Anacortes

Once touted as the New York of the West, grand terminus for a Pacific rail route, Anacortes lay casting her spell on tourists who dared the Skagit west. Christened after Anne Curtis, an early settler's wife, a dreamer with a vision for the place, who threw all he had into its chase. Refineries across the Fidalgo Bay still fumed the chagrin of those days; yet, the town never failed to beam and invite tourists with her luring gleam. A voyeur November Sun peeped through a veil of clouds on to the lovely contours of her anatomy, as seagulls laughed and hooted in merry. Tourists meandered along her quadrilateral streets, hunting for curios, inebriate to the hilt on diverse ales. Restaurants that lined the street-side worked on exotic salads and fries, where visitors would soon hole up at noon to gorge on delicious meals. A roadside tree now leafless still had some red berries, a departed summer's after-thought; two crows perched nearby leaving them untouched. Down the road at the marina an imposing wreck of a schooner lay, La Merced her forgotten name, now totally overgrown by bushes, an abode for vagrant creatures. The portal to the ferry-docks had a list of missing persons, fondly remembered and yet there wasn't anyone around to narrate what really happened. Yet, ferries waited a few yards away eager to connect to British Columbia and the islands on the west, San Juans, Orcas, Lopez and the like. Anacortes lay, a dream of the past, beauty of the Pacific, with a reinvented charm, a welcoming bosom for paradise-seekers and Lotos Eaters on the islands of the Ocean. (Image courtesy: Getty Images)