It's commonplace here for the tree line to run almost right up against the waves, and the salt of the sea wafts up to us long before we reach the water. As we walk along the trail, I'm struck by how green everything is, marking the lateness of spring and how soon the world will transition again to summer. Trees and clouds hang overhead in equal measure, sheltering us from the sun and turning its light into a leaf-green kaleidoscope.

It smells like a sharper version of home, but the sounds are far removed from my usual experience. The sea brushes up against the gold-grey sands, and the coastal winds curl through broad leaves and needles in equal measure. Creeks run through the underbrush, carving out small channels that the trails switchback through.

The path leads us through a manmade tunnel, its concrete walls painted over with bright scenes. The ceiling swirls with blue and white clouds, and flowers and musicians mid-performance dot the multicolored walls. There's even an octopus on one side, smiling. The whole tunnel seems to be designed as a monument to bringing people together in harmony, but we're the only ones here. Even the wide field at the entrance, dotted with picnic tables and sprawling white daisy patches and fluorescent pink rhododendrons, is devoid of human life.

It's a stage set to perform for an audience that is no longer in attendance.

I duck under an overhanging branch and finally see out onto the beach, the thin stretch of sand and stone that divides the forest and the sea. The constant whispers of the breeze and the waves fade slowly into the background, this painting of worlds forgotten, worlds separated.

The wooden fence creaks slightly as I rest my elbows on it, leaning out to take in the view. The Puget Sound stretches out for miles, its rippling surface interrupted only by small rock outcroppings and a couple of distant sailboats. I know there's all manner of beings that wander the Sound - otters, eagles, and whales, sharing the waters with great ferries and houseboats - but today, here, I see near nothing. Just the great blue waters.

We don't have the time to cross the border of sand, to stay and give this place the attention it has lacked for the last year. But as we leave, we finally pass other visitors, fellow travelers seeking out - or perhaps accidentally stumbling upon - this isolated piece of the world. There's not many of us here, but there's enough for the park to echo with conversation and the laughter of the young. If it had a face, I imagine the first faint smile of hope would be slowly spreading across it.

I'm smiling, too, as we leave.