We made a quick trip to the wet side last weekend, slopping over Snoqualmie Pass and boring into the seemingly incessant misty rain of the Puget Sound area.

Our destination was the Olympic Peninsula and we joined the masses ripping northbound on I-405 to catch one of several ways to extend Highway 104 across the briny deep. The frenetic-ness seems to begin permeating you as you angle downhill after cresting Snoqualmie’s 3,015-foot elevation and the relatively warmer climate dissipates the snow and slush into a shiny black pavement. For drivers more accustomed to the pace and style of eastern Washington, it’s time to be on high alert.

It’s go-go-go or be run over.

Previous visits to the Peninsula and hastily made plans soon found us heading to suburb Edmonds to catch the next boat across Puget Sound. Shooting completely from the hip, we rolled into line with something like a half hour to spare.

In line for the ferry, we were struck by the cultural differences we have with western Washingtonians, with whom we share this state. We parked and got out to stretch our legs; we’d been in the car over four hours. Neighboring drivers’ and passengers’ faces flickered with an eerie blue light as all were engrossed in screens.

Our lives in our busy community involve travel and appointments, events and deadlines, the daily obligations that make up our lives. Drives take a few minutes…we might walk sometimes…then we park and attend the event.

Not so over there. Everywhere you go, there are 10,000 going in the same direction, and as many heading the other way.

Communities there have as much going on and more people to go on with them. There are bands, soccer teams, cheerleading and dance lessons…just find something to be interested in and go for it. But the daily grind demands specialization, not generalization, like that found in so many small, eastern Washington towns where many of the volunteers can be found lending their support to everything.

Not all of western Washington has this feel. On the Peninsula, we enjoyed a relaxed meal at a waterfront bistro and were lulled to sleep by saltwater waves crashing on the breakwater. No wonder so many people head to the fringes for some sanity, peace and quiet, but keep Seattle close enough to enjoy its amenities.

Maybe we’re reading too much into this, but it seems that the Rat Race reflects those cultural differences, just like the way Washington’s Jekyll-and-Hyde political climate compares East and West.

So we rolled onto the ferry to head east and after creeping along I-5 thanks to a blocking car accident, we eventually made our way to I-90 and the mad dash out of town, darting across five or six lanes at Bellevue to get out of the way of cars and trucks looking for this or that exit.

One by one, the zipping BMWs or Volvos slide off at Fall City or Issaquah and before you know it, it’s you and a few other cars and semis, alone in the night, breathing easier as Seattle and environs recedes in behind you.

As the late John Denver once sang: “Ain’t it good to be back home again.”