Tour Diary: Bellingham & Seattle, WA

Mount Rainier in the snow, a night with a dear old friend, and a pair of big disappointments marked my time in the greater Seattle region.

My trusty Buick Encore, who shall heretofore be known as Aretha, and I pulled into Bellingham, WA on a late Thursday afternoon. I made a beeline for my home for the night, Schweinhauss Biergarten, an outdoor German beer bar with a stage, fire pit, and outdoor kitchen. It was a hodge-podge of styles and design ethics, but the place had a solid atmosphere.

I introduced myself to the young lady at the bar as the performer for the evening, but did so with a very worried tone in my voice. I had arrived to the venue to see that someone else’s name was on the bill. Schweinhauss has a regular Thursday night open mic, which they had offered to have me play a featured set after the first hour or so of open mic performances. Now, someone else was in the featured spot. I became very worried.

The young lady tending bar was unaware of the booking situation but assured me that the booker would arrive soon. I headed out for a long walk to hope things might work out. I strolled for more than an hour, slowly making my way back to Schwienhauss, only to find that the booker still had yet to arrive and was not responding to the texts sent by the bartender. I went back out for a walk in a different direction this time looking intently for other spots that might allow me to have a show at a moment’s notice.

After another half hour or so of wandering the streets of Bellingham, I came upon a sign for Gruff Brewing and followed it down a small alley to find the entrance. I sidled up, and ordered a West Coast IPA and began chatting with Mary, who was manning the bar. After a bit of conversation, I explained my situation to Mary and asked if they might be willing to let me play a set for tips as my other gig appeared to be falling apart.

Mary began texting her boss to see if something like that might be possible. She was very generous and even excited at the idea. It was really nice to see her try to help in a moment of need. While Mary worked the bar and waited for word on whether or not we could mount a show, I got an email from the booker at Schweinhauss. She claimed we had not confirmed the date. We had, and I had sent repeated follow-up emails asking about load-in times, payment, and length of set. Having been given the date but no other details, I had no choice to drive to the gig to honor my commitment. Sadly, I honored my commitment, but Schweinhauss failed to hold up their end of the bargain.

While I felt deflated and angry, I was also not panicking or despondent, which might have been my move on previous tours. I was certain that the venue had behaved unprofessionally and left me in the lurch, but I was not going to let that ruin my adventure. I finished my beer, thanked Mary for making the effort and told her we could give it a shot for next time. I was headed to Mount Rainier.

I navigated the horrendous Seattle metro traffic to make my way out to the mountain on a Thursday evening. As the sun descended, Aretha and I climbed the switchback roads toward the entrance to Mt. Rainier National Park. On the drive up, it didn’t take long for the city to fade away and the mountains to take over. Hotels, gas stations, and restaurants became relatively scarce as I neared the park. I pulled into a roadside biker bar near an intersection of two state highways just after 8:00 pm fearing it might be my last chance to eat for the evening.

My chicken sandwich was nothing more than three pre-frozen fried tenders stuffed on a bun with some mayo. It came with fries and a Coke and set me back $25 by the time I left a tip. Terrible food at outrageous prices is a helluva way to run a bar. Yet, the joint was packed with drinkers and eaters from all stripes of the mountain. I choked my meal down as quickly as I could and kept driving in search of a home for the night. Eventually I landed at a small motel in Morton, WA and fell into bed.

Early the next morning, I was up long before the sunrise. I cleaned up, packed my bags, and Aretha and I began our drive the rest of the way to Rainier. As the light began to crack the night sky, a heavy fog and cloud cover were noticeable. The night prior had been crystal clear, making Rainier light up in purples and oranges when viewed from I-5. Now, the mountain was shrouded in clouds and fog.

At the park entrance, I found a Ranger station and asked for a bit of guidance on how to best spend half a day on the mountain. The Ranger gave me a map of the entirety of Mt. Rainier National Park, and then handed me a map of the trails around the most famous area at Rainier, known as Paradise. We checked a few webcams as we talked to get an idea of mountain views and wildlife action in the area.

Benjamin wished me luck and handed me the maps, urging me to be careful of the coming weather. Rain, sleet, and snow were predicted for later in the day and he wanted to make sure folks were wearing proper clothing, carrying water on the trail, and not taking unnecessary risks. I thanked him for his help and guidance and began the short drive to Paradise.

Along the road to Paradise, the bottom portion of the mountain was visible in a couple of spots, but was largely obscured by the clouds and the light rain that began to fall. I drove through groves of birch trees, and saw larches up on the hills that had lost their needles for the season already. Wildflowers ran out in amber, yellow, ochre, and orange. Just as I reached Paradise, the rain turned to snow. I filled up a water bottle, tucked my maps in my jacket, and headed out to see a bit of Rainier before my ass became officially frozen. The temperature as I hit the trail was just 38 degrees Fahrenheit.

A glimpse of my morning on Mt. Rainier. There should be a giant mountain behind my head in that selfie, but it's all obscured by clouds.

I hoofed my way up to Marmot Falls as the snow began to fall faster and in larger clumps. My jacket and pants were already getting wet, and the trails had even become slick in some spots. Still, I soldiered on, making my way around a trio of shorter trails at Rainier. It was all very low impact hiking, but I was able to take in some of the loping beauty of the meadows at Paradise.

Along the trail, I was motioned to come closer by a family from Germany. They pointed to a nearby tree, behind which a large male elk was grazing. We watched him for several minutes as he ate away unfazed by his nearby voyeurs. I held the elk in my gaze for several minutes and marveled at his bulky, muscular frame, and his large head of antlers. The air was still, the only sound made my a few birds, and the chewing of my new ungulate friend.

With the mountain out of view, the weather vile, and my clothes becoming more soaked by the second, I opted to halt my Rainier exploration after just three hours. The space is amazing, and truly awesome without the mountain in the background. I can only imagine how spectacular it must be on a clear day. While I wandered back to the car, I listened to the songbirds call to each other, and watched the snow lay upon the pines and spruce.

Back inside Aretha, I cranked the heat and the defroster and shed my outer layers. I changed into a dry flannel shirt and warmed my hands over the slowly warming heater. Once I was sufficiently warmed through, I pulled up the GPS and set the coordinates for Pike Place Market. Everyone I talked to said, “If you’re going to Seattle, you have to go to Pike Place.”

It was just before noon as I hit the area around Pike Place and found a place to park Aretha after driving around for twenty minutes to no avail. I opted for a garage a few blocks away and hoped the gear inside would be cool for a few minutes while I checked out the area.

Pike Place is the oldest continually run market in the country, according to their marketing. The building was in danger of closing in the early 70s and was rescued and restored by a local group of activists. It has since become a hub of tourist activity in the city. I shuffled my way through the aisles doing my best to avoid the large crowds. I watched the dudes throw fish at each other and marveled at the gorgeous floral displays.

A glimpse of Pike Place

The market is filled with Italian grocers, candy shops, soap and candle makers, fresh meat and fish, and is much more. However, it is no longer a functional market, in the local sense. It is now largely a destination for out-of-towners, and not a bastion for the local. As such, I was a bit disappointed by my experience. It felt a bit like a market version of Disney World where it all looked and felt real, but the entire operation was more of an amusement park, than an actual market.

Over my myriad years of travel I have been lucky enough to visit markets on a trio of continents in a variety of different culture and countries. I have seen the markets in Pargue and Budapest and been marveled by the indigenous market in the mountain town of Chemula, Mexico high in the Chiapas mountains. I’ve bought local fish for a meal at our market in Puerto Escondido and I have watched the women in Marrakesh gather their spices for the evening’s family meal.

Pike Place compared to those experiences felt largely artificial and less interesting. It was still impressive to see a huge market filled with beautiful foods, fruits, and flowers, but there was an energy that was lacking. Because nearly the entirety of the patrons are tourists there is a slower, more casual approach to shopping at Pike Place. In Mexico and Marrakesh, there is a sense of urgency that elevates everything involved. Pike Place felt more bloated than bustling.

I wandered back to Aretha and paid $15 for the pleasure of an hour of parking and went off to find something for lunch. Just as I was leaving Pike Place, I got a text from my old friend and Third Uncle bandmate, Jason Viers who would be hosting me for the evening after my set at the Blue Moon Tavern. J was checking in to see if I had made it to town and what I was up to. He suggested a Mexican joint called Pecado Bueno and a coffee spot nearby called Lighthouse Roasters.

I got a taco trio at Pecado Bueno, opting for carnitas, carne asada, and chicken. I washed it down with an ice cold Coke. The meal was delicious and after hiking throughout the morning and walking for a while at Pike, it felt good to rest my bones and grab a snack.

After lunch, I swung up to Lighthouse Roasters, an old-school coffee house that was a Seattle original before the city became the coffee hub of the United States. The house blend was delicious, and despite being a medium dark roast, maintained more acidity in the cup than I would have expected. I listened to the baristas chat with the regulars and people watched until it was time for me to get to my gig.

The Blue Moon Tavern sits right at the edge of the U District in Seattle, the neighborhood where the University of Washington is located. The area is littered with eclectic shops, restaurants and bars, including the Blue Moon. I struggled to find a good parking spot for load-in, and ended up settling for a place in the paid lot across the street. I left all my gear in the car to get the lay of the land, and introduce myself.

For a second day in a row, I did not see my name on the marquee or the calendar and got very nervous. I was slated to play a happy hour set as it was my first time performing in the city. While it was not an ideal setup, it seemed as good a way as any to establish myself in Seattle, and the bartender even agreed to a very modest guarantee of $50. Still, I figured with a couple of hours to play, I could sell a bit of merch and garner a few tips to improve the take by the end of the night.

With a lump in my throat, I approached the bar and introduced myself. As I had feared, the booker had completely forgotten about me. He gave me a pained look and seemed incredulous that he would even have booked something for a Friday happy hour. He asked my name again and began to search his email. As my pulse began to quicken and my internal temperature rose to the roof, I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. I walked briskly down the sidewalk and felt the anger rushing iron me.

After fifteen minutes of literally attempting to cool down, I made my way back to the bar where the booker had managed to find our twelve piece email conversation in which he had offered me a happy hour set after a conventional bill with me included fell apart. Once again, he mentioned that he couldn't understand why he had set the show in the first place, but he admitted that we had agreed to it. He handed me my $50 and apologized.

I asked if i might still be able to play a set and he began to hem and haw about not having a sound guy and it not being a good time for it. I didn't need a sound guy, access to a PA or any other equipment, if I had really wanted to play, but I had lost heart by that point. Feeling deflated and demoralized, I exited the Blue Moon and texted to let J know that the show was off and he needn’t make the trip back into the city. He sent me his address and I made my way up to spend the evening with an old friend.

Matty C and J bringing the flannel love.

J was the lead guitar player in my first band, Third Uncle. The band lasted little more than a year, but it was an enormously important experience for everyone involved. For my part, that band taught me to believe that I had the ability to make music worth sharing. It fueled my exploration of sound and textures, it taught me how to improvise musically, and most importantly, Third Uncle taught me how to listen, though it would be years before I realized it.

It had been more than twenty years since J and I had seen each other in person, but the years melted away the moment we hugged. I was so thrilled to see such a dear, old friend after so long. We talked about my tour, life after my career, J’s life in Seattle, and I got to meet his wife, Jess. J and I went out to a local brewery for a burger, and caught up further.

Making our way back to his house, J and Jess and I talked well into the night about politics, self-care, mental health, music, creativity, and purpose. It was a soul-filling discussion with wonderful people. The evening was so lovely that by the time I went to bed I had completely overcome having been jilted at the venue two nights in a row.

Conversation continued all morning long over coffee in the morning, but I eventually had to leave to begin to make my way to Albany, OR and a Saturday night house concert. I gave J another massive hug and gifted him some vinyl from the merch bin. I thanked my old friend profusely for his friendship and hospitality. Somehow one of my favorite nights of the tour might have happened without any show at all.

Cheers,
Matty C