Tucked into a valley where old growth Douglas firs and redwoods stand guard like elders over a meadow full of swaying foxgloves, fifty fruit trees heavy with summer, and a creek running crystalline and cold through banks of ochre and orange clay. Baby salmon move through the shallows. Blueberries burst sweet and tart straight off the bush. The smell when you arrive is salt air meeting pine meeting something cinnamony and ancient that you feel in your chest before you can name it.