Christian Atzinger
Google
You turn off Chuckanut Drive onto a small, suspiciously narrow road, so twisting and graveled it feels like you’ve made a terrible mistake. You haven’t. You’ve simply begun your pilgrimage.
Down the lane, the sky opens. Salt air wraps around you like a wool blanket drying in the breeze, and the Skagit tide flats, vast and glinting, sprawl before you like something from a painting you once saw and could never quite forget.
There are no neon signs here, no servers in black aprons reciting specials you can’t pronounce. There is only the sound of gulls, the soft chime of oyster shells as they are stacked into baskets, and the hush of the tide creeping in, reminding you that you are right on the ocean, not near it, but on it.
Here at Taylor Shellfish Farm, you eat oysters so fresh they still taste like the sea is telling you a secret, briny and cold, kissed with a squeeze of lemon, maybe a dash of mignonette if you must, but you don’t have to. The sweet, mineral snap of a Shigoku, the clean cucumber note of a Kumamoto, the silken brine of a Pacific—each one a reminder that you are alive, and you are here.
You buy a cold glass of white wine there, sit at your table in the salty breeze, and watch the tide rise while the sun drifts down over Samish Bay, wondering how something so hidden could be one of your most favorite places on Earth.
Don’t let the scary little road in fool you. Taylor Shellfish Farm is a hidden gem, yes, but also a cathedral of sorts—one built on tidelines, barnacles, and the crisp snap of an oyster shell beneath your thumb.
And when you leave, you will carry the taste of the sea with you, and you will find yourself planning your return before you even reach the highway