Motorcyclists, hikers can coexist in forest
I was fortunate to grow up in Anacortes and probably the fondest memories I have of these times was the privilege of riding my motorcycle on what is now known as the Anacortes Community Forest Lands. I moved from Anacortes in 1979, but I have enjoyed the Forest Lands over the years since I moved as I visit family and friends.

My sister recently alerted me to a letter to the editor by Hershel Janz. He is correct that there are not many trails left in the ACFL for motorcycles. I continue to visit on weekends and enjoy the ACFL trails, mostly now hiking and bicycle riding, but rarely any longer on a motorcycle.

There just aren’t enough trails anymore that are open for motorized vehicles. That is really a shame considering the fact that the majority of the ACFL trails were built in the ’60s and 70s by motorcycle riders. I remember building and maintaining trails as a teenager and even remember the days when organized events were staged out of Heart Lake with 100-plus motorcycle riders taking part.

Mr. Janz says that the motorcycles have proven to be a menace in the forest, claiming to have been forced off, driven off and scared by motorcycles at least a dozen times during his 10 years as a volunteer. I am not writing to diminish his concerns, but motorized vehicles do move faster than those on foot.

I have been riding motorcycles for over 35 years and I completely advocate that motorcyclists exhibit safe and responsible riding behavior at all times. In the 35-plus years riding my motorcycle in the ACFL trails I have not have one negative encounter with a non-motorized user.

When I encounter a hiker or bicycle rider, I’ll slow down, or stop, and acknowledge the fact that they are there. Usually, I stop my motorcycle to say hello and let them pass. I was taught at an early age by members of the Skagit Motorcycle Club the importance of personal responsibility.

Mr. Janz recommended, “you young adventuresome motorcycle riders should seriously consider shaping up or shipping out to another riding area!” I’m not exactly sure what this means with this assertion since no specific allegations are made, but maybe these young riders he refers to do not have the benefits of proper riding practices that I had as a youth. One does not have to be riding a motorcycle to be an irresponsible trail user.

The nearest riding area from Anacortes is at Walker Valley, which is about 20 minutes east of Mount Vernon. Walker Valley is the only legal sanctioned area for motorcycles of any consequence north of Everett. As a hiker, I can use a multitude of trails in the Anacortes area. Motorcycle riders do not have that luxury.

The trails open to motorcycles in the ACFL have slowly, but steadily diminished since the city assumed management of the trail system. I’d expect that to continue until someday the only users of these precious trails will be those on foot. Just remember please, those trails you are walking on were built, established and maintained by motorcycle users for a very long time.
John Keates
Shelton

Displaced wildlife should be a wake-up call
Last week I was driving along R Avenue near Seventh Street. I saw a lone deer. looked like a yearling, walking down Seventh.

I slowed, stopping traffic behind me. The deer seemed bewildered. She climbed to the sidewalk and crossed R in the crosswalk of all things and proceeded toward greener environs.

The whole episode gave me the chills and seemed horribly sad. The purposeful, yet thoughtless displacement of this creature and others from their rightful habitat for the purpose and goal of human progress was the undeniable and ugly truth to me in that moment that deer trotted across the car-filled street.

Where has all this gotten us?

Monstrous houses and cars that are becoming unaffordable by any but those very well off. The extinction of 200 earth species daily, abuse of the animals we raise to eat, and agri-food products that cause illness and need to be pulled from the grocery stores. Two wars the cost of which will prevent us from having the funds to rebuild all those breadbasket towns recently flooded. A proposal to begin offshore drilling in the U.S. to generate a miniscule amount of crude oil in about 20 years.

Have we all just gone crazy? I don’t know what you are telling your kids or grandkids, but I am at a loss for describing the world we have now and the one they will be inheriting.
Killeen Pilon Anacortes

Weaverling Spit a special family place for decades
The recent article about the old dance hall at Weaverling Spit was a sad reflection of a place I never knew as a dance hall but had heard stories of it being so. The article left me with the feeling that the history of that property ended in the late 1930s. It didn’t.

In the early 1940s, my grandparents, Gene and Stella Gibbons, bought the property. They raised two children in what used to be the dance hall, by then, a home. I remember my parents talking about church youth group picnics being held out on the “point” and family get-togethers that always involved food, fun and usually some swimming.

The cabins were rented out to various people with my great-grandmother, Lila Gibbons, living in the cabin closest to the road. My parents lived in one of the cabins when I was just an infant. That would have been around 1961.

The traditions continued as my grandparents welcomed more grandchildren into the family. Those grandkids would eventually bring their friends to “camp,” swim, play and picnic at the spit. I remember family gatherings on just about every holiday at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I learned to swim in the pond. My brother and I walked the train trestle, now the Tommy Thompson Trail, only to discover a train coming and were forced to jump into the water. Good thing the tide was in.

Sleeping in the back bedroom was a treat. Looking at the view of the refinery lights reflecting in the nighttime water was like having Christmas year-round.

The property was a magical place for a kid. The ages-old trails led up to the water tank and down to the beach, one led to the train tracks. It was a place of adventure and fun. We never got bored.

In the mid-70s my grandparents decided to remodel the house. The newer materials talked about in the article were the beginning of another adventure.

Due to health, time and financial reasons, my grandparents chose not to finish the remodel and decided to sell the property. In 1980, they sold and moved to Oak Harbor.

Weaverling Spit was rumored to have been purchased by an investment company in Seattle with the intent of dredging the bay and building a marina. Due to the protected eel grass in the area, that project was never realized. Caretakers cared for the home for a few years after the sale but eventually the property was abandoned.
Years later I revisited the property with my brother and cousins. As I walked into the empty kitchen, I went to the cupboard that use to hold my grandmother’s spices. I swear I could still smell them.

I once again traced my finger on the letter J etched in the kitchen window by my uncle when he was a child. It was my J too. I could still picture the portrait of my mother in her wedding gown hanging in the dining room. I could still see the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room and hear the laughter of relatives together for the holiday.

As we walked around that day, I listened as my cousin spoke of having wanted to have her wedding at the cabana on the hill above the house. We all shared memories that day. Wonderful memories of a loving home our grandparents made out of a building that for a short time was a dance hall.

In 1999, I came home for my 20-year high school reunion. I knew I wanted to share this magical place with my children. We spent a beautiful afternoon looking at where the apple and plum trees use to be, the rose garden, and the “root beer” flowers. After a lot of tromping around and many pictures later, I felt satisfied that we had kind of come full circle.

Last summer, my now 14-year-old daughter came home after a day with her friends telling me of a haunted house she and her friends had explored. I pulled out a photo album and showed her the pictures of her as a 5-year-old in front of that same house.

Not a haunted house. Just Grandma and Grandpa’s house, full of love and memories, no drinking allowed, unless it was hot chocolate with Grandma at the kitchen table.
It isn’t a dance hall that was torn down. To me, it will always be my grandparents’ home. I will miss seeing it as I come in on the highway. Just as I did when I was a child.
Jenene Wetzel
Anacortes