First ski day

We took the boy skiing yesterday for the first time. We weren't out that long but, then again, he's not quite two years old. We went to the ski area at Snoqualmie Pass and the snow was falling hard the entire time we were there. We stayed on the bunny hill, sliding down slowly and with a minimum of grace, then getting on the magic carpet for the ride back to the top of the slope.

I like skiing. Rather, I like the concept of skiing, but I don't particularly care for the resorts. They are too loud and too crowded. I would rather be miles away in the backcountry somewhere, where the only sound in the cold air is the swishing of the skis. Where there are no loudspeakers blasting 70's rock. A place where there are more birds and deer than bad-driving Bellevue soccer dads and Seattle debs.

It just doesn't seem natural to me, this thoroughly developed and managed landscape where city folk go to slip and slide, on the hills as well as in the parking lot. I need more than this.

Beyond the ranges

The first time that I ever heard about James Hooper and Rob Gauntlett was yesterday. I doubt it's going to be the last. This pair of British lads climbed Everest when they were each 19 years old, then began what was to be an epic global traverse, from the northern to the southern geomagnetic poles, that lasted one year, one month, and one day. They traveled by ski and dogsled, sailboat and bicycle and although they had their share of adversity, they remained resolute and kept their focus, and they finished the job.

Their route took them through Greenland, then to New York, where they began an 12,500-mile bicycle ride to Punta Arenas, Chile. From Chile, they crewed on an Australian expedition yacht bound for the Antarctic, via the Falkland Islands. Once they reached the geomagnetic south pole, the pair continued on to Tasmania, then finished the trip in Sydney.

Now, after having returned to their native England, James and Rob are not only the youngest westerners to climb the world's tallest mountain, they are also the first to make the 26,000-mile journey from one end of the earth to the other. Did I mention they only recently turned 21?

I wish them well and I look forward to hearing about their future travel plans but there is a part of me that is very jealous. This green-eyed part of my soul wishes it were me that was making trips like theirs.

But consider this: I was driving through Lakewood yesterday, through the melting remains of last week's snow storms, with a kayak on the roof of the van. Tires hissing on wet pavement, windshield fogging with the cold and damp. As I stopped at a red light, I glanced at the family standing on the corner, waiting to cross. A husband and wife, with two small boys, one holding his father's hand and the other still in his mother's arms.

I saw the man looking at the kayak, really looking at it from tip to tail, and I saw the way his eyes started to glaze over. For a brief second, we looked right at each other, then the light went green and I was gone. In that moment, however, I knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking the same things that went thorough my mind as I read about the British Dynamic Duo.

"I want to go too."

Mount Anderson

Mt. Anderson is named after General T. M. Anderson who oversaw the beginning of the U.S. occupation of the Philippines in 1898.

It is 7321 feet high and was first climbed in 1920.

Merry Christmas!

I'm not sure if it has anything to do with the fact that it's Christmas, but I've gotten more emails than normal in the past few days from some of the folks out there who read this blog on a regular basis. It has been interesting to read what they've written and to get involved in some great discussions... this thing called "internet" is an amazing invention.

I've turned off the Comments feature on the site for a number of reasons. Mostly, I prefer a one-to-one conversation rather than a collection of random topics that haven't really been thought out.

Which is funny, because that's kind of what this whole site is about, a collection of random topics that haven't really been thought out. Still, I'm going to keep it this way... I like getting the emails. (Write me anytime: info@lastwilderness.net)

And so, with that, here's the absolute best wishes for a Merry Christmas. I hope you and yours are safe, warm and happy this holiday season and that 2009 is the finest New Year ever. I look forward to the adventures and stories that are still ahead and I hope you are doing the same.

You can't get there from here

I wonder if they've got the road open yet.

Late Monday evening, around 9:00, a slide of rocks and mud blocked Highway 112 about 5 miles east of Neah Bay. State DOT spokeswoman, Kelly Stowe, said in a news conference yesterday that they expected the road to be opened again at 6 p.m. last night.

There's no other way into and out of the town of Neah Bay. Not by road, anyway. The 16-mile, two-lane blacktopfrom Sekiu to Neah Bay runs along the Strait of Juan de Fuca, just above the beach in most places. The upper left corner of the country is already remote, and it just got even more so. It's a rare thing these days to be truly cut off from the rest of the world, even if it is only for a short time.

Solstice

I can't remember where I heard it, but someone once told me that December 21st is the best day to get married. "Shortest day and the longest night."

It turned out to be a good day for kayaking too, although the drive to the put-in was an adventure in itself. There's a foot or so of snow in Tacoma now, and the low temperatures have kept it from melting, like it usually does. I coerced and cajoled the bus through the slush and ice until I finally parked it near Point Defiance.

High winds had been forecast for the afternoon, but they hadn't showed up yet. I had been hoping for rough weather, a storm paddle, but conditions were fairly good when I got on the water. The clouds hung low, heavy with snow, and the flakes swirled around me continually as I got underway.

The tide had turned a couple hours before, so I would need to work pretty hard and use the eddies along the edge to get around Point Defiance and into the Narrows. Seals eyeballed me as I paddled along, Eagles chattered to each other in the trees and salmon were jumping as I made my way down to Salmon Beach.

I saw some of my old neighbors as I paddled past the houses perched above the black water. We laughed about all the snow and wished each other a merry Christmas, then I turned and paddled back. With the current now, and moving into a wind that was building from the north. Snow, falling thick and hard, stung my eyes. And it was getting darker. Shortest day and the longest night. I made it back to the bus just as darkness fell.

We had 8 hours, 29 minutes of daylight yesterday. From here on out, the days just keep getting longer.

Freedom

Fishers are members of the weasel family, like otter, mink and martens. They are native to Washington, and the Olympic peninsula was once their home, but their population was sharply reduced by a combination of over-trapping and habitat destruction. Reduced to zero, actually.

They are back now though. There's a State program currently underway to reintroduce fishers to the wilds of Olympic National Park. The goal, for the moment, is to bring the number of these cat-sized animals living inside the park and on National Forest lands up to 100. Fifteen new arrivals will be released at remote locations in the Elwha, Sol Duc and the Hoh this weekend, outfitted with radio collars and off to join others that were released a year ago. Initial results of the program are positive and hopes are high for a successful year.

And I'm happy for them, and the state, and the park. And I look forward to seeing one myself when I get back to the woods. (When I release myself back into the wild.) Still, I can't help but wonder if these little guys are really the same item as the ones they are replacing. The ones that died out. Can we really go back? If you remake a group of animals this way and return them to the environment where their ancestors used to live... is that the same thing as a continuous, vibrant, undamaged population that has regenerated itself within its borders over centuries?

Maybe that's not a question that should be asked right now. Maybe it's time to cheer the fishers on, wish them the best and be happy that, in one little part of the world, the clock has been turned back just a bit. Maybe these furry pioneers are the first generation of thousands more to come. Maybe, in time, we'll be able to see their offspring as another native species, truly indigenous once again.

I hope it all works out. For the fishers, and for the rest of us.



For more information on the fisher and the release program, check out Jeff Mayor's story in the Tacoma News Tribune.

Eagles and salmon and me

The snow is still falling, off and on. Off, right now.

The other morning I had the opportunity to take a short walk by a river. Last Sunday, before I went kayaking, I followed the Skokomish River Road up and away from the highway and back into the foothills. Snow blanketed the rocks and the trees along the way, lending a quiet Sunday feel to the scene.

The air along the river bank was at least 10 degrees colder than it had been on the road. Eagles along the course of the stream called to each other in the frigid sky. They perched in high branches above the water, watching the river flow. They were here for the salmon.

At several points along the way, I watched the last of this year's chum run struggle upstream. Bursts of power in the shallows, dorsal fins cutting above the water's surface, two or three big fish at a time, each encouraging the others, pushing one another against the current. The ultimate biological imperative.

Eagles and salmon on a snowy winter morning. And me. With as much as has changed over the years, it's sweet to be a part of something timeless.

Moclips and the Falcon

The Falcon and the Snowman was an '80's movie about a pair of semi-pro spies and poor decisions, a true story about two young men from wealthy California families who sold classified government information to the Soviet Union during the mid 1970's. It's a fascinating story of greed and misguided passions, and the film is a worthy portayal of the actual events.

Christopher Boyce, the "Falcon," ended up in Moclips. Until he was captured, that is, and hustled off to a CIA debriefing and a glass cell. Ever since I found out about this part of the story, I've always seen Moclips as a place to hide out.

By-catch

When I wrote the previous entry about kayaking in the Skokomish delta, I forgot to mention the seal.

There was a section of fishing net, along with a small bundle of floats, that was bobbing in the current near the river bank. Tangled in the net was what remained of a seal pup.

Years ago, I cut another seal pup from a net on the Nisqually. I've heard of other paddlers doing the same. Unfortunately for this little guy, there weren't any kayakers in the area when he got trapped.

I wish this didn't happen so much.

A Sunday morning paddle

Another morning, heading out of town before it gets light. Again. I'm ready for summer and the winter hasn't even officially begun.

I know I will have to learn to cope. And dress warm.

Like I am this morning. I'm putting in at Potlatch State Park for a quick paddle into the Skokomish delta. It has begun to snow again, but the water is calm and I can see the other shore, over near Union, clearly under the layer of haze. The real weather lies to the north. There are thick clouds, and the water of the Canal is choppy and white. It seems like it is moving in my direction, but very slowly.

The shoreline of the delta, when the tide is at this high level, is one giant, sweeping arc of a beach. Sand and gravel, mixed with generous amounts of shells and a little driftwood. At low water, I wouldn't be able to get anywhere near this point; the mud flats here are vast and there are few good routes that would work for a kayak.

I turn right at the first opportunity and my paddling environment changes. Little islands of mud and grass divide the delta into a collection of passages and coves. Private beaches, little secret spots, are scattered here and there, and although the wind has begun to blow a little harder on the outside, I can hardly feel it here.

The current is stout, once I hit the river and I keep to the edge, trying to catch an eddy. I glide past ancient pilings that once supported a buiding, that now seem barely able to support themselves. At other spots along the river bank, the muddy side gives way to shallow pockets of still water and coarse sand beaches. Clumps of trees mark the higher places.

I'm able to get upstream for about a half-hour, then I turn to make the fast passage back to the open reach of the delta. Conditions have changed in the past hour. The calm water is gone, replaced by a loppy sea coming at me from the northeast, and a strong wind, bringing plenty of snow along with it. I can see the beach at Potlatch through the wind-driven snow. It's not far to go but it looks to be a workout.

It's an exciting trip, as it turns out. The snow is falling sideways now. I can feel it sticking to my beard and I can see mini-drifts piling up on the downwind side of the decklines. The irregular waves push me around at some points, but I manage to get a few surfs in as well. It doesn't take long before I'm back where I started.

A blur of activity in the cold air and then the boat is loaded and I'm ready to go. Ah, the drive home: the most dangerous part of any kayak trip.

Beginning to look a lot like Christmas

There's snow on the ground now and it's supposed to get even more wintery as the week progresses. Although it would never measure up to the snowfalls they get regularly in the Midwest, here's how one of the local TV stations is calling it.

"As an arctic boundary sags over western Washington Sunday; dense, cold air will become firmly entrenched in the valleys for the week ahead. Wind will remain strong and potentially damaging in the north interior as arctic air pours from the Fraser River valley. Wind chill factors will be near 0 in the north. The next round of snow is expected Wednesday with temperatures remaining in the teens and 20s through the following weekend. This stretch of below freezing temperatures could beat the six day stretch we had in 1990."

It's 5:30am on a snowy Sunday, and I'm going kayaking.

Ahead of the storm

Mike got to my house just as the sky was getting light. In a matter of minutes, we were on the road, dodging raindrops on the way to Port Angeles. For a week, we had been planning to go surfing, and the threat of a predicted winter storm wasn't going to stop us from going and having a look.

I have kayaked at the mouth of the Elwha many times. It's not just that it has good surf; it's also the closest point along the Washington side of the Straits to Vancouver Island. It's about 11 miles from Port Angeles Point to the beaches near Race Rocks. Strong currents and a busy shipping lane add to the difficulty of the crossing, but the roughly 3-hour paddle can be done in all seasons.

The weather changes quick up here though.

Instead of snow, by the time we got to the beach, there were patches of blue in the sky and the rain had stopped. The waves were about 4 feet high, some a bit larger. The sets were easy to see and there were several chutes to the outside where wave size was smaller and it was easier to get on the other side of the surf zone.

Because of the water that flows from the Elwha and the way that flow acts on the incoming waves, the bottom is carved up into a variety of reefs and benches. What this does is it causes the waves to form quickly and peak, making them hard to catch on a surfboard. When you do catch on, however, it's an intense ride. There were bobbing hazards here as well, floating tree trunks and sweeping branches that spun in the surf near the river mouth.

We both caught waves, but nothing consistent. The learning curve here is very steep, and I worry a little that I live too far away from the waves these days to really get to know them. Growing up in California, literally minutes from the beach, I had the chance to be in the surf more often. But you play the hand you're dealt, right?

After high tide, when the waves got smaller and more chopped up, we turned away from the surf and headed up the river. About a quarter-mile up, we came to the first set of rapids where a half-dozen fishermen worked the fast-moving water. Our passage back downstream went quickly and soon we were back in the waves again.


Another twenty minutes and we were done. When the end comes, it comes quickly. Some days, surfing can take it out of you.

Snow in the lowlands

They're saying snow this weekend. Maybe as early as tonight. It feels like snow outside. Cold wind... it even smells like snow.

Which is undoubtedly an olfactory sensation too complex to explain. But I'd be willing to bet that some of you know what I'm talking about.

Thinking about a river

A couple years back, I sea kayaked the Washington side of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I split the trip up into four segments, all the way from Port Townsend to Neah Bay. I called it "Washington's other coast," and even did a few slide presentations on the route. It's a beautiful and delicate part of the Pacific Northwest - well worth any paddler's time.

I'm thinking these days about a different trip. I wonder what a winter paddle down the Chehalis River would be like. Maybe in January. No later than the end of March. Sometime in the winter, when the water is clean and cold, flowing fast and steady. I bet it would be a fascinating trip, by kayak or canoe.

It's the fourth side of the Olympic peninsula, after all.

Waves

I like Public Radio. Really, I do. But as much as I may admire the quality of the content on public radio, they don't know how to do the weather. They are always wrong. Predictably so. If they say it's going to be clear, expect fog and drizzle. If the forecast calls for rain, you can be pretty sure that the sky will be blue.

Blue like it is today, that deep, weightless blue that fills up the senses. The road rises to meet the tires on the way out to the coast, another day on the water, coming up.

The waves are big at Westhaven, not overlarge, but winter-big anyway. There's a dozen surfers out there, and a few of them are actually catching some rides. The tide is still rising, and I pick a portion of the beach over near the jetty where the waves look the most promising.

There are a million little side washes here though. When a wave breaks, it picks up residual energy from the one that broke before it, which is now running seaward at an angle to the shore. The next wave, in turn, sets up almost like a wedge, each face with its own separate trajectory.

Not great rides, but I get some. They aren't as long and consistent as they were last week in California, but they are still a kick in the butt. After a while, as the waves get less rideable, I come in and haul over to the other side of the jetty, where the water is like glass. I paddle out onto the calm bay, over to where the waves are pounding on the Westport breakwater, a half-mile away. As I go, I can feel the rising and falling of the swell, like the steady breathing of a watery planet. I manage a few more short rides in the beach break, and then head back to the beach. The drive home is a fast one, and uncomplicated.

To the beach

It got cold. When I wasn't looking, it dropped a bunch of degrees. One day, let's say Saturday, we're saying, "Oh but it's a mild fall, ain't it." Even though it's not really fall, but that's not the point.

The point is that the dividing line between the seasons is a sharp line. It ain't a mild fall anymore, whatever that was supposed to mean.

I'm going surfing tomorrow. It will likely be cold then too. A week ago I was surfing in Santa Barbara. What a difference a week makes.

Thus I resolve

If you are partial to the custom and in search of self-betterment, you'll know that New Year's resolutions don't just spring onto the scene on January 1st. Every resolution is a negotiated statement, and every goal takes time to ferment. I'm working on mine now.

Mine have always reflected a love for travel and the outdoors. The goals I'm setting for next year are no different. I have my eye on a couple peaks, some high-country traverses, a sea kayak trip down the entire length of the Olympic coast, even a paddleboard journey or two. It is exciting to watch an idea coalesce into a goal, because I know that it is through this process alone that goals become reality.

A lot of people think that New Year's resolutions are a load of fertilizer. I disagree. I enjoy believing that change is possible.

Surfing the Elwha

There is a beach at the mouth of the Elwha River where the waves sometimes set up nicely in winter. If you park your car at the end of the road, it's a matter of a 3-minute walk down a good trail to get to to the beach.

In the summer, the water here along the Strait of Juan de Fuca is calm most of the time, unless a wind is blowing. In the cold months, however, swells from winter storms work their way further into the Strait, and with its west-facing beach, this spot can be one of the more consistent spots along the coast.

After a stellar day of riding the SUP in Santa Barbara last week, I'm looking for more. I know it won't be SoCal conditions, but I think it's time for another visit to the Elwha.