Fog, freezing waves, and a drone in distress

Olympic Peninsula, WA

A 3-day express loop: the perfect mix of lakes and coastline

This trip was all about the greatest hits: deep-blue lakes, wild Pacific beaches, and—most importantly—a new chapter in Louie’s adventure dog training. Because if there’s one thing readers know by now, it’s that I love spending time on these lakes with my paddleboard. And if there’s one thing Louie did not love, it was the idea of being on any sort of floating vessel.

But I had a plan. A true Lebanese dad plan. Every evening leading up to this trip, I took Louie down to the local lake after work for a little “aquatic confidence training.” I’d put him in our inflatable kayak and pull him with a rope from my paddleboard, slowly convincing him that floating doesn’t mean imminent doom. After a week of this, he was at a solid 30-minute tolerance level. Progress!

And now? Now we had a trip where I could finally put his training to the test. No pressure, Louie. Just your entire future of adventure travel on the line. Yalla, chou naatrin? (what are we waiting for?)

There are two kinds of “we’ve been there” statements. The first one is casual—yeah, we drove through, saw some trees, took a picture, and ate a granola bar. The second? That’s the one where you actually feel like you’ve been there, like you left a tiny piece of your soul behind (or at least some sand in your van, which you will never fully get rid of, ya haram).

That was the Olympic Peninsula for us. We had technically been there before, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, claim we had been there, there. So, this time, we fixed that.

Day 1: A lake Quinault welcome, french connections, and failed drone attempts

We kicked things off by heading towards Lake Quinault, a perfect blend of forested beauty and glassy waters. We arrived at Falls Creek Campground for a lakeside lunch before I eagerly pulled out the kayak and paddleboard.

Louie’s big moment had arrived.

The sun was shining. The water was calling. He sat in the kayak with Alizée, and we started gliding down the lake, the wind gently pushing us along. And just when I thought we were having a peaceful, serene moment…

I decided to launch the drone. Big mistake!

Turns out, the drone had been in hibernation mode for so long that its software was stuck in the dark ages, limiting it to a comically useless 10-meter perimeter. No big deal—except that I was floating on a paddleboard, the wind was having a field day, and I very quickly drifted past those 10 meters. This is when the drone, in full existential crisis, decided to lock me out of all controls and initiate an emergency landing—right back at its takeoff point. Which, to my absolute horror, was in the middle of the lake. Ya khayye, bala maskhara! (come on, this is ridiculous!) So there I was, frantically stuffing my phone and controller into my dry bag and paddling like my life depended on it. Except, with no fixed reference point, this turned into a ridiculous Tom & Jerry-style chase—me on my paddleboard, zigzagging blindly, while the drone calmly descended toward its watery grave. At the very last second, I managed to snatch it out of the air like some kind of action movie hero and decided, right then and there, that maybe today was not the day for drone footage.

Meanwhile, as we paddled, a group of swimmers overheard us speaking French, and suddenly, a guy in the water shouted "Bonjour!" from afar. Turns out, we weren’t the only Francophones on an adventure.

Enter: Maya and Maël, a French couple on a 6-week road trip from Banff to LA. Naturally, we ended up chatting for a good 20 minutes, exchanging road stories. While our campsite was good and literally 10 steps away from the water, it didn’t have a front-row seat to the lake like theirs. Their site was pure magic—prime real estate for sunset views. So I thought: why not offer to have dinner together? They were up for it! Now, remember, this is van life. You bring your own dinner—no formal invitations, no potlucks, just whatever’s in your fridge. Of course, we had our trusty and tasty Taylor Farms salad kit, jazzed up with some protein toppers. Maya and Maël whipped up pasta with pesto. Here’s the kicker: we always travel with ice cream in the freezer—because we’re gourmand like that! So we each indulged in a Haagen-Dazs chocolate and almond bar, because if you’re going to camp, might as well do it like champs!

What followed? Hours of conversation, sunset views that made us question reality, and the silent but universal understanding that road trip friendships are forged over shared meals and ridiculous snack flexes.

Day 2: Rainforest hikes, van talk, and the dark magic of ruby Beach

We woke up to the sound of rustling trees and the smell of coffee brewing in the cool morning air. As we sipped our cups, Maya and Maël rolled by, needing to wash their dishes at our site (the ultimate road-trip-level intimacy test). We exchanged Instagram handles to keep track of each other’s journey, then set off for the Quinault Rainforest Nature Trail, a stunning hike that meandered through towering trees and moss-covered everything.

On our way out of the parking lot, something caught my eye: a Sprinter van with a German license plate. Now, in the van life world, this is like spotting a rare bird. You have to investigate.

So, pushed by curiosity (and definitely not subtlety), Alizée struck up a conversation with the owners—Núria and Phillip, a Spanish-German couple who had shipped their van (an ex-police van) from Germany to Panama and road-tripped their way through North America for seven months.

Legends.

We ended up chatting for 30 minutes, hearing about their adventure, their plan to sell the van, and their eventual return to Berlin. Before parting ways, we promised to visit if we ever found ourselves in Germany. I saved Phil’s Instagram handle—because obviously, I needed proof for when I tell people “I know a guy who drove from Panama to Seattle.”

Still buzzing from that conversation, we made our way to Kalaloch Beach, where we had lunch in the van, sheltered from the wind. As we drove closer to the ocean coastline, something wild happened—we went from perfect blue sky to extreme fog in a matter of minutes. Apparently, this isn't just Mother Nature being moody; it’s a real meteorological phenomenon. The cold ocean water meets the warmer air from inland, causing condensation and creating that eerie mist that makes the coastline feel straight out of a fantasy novel.

Then came Ruby Beach—a moody, cinematic landscape of dark sand, churning waves, and two surfers we first spotted in the parking lot, getting suited up with that unmistakable ma fi chi attitude (Lebanese for "no big deal," even when the deal is freezing cold water). I turned to Alizée and said, "These guys are a little wild! I’m gonna try to snap some footage of them catching waves on the water." So, I did! And then it hit me—if it were me out there surfing with my buddy, I’d love to have someone capture that moment too. Since we knew which car they had parked in the lot, Alizée insisted we leave a note on their windshield with my phone number to share the footage. So, we did. Later that evening: ding ding! My phone buzzed—it was them, asking for the footage and being super thankful. Small moments, big connections. Kel wahed w riz2o! (Everyone has their share of luck!)

Then we drove to La Push, where the overcast sky made the beach feel eerily quiet. So, we did what any reasonable people would do—unleashed Louie and let him go nuts. He ran. He dug holes. He attempted to sit inside the hole he just dug (as if expecting it to transform into a luxury suite).

Day 3: Devil’s Punchbowl and the joy of meeting (more) people

The morning was cool and humid, so we made a quick escape to Lake Crescent, where we set our sights on Devil’s Punchbowl—yaaneh, what a spot! I personally didn’t see it coming, because the 'hike' to get there from the parking lot is pretty much entirely on asphalt until the very last bit, where you suddenly enter a forested area by the lakeshore. And then—bam!—you find yourself face-to-face with this stunning bridge over crystal-clear waters, with people jumping from a 25-meters cliff. It felt like stumbling upon a hidden oasis! with clear blue waters and a cliff that people (who clearly value adrenaline more than their bones) love to jump from.

As we sat, enjoying the view, I set up the drone again—this time, everything was working as expected. The software was finally up to date, no ridiculous range limits, no existential crises—just smooth flying. I managed to capture an incredible video of a diver doing a backflip into the water, exactly as I had originally hoped.

Later, we tracked the guy down to send him the footage. His name? Brad. His reaction? Pure joy.

Final thoughts

Honestly, there’s something special about these little encounters. Meeting people along the way, sharing moments, swapping stories—it makes every trip feel richer.

This trip wasn’t just about checking a place off the list—it was about feeling like we had truly been there. And if the Olympic Peninsula taught me anything, it’s that the best adventures aren’t just about the landscapes.

They’re about the people (and dogs) you meet along the way. Yalla, nshoufkon bel jaye!