford didn’t crawl out of their tent until about 2 hours later. During this time, I walked down the beach a few miles and interrupted a bald eagle family breakfast (unfortunately my camera was stuck in Brock and Ford’s tent).

I returned and gathered some mint and spruce to make some tea and then boiled some eggs for breakfast. We explored the beach a while, making friends with many a cartoon-esque sea creature before packing up and heading out.

We drove down to the magnificent Hoh Rainforest where we strolled through giant cedars blanketed in moss and took much-needed naps alongside a glacial river.

We returned that night to again indulge in the best deep dish Chicago doesn’t have to offer (don’t worry, we got a different pie) and met up with our cousin at one of Seattle’s favorite breweries, Fremont Brewing.

Ford left early the next morning and Brock and I returned to Bakery Nouveau for a farewell breakfast before he, too, left the Emerald City. That weekend was unlike any we’ve had together and I can’t wait for the next one.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.