I'm truly disappointed in the poorly executed high-school-grade "satanic" graffiti on the bunkers at this park. Bad graffiti is an affront; there should be some equivalent to the Hippocratic Oath with defacing public (or, for that matter, private) property...maybe worded something like this, "Kindly do not make shit even uglier." Come on, my paint-spattered teen friends, and elevate your game. My sons did better work at three, holding crayons with their forehead. The lopsided pentagram is just embarrassing; don't be afraid to use a grid if you have to. Recommended viewing: Exit Through the Gift Shop. Now, go practice on cardboard.
That said, Fort Ward gets incredibly high marks for its freakishly beautiful sunsets. Pink and gold ribbons stretch out across the horizon, fragmented and reproduced on the slight chop of grey evening waters while two ferries glide slowly past one another. The running trails, steep climbs that level off pretty quickly, are great fun if not exuberant, and the paved area at sea level is a pretty one to trot or bike down.
This is lovely, but the problem with this park is that it's so...abbreviated. Just when you build up steam on the paved area it goes residential. The houses get the view, and you get to count mailboxes. Then, just as it picks up on the seawall again, and you're flanked by open waters, it...ends. It ends, right smack into some guy's house, with your only egress being either a reversal or a sketchy uphill battle called "Toe Jam Hill" buttonhooking to your left.
Along the trail, brace yourself for friendliness. For anyone who's used to running in Seattle, it may drop your jaw to realize everyone you encounter will probably smile and say hi to you. Adjust your ipod volume accordingly!
The trails up in the hills aren't QUITE so abruptly ending but you do need to backtrack or go across multiple trails to get a decent-sized run in. Also, it's certainly not Fort Ward's fault that I got insanely lost, apparently went off-trail, and ended up first in someone's lawn, then in a construction area festooned with angry and vaguely emergent NO! TRES! PASSING!!! signs, and finally in some swampy nettle-and-thorn bracken bowl where I ended up with poison ivy or some poxy thing or other all over whatever flesh I hadn't covered. I don't blame you, Fort Ward. Spare the rod, and all that. read more