Commodore Park

"We love this little park. There’s a harbor seal that hangs out here that we love to watch. The park is a nice walk."

"This is a small park with limited parking, but you get a unique view of the Ballard Locks, Salmon Bay Bridge and seals swimming around catching salmon. It's also the Great Blue Herons nesting ground, with these interesting big birds flying overhead. There's a restroom, terraced grass sitting/picnic area, and occasional benches. And it's free."

"It appears mother nature has numbered the days of Commodore Park. Twixt beach erosion and sliding hillsides the quiet canal-side promenade and park is disappearing before our eyes & whilst we sleep. And our recent bout of ice & snow did not do it any favors. When people visit a park and see a tree most think, 'ah, a tree.' What most don't think, fail to see, or simply take for granted as non-descript scenery marking the trail to the water is that the trees ARE the park. Especially if the park is Commodore Park. The Herons have chosen this park, these trees as their home. Now, I'm not really sure about the relationship the Herons have with the Cormorants (is it a timeshare thing, sublet, or perhaps the original AirBnB- I haven't a clue), but it appears it's not just 1 auspicious species on the edge, but 2. But these trees are not simply props in the Heron/Cormorant reality show, They are time capsules of a sort. The trees & shrubbery provide depth and definition to rolling landscape. They are a canvas, or more accurately, a living tapestry comprised of bits and pieces of the lives of those who have passed under their canopy, filtered from the very breath like some strange tantric ritual: we breathe out, they breathe in, and with each breath a part of us passes to them, and them to us. Whether my sentiments are simply hyperbole, I cannot say. I know these trees and views have left an indelible mark upon me. Is it arrogance to think a part of me remains in them? The answer is not truly relevant. My point is with each passing season, a bit more of this tapestry unravels, a little less to experience, a little less to remember. And when they are gone, so too are the Herons, and Cormorants, and a small piece of our natural world will disappear with them. I have neither the intellect nor insight to state whether any of this can be saved. All I can say with certainty is this: it's here, today, right now. If all you are able to save of it is a memory then it will be worth it. A memory is a moment of meaning. Can you have too many of those?"

"Visit the Locks on this side for a less crowded and quiter trip (but be aware that parking is very, very limited). There's a heron rookery and steps to reach the water (we watched a young heron at the bottom of the steps trying its best to catch fish). Stop by Little Chinooks on the way for fish and chips to go and have a nice picnic on the steep grassy hillside at the park while watching the boats and seals hunting for salmon at the locks. The freshly renovated fish ladder viewing area is open now too!"

"The bridge is for trains and lifts up to allow boats through. There is a little park area with a terraced grassy hill & cement seating steps that terrace down to the water. They have a neat viewing area for the migrating salmon so you cam see them swimming underwater as well. You can also watch them operate the locks to bring the boats up to higher water levels before moving up river. Pretty cool."