The Olympic ride of FDR

Great wealth seems always to inspire much conflict. On the Olympic peninsula, the wealth was the timber. There were those who saw the mighty trees of this most virgin of forests as treasure to be taken, a prize to be won with determination and the misery whip. There were others who saw the value of the land the way it was, and preferred that the trees be left where they had sprouted, centuries before.

So the battle was joined for the heart of the Olympic peninsula. The timber industry fought with the preservationists for the right to log, or not log, as the case may be. A portion of the Olympic backcountry had been designated a national monument by Teddy Roosevelt in the early years of the century, but the acreage it represented consisted mostly of the high country, where rocks were more common than trees. Timber interests lobbied hard to be allowed to log in the lowlands, with an eye to the extensive stands of hemlock, which was wood that was needed for pulp and paper production and which fetched a good return on investment. The preservationists fought back with a plan to turn the national monument and some adjoining national forest lands into a national park. The battle raged.

Conflict continued to the point that President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in 1937, decided to take a trip to the Pacfic Northwest to see what all the fuss was about. Members of the timber fraternity had pushed to have the President on the scene. The idea was, as they saw it, "Once FDR gets a look at how much forest there is, he'll stop with all that nonsense about creating a park. This here Olympics is a big place boys, we're just tryin' to get our share."

The Prez departed on an automobile tour of the peninsula, a two-day jaunt. Around the north side and down the coast, with a stop for the night at Lake Quinault. On again in the morning, through Aberdeen and back to Olympia. He was taken to places that the lumbermen wanted him to go; he saw largely what they showed him. But they had made a mistake, a matter of perception that turned out to be critical.

The timber boys had taken FDR to clearcuts to show him how much of the resource there was, how small and insignificant their logging efforts were in a region so thick with trees. What the President had seen, however, was something far different, darker. He ended up coming out in favor of a 648,000-acre Olympic National Park, larger than the original goal of the preservationists. It was a moment in our national history, all too rare, when the man in charge makes the right call. It did not end the conflict, great wealth will always bring conflict along with it, but it was a victory nonetheless.

In 1940, shortly before America became a fully committed comabatant in World War II, FDR expanded the park, adding another 187,000 acres. Much of the addition was on the coast, between the Makah and Quinault reservations. This stretch of coastline between Cape Flattery and Kalaloch is one of the longest roadless shorelines in the lower 48, a place that remains as it was, that has not been tamed.

It is also a superb place to kayak.

Midnight Rambler

It is the middle of the night. Or more like morning, I suppose. I don't know. It's dark and a little cold, and although the wind is crashing through the tops of the trees behind me, the air is calm here where I am, standing on a little strip of grass above the sandy beach. It is the end of October, I am out on an overnight kayak trip with a group of college students (paying customers - always hard to find), the stars are splashed thick across an inky sky, and I can't sleep.

I've been this way for a few years now, up hours before sunrise more often than not. When I am at home, it is the time to get caught up on bills, writing and emails long past due for response. "Old man-sleep," is what I've come to call it, this inability to enjoy the slumber, this need to be underway. Out here, far from the glow of my computer screen, an early rising is the best reason to take a walk. I brew a cup of strong coffee, raise the zipper on my jacket and start off to the east, toward the flat, marshy tip of the island.

We are camped on the island's south side, tents clustered together, kayaks pulled high onto the drift logs that line the shore. Tucked in below a steep hillside, we are in a small pocket of calm snugged away from the wild winds. As I near the end of the island and the trail starts to wrap around to the north, I am slammed by the gales that blow uninterrupted, a north wind that rises and falls, between strong and stronger. I can see the lights of Seattle across the water, clear and sparkling in the cold, frothy air.

As the trail winds up a rise and off the beach, the wind falls. In the woods, it is quiet. I have a light with me, but I follow the dull sheen of the trail in the darkness, working on that ol' night vision. I climb through postage-stamp meadows and stands of fir. It isn't long before I'm topping out on the little hill, the spine of the island, and tracing the trail's arc back to where I started from.

Old man-sleep. It has its benefits.

A Tidewater concerto

It is the sound, the sounds, that I will remember best. The entire mix of noise and noises. The muffled wingbeats of a merganser, flying low along the water. Almost audible whirling vortices slice off his wing tips, casting ripples on the surface. Clicks of some insect, I don't know what, but they sound like they're coming from everywhere at once. And then they stop.

The slowly rising sonic intensity of a little flock of geese coming in low and fast across a flattened table-top landscape. The honks and squawks of a close-knit band of birds, each note of their solos clear and distinct.

Kingfishers provide some of the percussion, their chit-chit-chit firing through the calm afternoon air. Heron in the tidal mud add their own form of prehistoric commentary, like cast-off lines from Jurrasic Park. I can hear the distant shrieks of an eagle perched atop a nearby cedar.

In the background is the gently oscillating sound of the river. The end of the Dosewallips, where the mountain fresh snowmelt mixes with the salty water of Hood Canal. The river mouth is shallow now. The tide is out and the flow is at its lowest for the year. (Soon, the rains will come and the rivers will all rise.) I can hear the tinkling of the moving water crossing the stones, the pools and falls of the river's end.

At some point, out of neccesity, I open my eyes.

Mats Mats Bay

It was still dark when I got on the road, another couple of hours before daybreak. Of course, this is the time of year when that's more likely, days getting shorter and the sunlight, which always feels rationed here in the Pacific Northwest, is even less of a factor. The dark season.

I got to the boat launch at Mats Mats Bay and put my kayak in the water just as the sky was getting light. A blue heron stood motionless in the shallows off to my right, waiting for breakfast to be served. I paddled slowly on the glassy water, past gleaming yachts and dingy fishing scows riding at anchor in the protected harbor. Houses and fields lined the shore and from the put-in, it was impossible to see the mouth of the bay. The impression that Mats Mats gives is that of a lake rather than a part of the wider Puget Sound. If it weren't for the falling tide and the accompanying ring around the shoreline, the illusion would be complete.

The entrance to the bay is long and narrow, with a bend in it that ensures calm water. The wind-driven swells of Admiralty Inlet can't penetrate the tight waterway and I paddled on silently until I got to the outside. The wind was out of the north, cold and strong, and whitecaps formed in the fast-moving water just offshore.

There are several different rock outcroppings punctuating the deep water just east of the harbor entrance. Klas Rock is situated almost directly east, low and flat, and I had to stare directly into the sun to see it. At higher water it is a shoal, completely covered up. To the south are a couple of other formations, higher and wider. I made my way toward Colvos Rock, the largest of them, surfing down the swells as they pushed me along on my way. The wind was blowing in opposition to the direction of the current, making the waves bigger and the ride a wet one.

There were seals hauled out on Colvos Rock and they eyeballed me as I passed. Eventually they shiggled their lardy bodies into the water and swam toward me for a closer look. Guano stained the ledges and the cracks of the rock, although there were no sea birds around at the time. The sun shone brightly on the dirt cliffs of Whidbey Island, a half-dozen miles or more away accross the water.

I headed in toward the shore to get out of the main thrust of the wind. Paddling along the rocky coast, I worked my way back to the Mats Mats entrance. I passed the gravel pit that sits near the harbor opening, a place that is often loud and active with the pulse of heavy machinery; it was quiet now, with only a single loader at work.

Back inside the entrance to the bay, the water became calm once more. A family of otter swam toward me, whistling and diving when I came too close, then popping up behind me and following me for a few minutes until they lost interest. Kingfisher chattered in the overhanging trees and several heron waded along the banks. In a few minutes I was back in the bay, cruising back to the launch ramp. It was still early, but that was fine by me. I had other places I wanted to go before it got dark again.

A Follow-up

A bit of a side track, but I thought I'd mention it anyway. I was in Port Townsend the other day and while I was there, I figured I'd like to find Sentinel Rock, the place where the Duke of York carried out his vigil during the time of tension with the Clallams. (I wrote about this chapter in Port Townsend history a few posts back.)

I don't know what I was expecting, a bigger rock perhaps. What I found was a collection of smaller rocks on a high point overlooking what is now the driving range at the PT Golf Course. There is a statue of Chetzemoka and a plaque that commemorates the event placed on one of the stones. A large holly tree is encroaching on the rocks from the west side. The grass around the area is neatly groomed, like you might expect from a golf course.

It seems a bit odd to me, that a place so integral to the history of the town is simply a sideshow at the local links. But I guess that's how history works. It's everywhere.

The Duke of York, part II

In the fall of 1859, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a mail carrier was found murdered in his boat. His mail pouch had been rifled and his personal belongings were missing. Suspicion immediately centered on a young Indian who had been fishing in the area at the time of the killing. The settlers of Port Townsend, angry, impatient and disinclined to entertain the any principles of due process, promptly erected a gallows and prepared to dispense a little frontier justice.

The Duke of York, having reservations about both the guilt of the prisoner as well as the barbarity of the proceedings, sought help from the commanding officer of the Fort Townsend garrison, Major Haller. The Major, who was regarded as something of a pompous commander, arrived on the scene with a dozen armed soldiers, fully enjoying his role in the spotlight. Standing before the angry mob, he said:

"Men, Listen to me! I stand here as a duly constituted representative of the United States Government. As such, I intend to see that the majesty of the law is upheld – that every individual, whatever his race, color or creed, is given the protection of that law. Remember, you are surrounded by a multitude of Indians. A lynching would put them in a dangerous mood, and they would not rest until they had been avenged. The government has done its best to protect the settlers in this vicinity, and will call to account anyone making trouble between the natives and the whites. From what I have learned, the evidence against this prisoner is not at all conclusive. The Duke tells me he believes he can find the real murderers, if given a week's time."

Don't let anyone soft-soap you, boys," the leader of the mob cried out. "We're going on with this hanging, so don't waste any more time."

Major Haller, a fire rising in his eyes, continued: "If you won't listen to reason, we'll have to try something stronger." His bristling eyebrows shaded his ominous glare as he continued to speak. "Anyone attempting to molest this prisoner in any manner will be shot where they stand. Attention, men! Ready – Aim…"

His troops standing behind him lowered the muzzles of their weapons, business ends pointed at the rowdy mob as the tension in the air grew. After what must have seemed like an eternity, the designated leader of the pack relented.

"We don't want no trouble with the guv'mint," he said. "Not over a dirty Injun. We'll postpone this necktie party, until later. But if the Duke don't make good on his promise, we'll begin right where we're leavin' off." The crowd dispersed, the prisoner was taken into custody and the soldiers returned to their post.

The Duke wasted no time in dispatching runners in several different directions. There had been a couple of suspicious looking characters in town several days before, most likely deserters from a whaling ship, and the Duke had a hunch that they might be of interest in the case.

After a few days, some of the Duke's men returned to Port Townsend with a portion of the stolen mail and the watch, pipe and other personal articles of the murdered postman. The runners had found the men that they were looking for on Dungeness Spit, where they had set up camp. Upon finding that they were in possession of the loot, the Duke's men promptly killed them both and buried them unceremoniously in the sand where they fell, Indian justice being speedy indeed. There would be no appeal.

The wrongly accused lad was released from jail, the settlers were satisfied that justice had been done and the Duke, already a respected person of immense influence, saw his star rise even higher.

Away

In the day-to-day of work and responsibility, there are damn few moments that are completely within one's control. The job, the gas tank, the kids and the yard all make their claim on a limited supply of time, money and energy.

Does it not make sense then, that we must get away? If only for a day? (A week or a month would be better). To escape the noise and the push, the glow of the computer screen and the incessant ringing of the telephone. To trade the sounds of traffic and sirens and screeching brakes (and screeching people), for the quiet that can only be found in that parallel universe of green and blue. To recharge the batteries, strengthen the will, and to remind ourselves of what is important and why.

Wilderness can save your life.

On rivers

On with the river, day by day, down to the ultimate sea. Shall we gather at the river? Why not? One more river one more time. And then no more. And then that ancient river must flow right on down without me.

Edward Abbey

The Duke of York

When Port Townsend was in the process of being formed, the chief of the local Clallam Indian tribe was a man by the name of Chetzemoka. A friend to the settlers, he was widely referred to as the Duke of York, presumably because some of the round-eyed newcomers had difficulty pronouncing his name. It was a term of respect in a way, although it seems to me that it would have been just as respectful to learn how to say his real name, the way his mother intended. He was seen as royalty, however, in his own way, and his measured demeanor and regal bearing apparently entitled him to more than some simple, common moniker.

In the summer of 1857, the Duke earned his place in the hearts of the newcomers when he worked to save them from what could well have been a violent and early demise.

A band of about 200 Clallams, from one of the tribes located to the west of Port Townsend, had landed on a Straits beach just around the corner from Point Wilson, and were busy getting drunk and preparing a total assault on the young community. Tensions were running high between whites and natives that summer. Just a few weeks earlier, a band of marauding Kake Indians had landed on Whidbey Island and killed Colonel Isaac Ebey at the door of his house, removing his head and taking it back with them with them when they left.

The Duke visited the war party and over the course of a few hours, tried to persuade them to abandon their plot. It didn't take long for them to suspect him of being a collaborator with the town folk and, although he was able to get away, the issue was in doubt for a time. Reporting back to Port Townsend community representatives that night, the Duke told them:

"If I am seen coming to you I will not be able to help you further. But each morning I will sit on top of the big rock on the east side of Kai Tai Valley. If you are still in danger I will keep my blanket over my head and then you will know that you must have your guns handy and your women and children where they will be safe, for they will surely be captured and held as slaves. If the danger passes, I will stand up, throw off my blanket and give a great shout. Then you will know that you are safe."

The seige, such as it was, lasted for nine days. Each morning, the Duke sat at his station (still there today and known as Sentinel Rock). The settlers watched him intently as he perched there motionless, his blanket covering his head. The war council at West Beach continued, led by Kloweston, the chief of the the Clallams, who was at this time a very old man. His son, William Allen Kloweston, met clandestinely with the Duke and worked to talk the intruders back from the brink of open conflict. For over a week it seemed as though the die had been cast, and a fight was inevitable.

On the morning of the tenth day, the Duke arrived at the rock once again and sat briefly on his heels before rising to his feet, throwing off his blanket, and giving out with a loud and sustained shout, letting the settlers know that the Clallams had been dissuaded from attacking. The town was saved and the occupants were immensely grateful to their dusky friend.

Old Kloweston, on the other hand, was not pleased with the outcome. He viewed the diplomacy that had been carried out as pure cowardice on the part of his son and , in a rage, he doused the younger man's campfire with water, putting it out. In the world of the Clallam, there could be no greater insult. Later that same evening, William Allan Kloweston drifted off into the forest on his own and, filled with what must have been an unbearable disgrace, hung himself.

Suicide was virtually unknown among the Clallams. The untimely death of his son by his own hand drove Kloweston to an anguish he could barely contain. With a contrite heart and a new understanding that the violence had to stop, he contacted the settlers directly and asked them to attend his son's funeral. A declaration of peace was drawn up between the two parties before the Clallams left for their homes and from that time onward, there were no further threats of violence.

Wetland reality

A river delta is a fertile place. In fact, for sheer fecundity, a healthy estuary beats all comers. No Brazilian rainforest, no tropical reef, no matter how pristine and fertile, can touch the ability to support life that you'll find in those special intertidal zones where the river meets the sea.

Salmon fingerlings and other anadromous fish hide in the roots and grow larger, until they are ready to brave the threats and freedom that comes with open water. Years later, they will return to their birthplace to spawn and die, and the nutrients that they return to the river will continue to support future generations.

Ducks, herons and grebes, cormorants, kingfishers and eagles: all get their room and board there at the Estuarine Inn and Lunch Counter. Migratory waterfowl stop by for a quick meal and a rest, recharge their systems before heading back out on the flyway. Deer and elk are frequent visitors, especially during the winter months when the snow lies thick in the high country.

It is a harsh fact that the most vibrant and vital ecological areas are the most vulnerable. Pollution and development have already wiped out the diversity and habitat opportunities of most of western Washington's river deltas, and it's hard to see how the same fate won't take the rest. The Nisqually delta in south Puget Sound, for example, is often held up as an example of successful preservation. Which it is.

What sets the Nisqually Reach apart from all the others, however, is simply that it is the only river delta left in Puget Sound that bears any resemblence to the way that it used to be. All of the others once looked wild and green as well, and now they are gone forever. Cocooned in concrete like the Duwamish and the Puyallup, channelized and controlled with dikes and canals, they have become home to commerce and waste, and their previous inhabitants have been rplaced with floating garbage and an oily sheen on the water. The mouth of the Nisqually exists today as a reminder of what was once the norm, the way it was meant to be.

The rivers of the Olympic peninsula have not been subjected to the same pressures that have decimated those in Puget Sound. Not yet, anyway. The Dosewallips delta still has a healthy exchange of fresh and salt water where multiple species of plant, bird and animal can find food and shelter. It's getting harder to maintain, with the press of development moving closer every day, but it's still there. It's hard to say how long it will stay this way.

When I look at the mud and the delicately intertwining passages of the Dosewallips, I see a part of the natural world that is as beautiful and fascinating as any other on the planet. Unfortunately there are others, with more money and ambition than I, who look at it and see a golf course.

A matter of time

Timing is everything.

For example, I just thought of the ideal day in the mountains. I would start with a drive on the road up to Hurricane Ridge where I'd drop the shuttle bike (Orange Crush) at the Mount Angeles trailhead. Turn around and drive back down to the Heart o' the Hills Campground. Park the car and begin the hike up the side of the ridge to Lake Angeles.

It would be a 10-mile trip, all of it uphill, most of it over pretty steep terrain. It's been on my mind lately to climb Mount Angeles and the thing about climbing mountains is, no matter the lengths you may go to avoid the fact, sooner or later you'll have to go uphill. It's a good trail though, pretty well used, so it certainly seems straight-forward. Then, after a stop at Lake Angeles, after the climb is done and once I've made my way back to the parking lot at Hurricane Ridge, I can hop on the Orange Crush and bomb back down the mountain to my starting point. Tires flashing around the corners, spraying dirt and pebbles over thousand-foot drops, literally flying down the tight mountain turns.

Ah, but there's a problem with the plan. I got off the phone not long ago with the Park information desk and the very personable woman on the other end of the line gave me the bad news in the nicest possible way. It seems the Hurricane Ridge road is closed on weekdays for maintenance (see, I was thinking maybe next Tuesday), and, more importantly, the snow has begun to fall. For the plan to work, there are a few facts that would have to be changed. And they are unlikely to change before next summer.

Timing really is everything.

Falling water

It is raining again. Still. In these pre-dawn hours, with the sound of the drops falling on the tin roof above the deck, the rain begins to reclaim her place in the local weather cycle. The days of summer have faded, those sticky hot afternoons when the fan was humming in the bedroom and the beer could hardly get cold enough. The softer heat of autumn is gone as well, those slow corn-ripening sunny evenings. The rains are back.

They are back, and they fall on the town and wilderness alike. Right now, somewhere, the rivers are rising. There are salmon runs that will soon return to the Satsop, the Wynoochie and the Skokomish. The ancient trees in the park are using this time to extend their roots just a little further, to broaden their bases to support another year of growth. Smaller trees, pushing up toward the dense forest canopy, seem to grow so quickly their progress is visible. The old giants are slower, but they are growing all the same.

There are places in the Hoh watershed that receive over 200 inches of rain each year. In the lowlands, there are acres where it can often be difficult to find any solid ground. With that much rain, the environment takes on a decidedly aquatic feel. In the higher elevations, the moisture falls as snow, growing deeper each week, painting the sides and summits of the jagged peaks.

In the temperate rainforests of the Olympic peninsula, along the endless sandy beaches above the crashing breakers, on the still water of a thousand mountain ponds, the rain is falling.

September's gone

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley...

Don't I know it, Rob.

I wasn't able to get to the mountains today. I stayed home because of a combination of bad weather, little sleep and a very late night in the Emerald City. Tough break.