I spent last weekend in the ravines and meadows of the slumbering tyrant we call Rainier, but which should by all rights be called Tacoma. We began with a coffee (well we were headed to Seattle after all) and then bid farewell to the wind-beaten strands, scruffy hills, verdant vineyards and rocky scrublands of this place we have the privilege of calling home.

The baby boy slept on the plane and, before we knew it, we were descending through a mountain range of clouds rising high above the land on the convection of a late afternoon. We should have known on our way down that we would be spending the next few days becoming acquainted with these clouds on the mountain.