Down the road

That last day of routine before a break, that's an interesting day. When you have the chance to see the work-a-day as an observer almost, a traveling spirit that will soon be out of range. The mundane real world that consumes so much of our time: it will soon be gone.

I'll be gone, rather. Canoeing, hiking, kayaking. Fresh water and salt. The Pacific coast and a wilderness lake. Mary, Micah and me. And we leave tomorrow.

That feeling, when you were a kid, when summer camp was going to start in a day or two, when your stomach was in knots and you could feel the energy coiled up in each and every muscle. Expectations and joy. Before everything else got so complicated.

Fastpacking

With all the kayaking I've done over the past 15 years, my backpacking experience has been pretty spotty. I've gotten older, slower and creakier than I used to be, but I like to think I've learned a thing or two about a thing or two as well. I've got a couple trips coming up, and I'm going to try a minimalist approach, mostly to keep the weight down. I figure, if I can hike farther, I'll need less.

Fastpacking. That's what they call it. "They" being the trail runners and ultra-light backpackers who cut the handles off their toothbrushes and weigh every item in their pack on a digital postage scale before they leave home. It's a religion. Or a disease. Or both.

I see the point in it, though. So I'm going to try it for a trip or two. Because I'll be climbing as well as hiking, my pack will include crampons and an axe, so the weight won't be quite as low as it could be. Still, here's what I have so far:

Pack (w/ empty 3.0L bladder) 3 lbs 1 oz
Sleeping bag, tarp, ground cover 3 lbs 10 oz
Stove, fuel, cookset 1 lb 7 oz
Sleeping pad 1 lb
Food 3 lbs 8 oz (approx)
Down sweater 1 lb 1 oz
Rain Jacket, pants, shirt, socks 1 lb 10 oz
Axe 14 oz
Crampons (in bag) 3 lbs

That's a total of 19 lbs 3 oz, more or less. There's no water in the hydration bladder… that'll add some. Then there's the possibility that I'll change a thing or two here and there. I didn't include things like the toothbrush, water purification tablets, etc. I was hoping for a total weight of less than 20 pounds but that might not happen. Still, I'm pretty impressed, at least so far. I'll weigh in the total before I go.

A Follow-up

I know I should feel apologetic in some way, to some one... that last entry is bound to be seen as over-the-top by some. Still, it's not about me. There's a story here. It's about the places you can go, the story you are working on all the time. Everything counts.

The story doesn't care who tells it.

Clutter

I was thinking the other day about sports on television. More specifically, I was thinking about how Saturday afternoons used to belong to ABC's Wide World of Sports. Each and every Saturday, a cornucopia of sport was laid out for eager young eyes. There were the usuals, the basketball, the futbol, track and swimming, but there was so much more. Cliff diving in Acapulco (a "sport" that was literally invented by the TV show), motorcycle races on ice from a frozen pond somewhere north of Helsinki. There was ski jumping (remember the agony of defeat segment during the intro?) Jim McKay was the host, guiding the show from one scene to the next: boxing in Berlin to blue-water fishing in Cozumel, to Las Vegas, where some nutty bastard would demonstrate catching bullets in his teeth. That's still a vivid memory for me.

I really liked Wide World of Sports.

ABC was the only channel we got when I was growing up in Santa Barbara, California. Back then, the other big sporting event that we used to beam into our living room was the Olympics. I have another fairly vivid recollection of a completely different take on "sport" that I picked up from watching the Innsbruck games in 1976. One that did not inspire me as much.

I was watching figure skating. (Remember, we only had the one TV channel. I had no choice.) Back in those days, they used to televise the figure skating compulsories. The compulsory round of the competition took place a day or two before the more glamorous portion of the skating calendar. Skaters would be graded on their precision, turning perfect figure 8's and scribing exact geometry into the ice with their razor-sharp blades. Judges stood off to the side, their eyes glued to the skaters feet, to the motion and the path of the blade on the slick, glossy surface. Competitors dressed in their sweats… no one cared what they wore. There were no sequined costumes here.

It was boring. Like watching paint dry. Then watching it age, weather, crack and flake away in the wind. Dead boring. It's not on anymore. I don't even know if such a thing as the compulsory round even exists these days. And I don't care. I hated it, and I was just a spectator. I can only imagine how dull it would be to have to be the one doing the exercises. I can understand why so many skaters burn out so young. Televised Olympic broadcasts of the future are unlikely to be scheduling any air time to these robotic loops and pointy turns.

But I'll bet there are a few competitors who really like doing them. It's like that in every activity. There are those who enjoy doing what they do from the heart, and others who do it from the head. I can't tell you if one way is better than the other, but I have my own views on the matter.

Of all the outdoor activities I have pursued, I have spent the most time kayaking. I have taught hundreds of classes and taken quite a few as well. I was a certified instructor back when the certification was less precise than it is now, less competitive. There are two main governing bodies for sea kayaking presently, each with its own circuitous and problematic process of certification. There is a heavy emphasis in both of the programs, however, on correct paddle strokes, form and ergonomic precision. Bow rudder strokes are evaluated by trainers, who watch the candidate's shoulder positioning, monitor the placement and feather of the blade in the water, and grade the degree of torso rotation. Forward strokes, draws and sweeps all get the same attention. The focus is on the minute, the micro view of kayaking, as it were. Each level of achievement has its set of required maneuvers. It is the compulsories of kayaking.

And it's just as boring. There is less talk of the places a kayak can take a person and much more discussion of proper spine position and the newest theory of paddling technique. Just as the wondrous flight of figure skating is lost in the pointless precision of executing the perfect circle, the true reason for paddling is obscured by someone else's requirements being applied to individual circumstances and goals.

In sea kayaking, and probably everything else, I tend toward the Wide World of Sports view rather than the figure skating compulsories paradigm. It's really quite simple. My kayak is a vehicle, designed to take me to places I would never otherwise see. The vehicle should not be confused with the journey (or the destination, for that matter). I kayak for where the kayak can take me, and while I know it is important to be efficient in my paddling, my technique is never the most important thing.

I know how to do a proper forward stroke, but I don't want to care about that too much. I want to see the oystercatchers on the rocks by the cave entrance, hear their shrill calls as I paddle through their neighborhood on the back of a fast-moving swell. I want to listen for the sound of the foghorn on a winter day in the Strait, watch the seals as they watch me. I want the exuberance and unexpected delight that every new day on the water brings. I don't want my experience diluted with talk of the ideal catch point for the forward sweep or the recommended amount of boat tilt while performing a bracing turn.

(I have taken the time to learn these strokes and these comments are in no way meant to belittle their value. I also teach these skills in a variety of kayaking classes and I coach my students as best I can in the proper execution of each of them. It's just that I see the individual skills as worthwhile only in as much as they make the journey possible.)

There will always be those who are so caught up in the specifications for their stereo, they will never really hear the music. The guy who knows every feature of his car's engine, who loves every roll in the upholstery, but who can't think of anywhere to drive. The kayakers who are so focused on passing their next evaluation, moving up to the next rung on their kayaking ladders, that they never see the salmon jumping or hear the waves crashing on the sand.

They'll deny it, of course. And maybe they're right. This is just my opinion, and you know what they say about opinions.

A circumnavigation

Back in 2006, a foursome of rowers from the University of Puget Sound became the first Americans to row across the Atlantic. Two of them, Jordan Hannsen and Greg Spooner, are currently preparing for a circumnavigation of the Olympic Peninsula.

They row a large boat, if it's anything like the one they took across the pond. They are working when they're out there.

Hanssen and Spooner are gearing up for their next really big trip, a 2011 expedition that is scheduled to cover about 7,000 miles between New York City and Nome, Alaska.

They are leaving from Gig Harbor on August 4th, and proceeding counter-clockwise around the peninsula. They'll get back to Puget Sound from the coast using a network of rivers, most likely the Chehalis and the Black. The Olympic Peninsula is an island, after all; if this don't prove it, I guess nothing will.

Adventure travel

To all those taking a kayaking class instead of simply signing up for a kayak outing, congratulations. To those learning how to climb instead of clipping into the guide's rope for a tow up a mountain, kudos. There is a big difference between being in the game and being at the game, and those who understand that difference already know something that the "Adventure Travel" folks don't want you to know.

While exploring the Brazilian outback on a first descent of the River of Doubt, Theodore Roosevelt had this to say in his expedition journal: "The ordinary traveller, who never goes off the beaten route and who on this beaten route is carried by others, without himself doing anything or risking anything, does not need to show more initiative and intelligence than an express package. He does nothing; others do all the work, show all the forethought, take all the risk – and are entitled to all the credit. He and his baggage are carried in practically the same fashion, and for each the achievement stands about on the same plane."

Lake Ozette - an introduction

Lake Ozette is the 3rd largest lake in Washington. Eight miles from top to bottom and five miles from side to side. It is located within the coastal strip of Olympic National Park.

The trailheads at Ozette are popular jumping-off spots for coastal hikers. The Cape Alava-Sand Point-Lake Ozette triangle is one of the most popular trails in the state. The triangle is roughly equalateral, three miles a side. The trails that originate at the Ozette ranger station are largely boardwalks, timber sidewalks through the forest and across the prairies.

The lake lies 29 feet above sea level.

Streams and rivers flow into the lake from every side. Lake Ozette drains an area of more than 140 square miles. The topography of the basin is steep, with peaks rising 210 to 300 feet not far from the lake shore and high points in the watershed approaching 600 feet.

The only access to the lake is via the Hoko-Ozette road to the north shore. It's about 20 miles from the Ozette campground to Sekiu, but it sems much further.

Lake Ozette is home to thirteen species of fish including sockeye, kokanee and coho.

Beginning in 1892, many Scandinavian settlers made claims around the lake, buiding a little community on the lake shore, about 2 miles from the ocean. Dairy products were packed by trail for sale at Clallam Bay and shipment to Port Angeles, Seattle, and elsewhere. There was a store, a church, and a post office. The population peaked, however, at about 130 claims at which point the Olympic Forest Reserve was established, which pretty much wiped out the real estate market.

In addition to the two trails mentioned above, There is a third that winds from the lake to the Pacific coast. It is possible to launch a canoe at the ranger station, paddle south into Ericson's Bay, and set up camp under the spreading fir and spruce in a comfortable boat-in only campground. A hundred yards or so to the south of the bay is a trail that cuts across the heavily forested spine of park land that separates the lake from the ocean. I have been here before, but it has been a long time.

On my own two feet

I believe I am about to take up a new hobby. I tried stand-up paddleboarding for the first time last weekend and I was instantly hooked. Elements of canoeing, surfing and skateboarding all come together in a package that is fast, elegant and exciting. After less than an hour of effort, I felt like I'd already made progress. It seems like it would be a blast on flat water and, once I develop the skills, I'm going to love the lumpy water even more.

It has been a long time since I tried something completely new and walked away knowing that it was meant for me. I see all kinds of options here: a stand-up cruise down Hood Canal, surfing at Moclips and Taholah, maybe even a coastal tour or a crossing to Vancouver Island. What a perspective-bender. I am in.

More on this as it develops.

(For the record, the photo above is someone else, not me. Yet.)

The forgotten coast

From Cape Flattery south to La Push, the Olympic coast is almost completely roadless. There is one road that winds along the shore of Makah Bay and deadends in a parking lot, which is where many hikers leave their cars before going to Shi Shi beach and beyond, following the coast south. It is a wonderful exercise, to leave the reservation and enter a land of hoodoo stacks and offshore sunkers, where the relentless waves crash constantly on the golden sand. Eagles live here, and whales. It is visited by thousands of hikers during the summer, but the rest of the year it is all but deserted. Not a single road.

I have kayaked the roadless coast from Neah Bay to La Push on a dozen different trips. It is a water journey that would be unique regardless of where it was; the fact that it is here in my own Olympic back yard makes it even more special. I have backpacked portions of the beach as well, which is a completely different perspective than what is seen from the water.

After the shore transitions from reservation land to National Park, the next road isn't seen until La Push. Over 40 miles of roadless coast, the longest such remaining stretch of land in the lower 48. From La Push, the two-lane blacktop jags east, through clear cuts and third-growth fir, and comes out at Forks, the "big city" of the west side. This is the road I've taken to do the shuttle on all my other coastal paddles.

South of La Push, however, there's another 17 miles of coastline that has only one road, the byway that ends at the small Indian settlement at the mouth of the Hoh River. Highway 101 touches the shore again at Ruby Beach and the roadless magic is gone.

There have been some trips I've made out here when I've planned on going the distance, making a one-way paddle from Neah Bay to Ruby Beach, but by the time I've gotten to La Push, I've packed it in. I think of that last 17 miles as the "forgotten coast," quite honestly because I've forgotten about it most of the time.

In a couple weeks, I'll be paddling that forgotten coast. In my mind, I'm already gone.

Climbing Mount Ellinor

We started up the Mount Ellinor trail just before 1:00 pm. At first, I had planned on beginning the ascent at the lower trailhead, which would have meant more miles, more elevation gain and loss, and more time. Since this had turned into a family outing, however, Mary and I thought it would be best to start at the upper trailhead, and given that we hadn't gotten a real early start, it turned out to be a good idea.

The trail is fairly steep, and we hit snow somewhere around 5,000 feet, which made the going a little trickier. Micah was great through the whole climb, whether it was as a passenger in his piggyback pack, or as a boots-on-the-rock alpinist, as he scrambled the last twenty feet by himself, more or less.

Goats were easily found at the higher elevations. There were several families moving among the crags, with young kids in tow, scraping at the soil and foraging. The adults were molting, huge rolls of wool coiling off their backs. On just about every bush along the trail, large and small tufts of wool had been captured by low-lying branches. It wasn't too many days ago I was wondering as to the welfare of the Olympic goat and now, here I was, face to face with what appears to be thriving population in the southeast highlands.

The views from the summit were expansive and clear. A cloud of smoke to the distant southeast turned out to be a huge fire burning in the Gifford Pinchot, near Mount Adams. To the north was Constance, close by, but still so, so far away. The westerly view took in Mount Cruiser, it's distinctive summit slab a contrast to the other, pointier peaks. Beyond one range lay another, and off in the hazy distance, Mount Olympus reached skyward. I strained to see pieces of the route I had climbed there, years ago, and as I began to pick out the details, pieces of that trip came back to me.

I remember the early morning start, the way the sun reflected in the crevasses of the Blue Glacier. I remember kicking steps and using my axe for traction on the icy chutes that led to the snow dome. I clearly recall having to self-arrest on one of the steep, east-facing inclines that afternoon, on my way down. I can still feel the wind that blew on the summit, hear it whistling through and over that rocky world.

Looking ahead, as well as behind: I'm planning to go back to Olympus again at some point. As I looked at the route and saw what I'd done years before, I felt a tingle for what was still to come.

But the day belonged to Ellinor. The hike down went well, although Micah signed off about a half-hour from the trailhead. I could hear him snore as I jounced down the trail with him on my back, one tired climber.

We camped at Staircase. This morning, we walked up one side of what had once been the loop trail, but was just an out-and-back now, because of a washed out footbridge. The rapids at Staircase are an exhibition of the various faces of the river. Quiet pools hang above cruel rapids where white water roars as it pummels the stone. Otherwise runnable sections are criss-crossed with logs and sweepers. This part of the Skokomish would be a frustrating river to paddle, but it is certainly a thing of wild beauty as well.

The trip, according to all who participated, was a great success.

Fill 'er up!

I'm getting ready for a short trip to the southeast quarter tomorrow. It's a family trip, to climb Mount Ellinor. The boy is 18 months old already - time to climb!

I've been thinking about gas prices. The way they have risen so dramatically, they are more of a factor now in decisions about little things, like short trips to the Olympics. What was once a small part of the overall costs, the price of fuel is now a force on the decision-making process about where to go, when and for how long?

The Olympic peninsula was never a crowded place, even when getting there from somewhere else was a cheap ride. With the way things are headed, I think they will become even less busy, less peopled. And that might not be a bad thing.

Pulling the trigger

The goats in Olympic National Park are not native. They were introduced during the 1920's... 12 of them. That number grew until the impact they were having on the natural flora was undeniable. Eradication and removal has always been talked about, periodically attempted and has met with various levels of success.

I am not sure how I feel about this. I mean, I know they are destructive, but you could say that about a lot of things, right?

I am not sure of the present status of these animals. The last I remember, the hunt was on. The goats may have been trapped at some places, but in many they were scheduled to be shot on sight. It was war, sort of. As close to war as sane folk like to get. One side has weapons and one side doesn't, and it's important to be on the right side. Us humans will always win, yes?

I remember one summer when I hiked up to Royal Basin, camped at the lake and did climbs on Mount Deception and Mount Johnson. Goats were everywhere then... there must have been a dozen or more on the valley floor and others on the high escarments above. Tufts of wool were snagged on the low-lying branches, and the bushes along the trail seemed to be made of wool, in some places. I remember climbing up from the lake to the cirque one morning, on a steep section where I had to pull my way up from one boulder to another, coming across an adult male goat, black horns curving like scimitars above the white coat, the red eyes. He snorted and turned, and with a few graceful bounds, he was gone, lost from sight. I think I saw him later, but the distance was far and details hard to know for sure.

I will make it a point to inquire about the welfare of the Olympic mountain goat. It's been a while since I've seen one.

Cleaning up after the animals

Spray paint was invented in 1949 by Edward Seymour. There had been a variety of different developments in the quest for a spray-on paint before that time, but Seymour's invention became the model for the product we all know today. As far back as the 1920's, Krylon researchers had come up with products like the "aerosol bomb," a tricky tool for paint delivery that relied on an unreliable on-off switch, rather than the modern push-to-spray model. World War II pushed development of spray-on insect repellant, which was the final part of the package that was needed.

Now it's everywhere.

There is a beach at the tip of Cape Flattery that is accessible by water only. I think of it much the same way that a pilgrim might view the kaabaa, or an art lover might look at the Louvre, or like a diehard Packer fan might view Lambeau Field. When I was there a month or so ago, sitting on a giant drift log, admiring the billion-dollar view, my eyes were drawn to one of the caves off to the side of the beach where someone with more spray paint than brains had obviously been before. The letter "T," about 24 inches wide and 30 inches high, had been rendered in blue paint about six feet up on the cave wall.

Now, no offense to Edward Seymour, but I am not a spray paint afficionado. My main beef with the product is that it seems to give people with nothing to say too much freedom to say it. I suppose it shouldn't amaze me, but it does, the depths of some people's foolishness.

I had no way to remove the blue streaks from the rocky wall when I first saw them, but as I made the drive back home, I made a little promise to myself that I'd be back as soon as I could, with tools to reset the scene, back to its original condition. Last Monday was my chance and I took it.

I left town early, early enough that I was able to get on the water in Neah Bay at about 9:30 am. I traveled west along the strait, against a 10-knot wind, but with a good push from the outgoing tide. It only took an hour or so to get to the Cape, where I threaded my way into shore through a boulder field that almost blocked the beach. After a quick lunch, I got to work.

I brought two drills with me, along with extra batteries and circular wire brush heads. I had some other implements of destruction along but these would prove to be the most effective. The work went quickly at first, but after most of the easy spots had been scoured clean, the paint that remained seemed even more obvious. Eventually, I wetted down the area and threw sand onto it, then went at it with the brushes again. That method worked better at getting into the smaller chinks and crevices where the little globs of blue still hid.

After 90 minutes I was done. The wall showed scars where I had gone deeper in some spots than others, but I don't

think anyone arriving at the beach, who was unaware of the graffito that had once been there, would be able to see a difference between the areas I had worked on and the remainder of the wall.

I took a short walk around the tiny cove, checking along the high tide line for any treasures that may have washed up since my last visit (there weren't any), and came back one last time to see if I had done an adequate job. I think I did. And now, a few days later, I'm even more glad that I did it.

I hope I don't ever need to do it again.

Wonder

In 1984, Congress designated a 2,349-acre area just to the southeast of Olympic National Forest as the Wonder Mountain Wilderness.

Shaped like a triangle, the area is dominated by Wonder Mountain, the high point on the southern ridge, at 4,848 feet.

There are four little lakes located within the wilderness boundary. None of them are named.

No trails traverse the wilderness and no roads lead into it. There is a logging road that comes close to the southwest border, but it accesses no trails. The road is closed for wildlife between October and April.

The funny thing is, it's on just about every map of the Olympics that I've seen and yet it's very easy to miss. Tucked away as it is, with no easy access and devoid of features that are easily recognized on a map, the Wonder Mountain Wilderness, if nothing else, serves as a reminder that "remote" doesn't always mean "far away."

Sightings

It is possible that there is a place more haunted than Port Townsend, but if there is, I haven't heard of it. When you consider that it's not really all that old – the town was founded in 1860 – the sheer number of disembodied souls seems out of scale with the size of the community.

At the Manresa Castle Bed and Breakfast, the ghost of Kate Eisenbeis roams the rooms she used to walk through when she was alive. When her fiance was lost at sea in the early 1900's, she jumped from the balcony on the third floor, thereby joining her love instantly in death. Her uneasy spirit still hangs around what is now room 306, and she has been known to brush up against unsuspecting mortals as she passes them on the staircase or stand silently at the bedsides of sleeping guests.

The Holly Hill House, another B'n'B, has its own ghost stories. An older, bespectacled man dressed in 19th century garb shares the haunting duties with a younger woman. It's hard to say exactly who they are, or were, but it's believed that they are former residents of the building. There is an old painting that hangs at the top of the stairs and the woman, it is reported, often steps out of the painting and makes her rounds before getting back onto the canvas.

At Fort Worden there are others. The guard shack is rumored to be the spot where a soldier was fatally injured with his own weapon. His ghost prowls the immediate area, but there are others as well. On the parade ground, in the weapons bunkers and in the stately houses of Officer's Row.

Often, during the West Coast Sea Kayak Symposium which is held at Fort Worden each September, I have stayed in one of the houses on the row. Now that it is a State Park, the officer's houses are rentals, ideal for a large group. There are framed photos on the walls of old fort scenes: observation blimps being launched from the parade grounds, horse-drawn artillery and columns of soldiers marching pass-and-review. The photos help to bring a little perspective to the facility, a sense of what has come before.

There is one picture that has caught my imagination since the first moment I saw it. It is a photo of a young woman standing on the walkway above the beach at Fort Worden. Behind her, on the water, are a couple of small boats tied alongside an old dock. It is a sunny day but it must be cold, because she's wearing a long fur coat and she has the collar done up all the way around her neck. The look on her face is neither happy nor sad, but wistful, it seems to me. Faraway eyes. Like she's thinking of something else, like she's wishing she was some other place. It's a Mona Lisa look, transplanted to the Pacific Northwest on the face of an officer's young wife.

I look at that picture and I can't help but wonder who she was and what happened to her. Did she stay here long or was her husband transferred after a short hitch? Did he die in the war? Did she die in childbirth or live a long and happy life? Would she even remember her time at Fort Worden or was it just part of the blur of assignments that the Army throws at its members?

I'm not sure I'll ever know for sure, so here's my story: I think she died there, at the fort, later on the same day that photo was taken. Her husband was on maneuvers over near Fort Ebey, on Whidbey Island, and she took advantage of the sunny day to go riding with one of the enlisted men at the fort. He was a soldier in one of her husband's regiments, and he had the kind of boyish smile that she just couldn't resist. She shouldn't have gone, she knew it wouldn't look good, but when he mentioned that he was going riding, she just had to go along. He took some photographs of her standing on the hill. They had gone to the beach, and they had napped in the warm sand while their horses rested. On the way back up the hill, she was thrown from her horse and hit her head on a rock in the trail. The soldier carried her limp body to the infirmary, where she was pronounced dead on the scene.

Ever since, she has wandered the paths and the woods of Fort Worden, a woman who has nowhere else to go. On stormy nights, she will climb from the photograph and search the houses and grounds for her husband, for a chance to explain, to make it all right again. When the mist hangs low on the water and the wind shakes the needles from the towering trees all around, she shimmers her way between the buildings and across the dunes, always moving, a shy and uncertain look on her shadowy face.

Maybe this is how ghost stories get started.

Dateline - Tacoma

Five Makah whalers who went a'whaling without sanction from their tribe, without a federal permit, and without regard for the consequences their actions would have, were sentenced today in federal court in Tacoma.

See, back in September of 2007, the Fab Five (Wayne Johnson, Andy Noel, Frankie Gonzales, Theron Parker and William Secor), took it in their heads to return to their ancient roots by killing a whale. Frustration over what they, and many others in the tribe, saw as stalling by the feds over issuing another hunt permit drove them to take matters into their own hands. That's one side of the story, anyway. It wouldn't be as big a deal as all that, surely. They wouldn't need a canoe; they had a pair of speedboats. They'd take a harpoon, but it would not be a real critical piec e of gear, not when they had a high-power rifle or two and some steady trigger fingers.

It's hard not to see it as a artless, bumbling saga of death and silliness on the high seas. About a mile off the coast of Cape Flattery, according to witnesses in other boats, the intrepid hunters blasted away at a gray whale with their rifle, firing 21 separate shots, several of them striking home. The whale was in agony for the 10 hours it took for it to die, at which point it sank to the bottom of the sea and the hunters were turned over to tribal police by the Coast Guard.

It's hard to see these men as heroes, at least it is for me. I happen to believe that native rights are important and worth defending and I have always been treated well by the Makah on every visit I have made to their home. Cape Flattery is one of my most valued places, a sacred spot, in some sense. Whether it was a worthy political statement or not, to go out that day after leviathan, I cannot say. But I will say that the way in which it was handled by the tribe in general, and the five protagonists in particular, was ham-fisted buffoonery reminiscent of the Keystone Kops (if the Kops had been more violent and less intellectually gifted.)

Two of the whalers received jail time for the hunt: Johnson got five months and Noel was sentenced to three months. The other three men got away with two years of probation and between 100 and 150 hours of community service.

The whale is still dead.