Repairing a ship in Port Townsend
| Mike Benedetti -> Content -> Hikes & Pilgrimages -> Hiking the Olympic Peninsula | ||||
I was staying with my friend Jon near Seattle when the Olympic Peninsula called out to me. "Old-growth rain forests..." it whispered. "Olympic marmots...."
When I learned that the Pacific Northwest Trail ran across the entire peninsula, my plans for day-hiking turned into a two-week trek from Port Townsend to Cape Alava. I called Olympic National Park's Wilderness Information Center (360-565-3100) and the USFS/NPS Resource Information Center in Forks to arrange my permits. I learned the following:
I couldn't find much first-hand information about this hike on-line, so I've posted my journal here for others. Suzanne Allen has a page about other sections of the PNT.
I developed a bit of a sore throat on the bus.
When I got out at the Port Townsend stop there was a cab waiting for passengers, but I told the driver I'd walk it. After all, I was walking across the Peninsula! (triumphant music.) After the cab left, I took out my map and saw that we were at the intersection of 101 and 20, about 15 miles from town. I was curious about 20, since the PNT Guide described the road as "an often-shoulderless, high-speed arterial." It didn't look completely deadly, but I didn't want to start with a 15-mile roadwalk, either. I found a place where cars could pull over, stuck out my thumb, and three cars later had a ride to Port Townsend.
The fellow driving said that years ago, Port Townsend was rednecks and hippies and a few retirees. More folks have been retiring there and things are getting expensive. His wife is a local realtor, so the rising tide has lifted their boat. He showed me the food co-op (you could do vegan resupply in PT), the outfitter, and some places to get coffee.
Repairing a ship in Port Townsend
I had an espresso and looked at my maps. Then I walked to the outfitters, thinking I would have a chat, but what was there to say? So I headed for the Port Townsend Ferry Terminal and walked to the Larry Scott Trail, which leads south out of town. On the way, I saw an older, worn-down couple with an older, worn-down dog tent-camping behind tall grass in a vacant lot. With expensive coffee still in my belly, I didn't have anything to say to them, either. Hopefully in a couple days I will be back in the vagrant mindset.
I didn't see many camping opportunities along the Larry Scott Trail. This is a well-maintained trail with lots of bikers and walkers. Maybe some of the dirt side-trails are campable. At the first crossing of highway 20, there is an intersection of gravel trails. The PNT continues down the one non-gravel trail southwest, away from the highway. Here the trail has backyards on either side. I found a little wooded area with no houses nearby, and that's where I'm camping. I hope it doesn't rain.
I couldn't find where the trail continued beyond Discovery Road heading east, so I took the road. Four Corners has a gas station and a bus stop for highway 20. Decided to walk the highway. Some dicey spots, but overall a standard roadwalk. I noticed someone had pinned several pair of underwear to a tree, lost my concentration, and slipped off the road, skinning my knee and shredding the silnylon sack I was holding. Oh well, that sack was on its last legs.
Pleased to pass by Eaglemount Rockeries, a roadside attraction of the old school. Hundreds of concrete and rock sculptures. It might make sense to call these guys and try to arrange camping here.
Mt. Rushmore at Eaglemount Rockeries
Saw salmon struggling up Salmon Creek. A couple big fish died in the middle of the creek, making the journey even harder for the others.
Past Salmon Creek the trail is supposed to head up "Salmon Creek Road." This is now a private driveway with "Keep Out" signs. I stood at the foot of the driveway till a young boy emerged from the house. "Excuse me, does this road continue on past the property?" "Yeah." "Do you mind if I hike it?" "No." The boy went inside, and as I reached the top of the driveway his father came out the side door.
He was a very nice man, and gave me useful information about following the PNT. He said I was the third PNT hiker he'd met, all of us just this year.
The trail soon crossed a barbed-wire fence and headed down an old road overgrown with blackberry bushes. I wished I had a machete. Suddenly I emerged from the trees to find mud, vehicles, and piles of trees. I saw an open toolbox, so I called out, "Hello there!" A guy came from behind a backend loader. He said he was supposed to be stacking trees, but had two different mechanical problems, so "I'm mechanicking instead of stacking." He had only lived on the peninsula for two years, but agreed that the weather was unseasonably dry. He said the next few days were supposed to be hot.
I spent the afternoon hiking the maze of logging roads. I wanted to make the National Forest, but was slowed by my flu. Just after the Valhalla ranch I plunged into an area of forest, and sure enough saw a USFS property marker. I hate trespassing. I don't know if I can just camp on Forest Service land, but I'd rather trespass on my own land than someone else's.
A few mosquitoes and no-see-ums. Tomorrow's massive climb should take me far away from them. I am sick for sure and hope I don't get worse.
Bridge near Cliff Camp
The bridge near Cliff Camp had collapsed, and I had to ford the cold, fast river. There was another ford a few miles later. I felt like a real hiker. From Slab Camp there was a long, steep climb to the first mountain views. Made Deer Park with time to spare.
What was I thinking when I made my schedule for this trip? One mile-per-hour is a good pace on steep ups. Flu a little worse today. The plan for the next couple days seems insane. I'll need to night-hike, if I don't get injured first.
The visitors center sells lots of useful things, like french fries, but no sunscreen. A visitor mentioned there was a forest fire nearby, and my hopes lifted. Maybe the trail was closed! Maybe I would have an excuse to stop hiking!
The ranger said that the fire closed only one little side trail. Damn. She thought I'd never make the Elwha River by sundown. I wanted to say, "Is night-hiking a crime?" but that would be the flu talking.
I started the hike carrying enough food for the whole journey, but now I felt like I needed to take a break in Forks, if only to convalesce. So I threw out some of my snacks, mainly a peanut-butter-and-molasses mix called "glump." Dumping food or water feels like bad luck.
Griff Fire
Walking down the road I met an old couple from Port Angeles watching the fire. The fire had an interpretive display! Like the ranger, these folks thought I'd never make the Elwha.
I put on my mittens and bandanna for sun protection. The drop from Hurricane Ridge wasn't so bad. According to the guidebook, "That mile drop will separate the ready-to-boogie from the ready-to-buckle." Baby, I was born to boogie. A steep slope, but there's a large flat area just as the switchbacks begin.
I got to Altaire camp well after sundown. This is a car camp with no bear-boxes and no walk-in sites. I made camp near the entrance, hanging my food from a tree, and hoping a ranger would come by & tell me about some secret backpacker camp. But cars just kept coming for hours. It was like camping by a road. I left my food in a tree and am now in a more secluded area away from the car camp.
I woke up with a touch of bronchitis. Since my food was near the road, I hoped that a person, if not a bear, had stolen it. This would be the perfect place to cancel the rest of the hike and hitch into town. No luck. My food was untouched. Damn. Roadwalked to Olympic Hot Springs, which is a fine backpacker site with water, bear cables, and hippies. The best plan would be to camp at Deer Park, camp a couple miles past Hurricane Hill on the flat spot, and camp here.
Great forests--huge trees, moss everywhere. I can't wait to see the rain forests. Lots of grouse, no glacial relicts (marmots or goats) so far. Hikers all day long. The High Divide ridgewalk is a beautiful and rough hiking. Choice views atop Bogachiel Peak. I tried to watch the sunset, but the sun was huge, the oceanic reflection was intense, and I had had way too much sun in recent days.
I was pretty tired when I made it to camp. My eyes are happy, my mind is peaceful, and all the struggle has been worthwhile.
Sunset over Pacific Ocean from High Divide Trail
I stopped for a break before descending to Deer Lake. When I stood up, pain shot through my right knee, pain I'd never felt before. It felt like the knee was ripping apart. I hobbled a hundred yards with no change. Was this it? The end of my distance-hiking career? The end of the Olympic Peninsula hike?
There was no shortcut back to civilization nearby, so I continued down to Deer Lake, and after half a mile my knee got better. By Deer Lake, it was perfect.
Met a guy doing trailwork (these people are saints) and then headed down the Bogachiel River Trail. What is the difference between the big, mossy woods on the east side of the mountains and this "rain forest"? More bugs, more spiders, more fungi, more moss, more moss growing on fungi, heavy dew everywhere.
Beetles eating slug
Stopped at Hyak Shelter. Needs a broom and a rebuilt privy. The sky is clear but I'll pitch my tarp in honor of the rain forest. Checking my schedule, I realize why this hike has been so grueling--I planned for 11 days, but the schedule I filed with the WIC is really only 10. Jon's friend Alan will be in Ozette to pick me up the day after I finish the WIC schedule. In Forks I will call the WIC and add another day of beach hiking.
As dusk approaches, so do the no-see-ums....
Bogachiel River Trail
Generally downhill through the North Fork Bogachiel River valley. The boogie down the Bogie. The lower I got, the more obvious the rain forestness--very wet and insanely mossy. Couldn't find some of the camps, and some side trails have names different from the maps.
Finally came out on a dirt road. This road leads to Bogachiel State Park. From BSP you can continue south along the PNT route or go 5 miles north to Forks. I figured I would hike to BSP and hitch a ride into Forks.
After a few miles on the dirt road, I came upon houses and clear-cuts. A guy in a truck offered me a ride past BSP to Forks. He was the kind of guy who started by saying he was running late, then offered to drive five miles out of the way to a place there might be elk. The kind of guy who told a dozen stories during the short drive. An old lumberjack and hunter. He mentioned that the locals are slowly turning from timbering to tourism.
I was no longer sick, so I didn't really need to find a motel room...but after a week of hiking, being indoors sounded great. He dropped me at the Pacific Inn. Slightly cheaper than the Forks Motel across the street, so I stayed there. Which brings me to the:
| This map is just to show that Forks is walkable. There are many restaurants and some other lodgings. No "health food" that I could find, but the Thriftway is good for groceries (including soy milk) and pharmacy stuff (including sunscreen). The Chinook Pharmacy is useful mainly for its collection of nature books. Forks has a laundromat, post office, hardware stores, fishing store, library, bus terminal, hospital, vet, library, and churches. Bogachiel State Park has pay showers; I didn't look at them, and don't know how much they cost. The well-organized hiker could get a shower at BSP, hitch or flag down the bus to Forks for laundry and resupply, and take the afternoon or evening bus back to BSP and hike to a good camping spot. A motel room was under $60 in 2003. |
Back to the journal. I'd gotten into town much sooner than expected, so I dashed to the USFS/NPS info center just in time to keep the guy from closing. It was the testy ranger from the phone! He continued to be testy as I modified my permit, and insisted that I couldn't get a ferry across the Quillayute, that in fact the river was not navigable. Nice of him to stay open for me.
I tried to watch some TV but all the shows are weird. Everyone is so ripped and has fancy hair. I called my brother. Later, I found a movie called "Trudeau" on CBC. Going through my paperwork, I realized the guy at the Forks info center had given me a September tide chart, but I would be on the beach in October. I called geography guru Adam Villani and we came up with a conversion from the Aberdeen, Washington tide tables to La Push. (We didn't realize you can get this converstion straight from the NOAA.)
Met a young backpacking couple. They were exploring the peninsula, just back from a beach hike. This kicks off six months of adventure for them. Next up: Utah.
The backpacking couple, The Disabled Veteran, and The Bicycle Guy (bike not pictured)
Forks Transit Center
I gave up hitching and went to the information center, which is also the transit center. The bus south, on Jefferson Transit, leaves at 11AM and is only 50¢. Met two local guys who shared local transit lore. Once they learned that my trip included hitchhiking and the bus, any idea that I was a backpacker went out the window. "Oh, you should get a bus to so-and-so, it's really pretty." "Yeah, but I have this hike to do." "You can also get a bus to blah blah blah...." I told The Disabled Veteran that I was going to try to get a ride across the Quillayute. He discussed this with The Bicycle Guy. "You've been to La Push, right?" "Yeah." "Think he can get someone to ferry him?" "I dunno--it's an Indian reservation." "Maybe if you're really nice, and say you've never been to La Push before." "Yeah, that might work."
I caught my bus, and got to Bogachiel State Park, 5.0 miles south, by 11:15AM. I wanted to make up the bit I skipped when I hitchhiked, so I hiked back down Undie Road. It didn't seem far, maybe 1.5 miles. Then I walked back to BSP. They seem like a car camp, but list showers on the info board.
The walk down logging roads on this side of Olympic State Park was more fun than the one south of Port Townsend. Saw a car and two trucks. Some places are clear-cuts, others have signs saying they were replanted in the 1960s. Some look pretty old. I'd gotten a late start on the day, so I decided to grind out the miles rather than have an overwhelming day tomorrow. About 19 miles!
After sundown, a sliver moon forced its way through thick fog as I trudged through endless, uncampable clear-cut. Spooky. On Oil City Road, a single truck drove slowly east. I am camped on one of these old logging roads that is kept clear for a few hundred feet. There's enough trash to see that others camp on these too. Who maintains them? Nice to have my bear can to use as a desk.
After a brief walk down the trail, it split into several trails, each blocked by driftwood logs. I headed out to the beach. Was this the mouth of the Hoh? I couldn't see that far through the fog. It was an hour before low-tide; the perfect time to explore the beach.
I didn't know anything about tides, the beach, or the ocean. My excitement was mixed with, and perhaps caused by, fear of the unknown. Beach-walking soon turned to boulder-hopping. The guidebook didn't mention anything about this. Was I on the trail? Was there some trail very near to the beach that avoided all this? I couldn't see very far ahead, and worried I would stumble into a trap, that I would be pinned against cliffs by the rising tide.
I climbed up some cliffs to see if there was an inland trail. Fifty feet up the rocks and mud things got steep, and I slipped for a second before digging my hands into the slope. Funny how clear my mind gets in times of danger. My leg was cut up from the fall, and I scrambled back down.
I raced back down the beach to where the trail forked. I put ointment on my cuts and tried the inland route. It headed up a gully clogged with fallen trees. I climbed up through this vertical maze, at one point setting aside my backpack to fit through a small opening. When I got to the top, there was no trail.
Now I was angry. I'd lost my chance to hike at low tide. So I went back down the beach. It was an hour after low tide, and the water was noticeably higher. At the cliff section, the waves crashed against my trail. I realized how little experience I had with the ocean. This thing felt malevolent.
At the next sand beach I met two hikers, the first hikers I'd seen on the trail since Deer Lake. I asked if there was an inland trail soon, and they said there was. They asked if they could still get around the cliff, and I told them to hurry. Then I took a breath and told them to take their time. No reason to pass my own freakout on to others.
Going inland was a total change. All day it was like that, back and forth from beach to rain forest. At high tide I forded Goodman Creek and saw the flow swich back and forth. Uncanny, like an earthquake. The ground is not supposed to move, and rivers are not supposed to change direction. Many of these coastal streams were brackish, but I found some pure trickles. I'm camped near Toleak Point, which abounds in driftwood windbreaks and other campers. I flagged down a passing hiker and we had a chat. He said he'd hiked near Cape Alava many years ago, and remembered it as being more rugged than the section south of La Push.
Lots of folks on the trail to Third Beach. There was an October tide chart at the trailhead. The tide chart I cooked up with Adam was identical to the actual chart!
The walk to La Push was nice. There's a paved path most of the way. I stopped at the store for a snack and to say hi to the postmistress. I headed up the road for a payphone. I called Alan to make sure he could still pick me up in Ozette. I noticed a sign that said the business owner wanted tourists to know that the business next door was not tribal. Maybe the tribe could help me find a "tribal" ferryman?
I always feel awkward on reservations, like some special behavior is expected of me.
I headed down to the marina. Many of the watercraft were huge--I certainly couldn't hitch a ride with one. I saw a sign about the Coast Guard, and as I stopped to read it I noticed a boat ramp below me. There on the ramp were three guys, a dog, a truck, and a little boat with an outboard motor and full of nets.
"Excuse me," I said to the head guy, "I need a ride across the river. Know where I could get one?"
The head guy gestured to his buddy, still in the boat. "He can get you over there in a jiffy."
"You can take me across?" I asked the guy in the boat.
"You got money?" he replied. I asked what the fare was, and he said, "Five dollars?" Just what I had in mind.
The guys asked about my hike. They were the only folks I'd met who were both interested and impressed by what I was doing, maybe because there was cash money involved. Their dog snuck up next to me and rubbed his head against my hand.
As I stepped in the boat, I almost slipped on something. Fish. I apologized, and the guys said not to worry, the fish are durable.
On the ride over, the ferryman, Brian, told me about commercial fishing and non-commercial elk-hunting. When we got to Rialto Beach, I got out, paid him, and asked if I could take his picture. "Sure," he said. "But we gotta have a fish in there, too."
Brian the ferryman
The tribe owns land on both sides of the river. Maybe they could put sign near the marina with a list of members who are sometimes available to run a ferry service.
At Rialto Beach, a bus of kids from Seattle Academy was preparing for a backpacking trip. "Just an overnighter," a boy told me. With a name like "Seattle Academy" I wasn't sure if this was a private school or a reform school, but the way the kids kept throwing around the word "Nalgene" it had to be a private school. Though I think if this was really a good school they would have taught the kids that one-liter widemouth pop bottles are better than Nalgenes.
I'm camped just north of Ellen Creek at the edge of the woods. I wandered upshore and scrambled out onto a rock. In a tidepool I saw my first sea anemones. One grabbed my finger. I wanted to shout to the passing hikers: "Check it out! Sea anemones! This is the ocean!"
Starfish eating snail (posed photo)
Light drizzle overnight. Today I saw starfish, anemones, hermit crabs (I was playing with a hermit crab when he jumped out of his shell--PLOP--and back into the tidepool, where he tried an old barnicle on for size before searching elsewhere), regular crabs, sand hoppers, flies, sea birds, some kind of seals, snails, barnacles, chitons, muscles, blister oysters, seaweed, kelp, and a still-living beached fish with a bite out of its belly.
Passed a point with a cabin on top, which the guidebook says is Point 3. My backcountry permit had me camping at Cedar Creek, near here. No good campsites past it, so I climbed the point and made camp. The cabin is a WWII Coast Guard lookout station. For his Eagle project, a Boy Scout collected information about the cabin, made a notebook, and placed it inside. There was a map showing the cabin at Point 3. The Boy Scout interviewed an old watchman, who told of how some airmen thought the station was too exposed at Point 3 and blew it apart. It was rebuilt one point south of Point 3. Aha! I checked with my GPS receiver, and sure enough I was one point south of Point 3. I broke camp, cruised down the beach, climbed over Point 3, and found an established campsite not too much farther.
Wedding Rocks
Almost missed the petroglyphs at Wedding Rocks. They were not where I thought they'd be. Met my first hikers of the day there. From Sandy Point north, the driftwood shacks were more elaborate than the ones to the south. Also, there was a smell of decay.
There's no marker at Cape Alava. In fact, I didn't see a PNT marker the entire trip. According to Adam, at high tide Cape Alava is the westernmost point on the mainland of the continental United States. He writes: "Cape Alava is at 124.732 degrees W. Tskawayah 'Island,' which is actually attatched to the mainland at Cape Alava, is at 124.735 degrees W. There are some real islands a bit to the west of that." Tsawayah is only about a mile from the Cape Alava trail, in the Ozette Indian Reservation. On the island, reachable at low tide, there is a small sign saying that you are not allowed to climb the sides of the island. A map at the Ozette ranger station says that both climbing and hiking are prohibited. The best thing would be to call the Ozette tribe beforehand and see if rock-hopping the intertidal zone is OK.
Cape Alava, Washington
At Cape Alava I found a couple to take my picture. The woman said, "You couldn't ask for a prettier spot for a picture than this." I wanted to shout: "This is the end of the PNT! This trail goes all the way to the Continental Divide!"
I met a young man there who announced: "I'm with the Boy Scouts." A group of eight was going to do the coastal loop.
Alan and Mike (hiking under the name of Sanders)
The Lost Resort
After a wrong turn, I was on the boardwalk trail to the Ozette ranger station. I took a sponge bath in their bathroom, put on my least-dirty clothes, and walked to The Lost Resort. Good beer selection, prices that shocked several of their patrons. I drank and read on the porch, drying my feet. Alan Stuart arrived. He couldn't take time off work to hike the coastal loop like he'd planned, but still drove out to get me. Alan is a great person. You might be able to hitch a ride out of Ozette, but after a grueling 220 miles it is just wonderful to know the trip home is taken care of.
In exchange for the ride, Alan wanted me to tell him about the hike and answer some hiking questions. At that point, I would have willingly paid people to listen to me talk about the hike. We soon got to Auburn, where I was staying. I took a shower and fell asleep. It was one of the more difficult and fantastic hikes I've done.
While browsing in an independent bookstore in Port Angeles, Washington, I was approached by a nervous little girl. She looked up at me and asked in a faint voice if I could please leave the store because her daddy was going to take her hiking.Befuddled, I glanced up from my book to see a short man with a curly gray beard ushering would-be-customers out into the street, empty-handed. Some customers grumbled that it was still hours before the posted closing time. Daddy smiled and told the disgruntled shoppers to come back another day.
Face aglow, the girl ran back to her father's side and hopped about until the last disillusioned customer left the store, mumbling, "Barnes & Noble would never do something like that." He was right. There is still hope.
—Mike Edwards,
Adbusters #45