Just south of Yellow Banks on the Pacific coast in the Olympic National Park Harpo and I came upon a series of vertebrae bleached and strewn along a mile stretch of beach, impossibly long ribs that protruded like tusks from the sea worn pebbles, and bits of bone mixed with human detritus the winter currents had washed upon the beach. The things together were sad and beautiful – the graveyard of bones and plastic buoys, dead tires and twisted rope, and dreams of the greatest beasts alive wandering somewhere far from this distant coast.