How often does one watch every fireworks show from Seattle to Centralia?

Mark Woytowich

Please indulge me as I present a most unusual view of Thurston County. Shown in the photo, it's a view from 40 miles away, about 2,500 feet high on a mountain in the Olympics. 

I was there in early December, just before the recent snow dump, a time when you could still drive the forest road winding up Mt. Ellinor's eastern shoulder without getting stuck in winter's white wonder.

Mt. Ellinor tops out at 5,920 feet and the road is never plowed. I had a seminal moment where both Lacey and Mt. Ellinor combined to create a most magical night.

It's a mall world

Readers in their 40s and older may recall that Lacey was once home to the area's principal shopping mall, the South Sound Shopping Center. The Center, which opened in 1966, stood across Sleater Kinney Road from what was to be a Fred Meyer grocery store.

In the 1980s and '90s, the area was not fully developed between the mall and Fred Meyer. The Starbucks and other smaller stores that now hug Sleater Kinney were not there. In their place were scattered berms of grass.

For years, every third of July was marked by a fairly boisterous Independence Day fireworks show, with rockets launching from the South Sound Center to burst over Interstate 5. Crowds gathered on those berms, bringing picnic meals, sodas, lawn chairs, blankets, even baby cribs. As skies darkened, the anticipation would build. Children ran by, waving sparklers, and the air carried a firecracker smell.

I remember being in the crowd there, sitting on the grass for a few of those celebrations. It was easygoing, joyous fun, a bit like being in the back of a pickup at a drive-in movie show. Even the adults would ham it up, joining the kids with exaggerated "ooohs" and "aaahs" when a rocket rippled color across the sky.      

Above the bursts

Now back to Mt. Ellinor. On a different July 3rd –I'm guessing 1996 or 1997––I found myself on top of the proud mountain, enjoying a late afternoon view. I had climbed alone and was still relishing the joy of my second summit.

After driving down from the upper trailhead, I veered my Honda onto a lower, seldom used logging road that hugged the sheer cliffs of the mountain's eastern face. Suddenly I hit the brakes, mesmerized by a gorgeous, tall waterfall tumbling into a pocket-sized grotto. It roared right outside my window.

The falls beckoned me to get out and explore. Like a long white ponytail, they poured 70 feet straight down into a bubbly, partially hidden pool. I walked the road leading past them, now toward a series of wide, flat shelves perfect for camping. How come I hadn't known about this place? Charred circles within rings of small rocks told me others had spent nights here. Each bend in the road seemed blessed with another rocky perch, another campfire ring with a breathtaking 3,000-foot view.

In the east, Mt. Rainier loomed like a giant white-capped wave. I sat on a log, lingering there, watching the massive mountain slowly blush orange-pink as the sun angled lower. I stayed there as the horizon edged pink, then slipped into shadow.   

That's when the first burst caught my eye. Somewhere out toward Tacoma a firework rocket puffed in the sky.

A few minutes later another exploded nearby over Union, then another, with its bang distant and delayed.

I had a good hour before any of the big, professional fireworks shows would begin, so I set about building a small fire, only I failed because I did not have enough paper and kindling. Sitting in the dark I told myself this better be worth it if I have to drive down the mountain at night.

Soon enough Lakewood or Tacoma shot off a good display, and Lacey definitely launched a good one, too. I could not see individual bursts from this distance, but the whole area glowed with shifting colors that reflected off columns of smoke towering over the display.

It stayed very quiet up there. I honestly don't remember if I could hear Lacey's grand finale or not. I remember the night air getting cold on my bare arms and a very peculiar, bittersweet feeling as I stood up and walked back to my car. 

I knew I had witnessed something very special, as if a gift of Nature and chance had been dropped in my lap. How often does one watch every fireworks show from Seattle to Centralia?

At the same time, echoing my sense of being alone on the mountain, I also wondered how many others would have enjoyed the same view? This particular Independence Day was not about the "ooohs" and "aaahs" of the crowd, but rather a quiet, solitary salute from far, far away.

Mark Woytowich was a writer, photographer, video producer and author of "Where Waterfalls and Wild Things Are." He passed away May 6, 2022. A longer version of this essay first appeared in The JOLT on  January 5, 2022.