Econ 101

In the closing months of 2008, the U.S. economy took its biggest hit in over a quarter-century. According to the sages at CNN, the 3.8% drop in fourth quarter GDP was the largest decline since 1982. The sky is falling and it would seem that the prospects for future prosperity are a long way off.

To paraphrase the old song, I "don't know much about the economy, don't know much about foreclosee." I do know, however, that in economic hard times it is the environment that suffers. When a man has mouths to feed, he won't think too hard about cutting some trees to sell for firewood, even if those trees are inside park boundaries. Salal is harvested on public property all the time, often without a permit. The reaping will continue, and why not. It's a quick way to make a few bucks and, with the money for parks wasting away in the budgetary drought, it's highly unlikely that you'll run into any law enforcement types on your way out of the forest. Poached deer tastes the best, right?

The roads into the backcountry that are damaged will probably stay that way. Whatever limited funds are available for highway maintenance will be spent in the cities, where the people are, by God. Where they belong. Leave the wilderness to the critters. As access becomes more complicated - and gasoline is seen as a luxury - there is a chance that overall recreational use of wild areas will decline. Maybe the people who still make the trip will be even more channeled to the places that are easiest to get to, resulting in the scars of overuse and the de facto civilization of once-wild spaces. (See Yosemite National Park). Maybe people will not go at all, will choose instead to stay at home, with their Pabst Blue Ribbon and internet chat rooms, cheez whiz and video games.

The new administration is talking about a stimulus program that will revitalize the economy a la FDR and the New Deal. Back in the 1930's, members of the CCC built trails and backcountry shelters, fire lookouts and visitor's centers, many of which are still in use today. It is possible that we'll see the next incarnation of these programs in the very near future, and that the short-term economic cold spell will bring with it opportunities that will ultimately benefit those of us with a passion for wild places. A new, New Deal.

I hope so.

The End

In 1853 the schooner Cynosure dropped anchor in Neah Bay. The Makah had had some interaction with white settlers and merchants before this point, but this encounter would prove very different, and far more tragic, than any that had preceded it. One of the crew - exactly whom is unknown - had been exposed to smallpox. A Makah that had been working on board the boat took it back to the Indian village when he returned home. The die had been cast.

With no prior exposure to the disease, tribal members were completely unequipped to deal with the sickness. In a matter of days the disease had spread throughout the Makah Nation, and many individuals and families left the community in an attempt to escape the invisible killer that had invaded their homes. When they found that this tactic didn't protect them, they came back to town, to the shop of trader Samuel Hancock, the one white inhabitant of Neah Bay, in the hope that he could provide them with a cure. They lay down in his yard outside the store, begging him to do something, anything. There was, of course, nothing to be done. Except die.

And die they did. Within six weeks, the majority of the once-powerful Makah were history. Hancock dug holes and buried up to 20 victims at a time in mass graves until even that was not enough. He was unable to excavate fast enough to keep pace with the dying Makah. Finally, when further attempts at burial proved to be impossible, Hancock simply transported the corpses to the beach at low tide, and when the water rose, the current carried the bodies away.

When the epidemic had run its course, the survivors tried, in some addled sense of primitive right-and-wrong, to pin the blame for the tragedy on Hancock. He was able, however, with no small amount of stress and skill, to convince his accusers that the carnage had not been his fault. Eventually the tribe determined that the Indian who had carried the disease to town in the first place was liable and they set him adrift in a canoe without a paddle, by way of punishment. When he managed to reach the shore of Waadah Island, just out from the harbor at Neah Bay, members of the Makah surrounded him and shot him to death.

Following the outbreak, Hancock didn't remain in town much longer. Imagine that. He moved to Whidbey Island where he married, began a new career as a farmer, and settled down. He wrote an account of his life as an entrepreneur, "The Narrative of Samuel Hancock, being a description of his Overland Journey to Oregon in 1845; His Adventures and Sufferings; His Escape from the Indians; His Gold Seeking Expedition to California and Encounters with Robbers There; The Wreck of the Cayuga and his Near Starvation; and his life as a Trader Among the Indians." (The title continues for another two paragraphs.)

Big changes came quickly to the Olympic Peninsula with the arrival of the white man. Whole forests were cut down, cities and towns were carved out of the wilderness - and most of the changes were easy to see. But for the Makah, it was what was unseen that mattered most.

A Green rush

Between 1849 and 1851, a series of six fires devastated San Francisco, each of them creating a serious need for lumber. At the height of the demand, rough-milled lumber sold for more than it fetches today, in some cases as much as $500 per thousand feet.

Much of the timber that rebuilt San Francisco came from the forests of the Olympic Peninsula. Experienced foresters came from the east, from Maine and Vermont, where aggressive logging had already diminished the great eastern forests to the point that they were no longer economically viable. By 1853, mill construction had begun on Puget Sound and within the next ten years, a network of cutting operations had been established.

W. T. Sayward was a Maine man who had made his fortune as a gold speculator in San Francisco. He opened his steam mill on waterfront land in Port Ludlow and although it had significant operational difficulties for the first few years, it eventually became profitable. And very busy. The word was out, and it wasn't long before you couldn't swing a dead cat in western Washington without hitting a timber baron.

Where California had its gold rush, Washington endured a frenzy centered around the color green. Trees were cut, hauled from the woods by teams of oxen and dumped into the waters of the sound and Hood Canal. Rafts of logs were towed to the mills and cut into lumber, then shipped away. Resource extraction, plain and simple. With a little value added in some cases, when the raw logs were converted to building material but overall, a destructive and short-sighted process that harvested trees without thought of what it took to grow them and the environment in which they grew.

The methods have changed but the process is still much the same. Logging companies of today are quite concerned that they be viewed as conservationists, caring for the land even as they wipe it clean. A great deal is made of their replanting programs, as if a flimsy seedling (that may well perish during its first winter), is the same as a 200 year-old fir or cedar. As if the damage that logging causes to streams and hillsides is not that imporant, and none of our business anyway. There is a pompous disregard for reality that every commercial logging outfit wears on its sleeve, seen clearly in the self-serving billboards by the sides of the roads that proclaim the virtues of timber management. "America's forests are America's future." That's one of my favorites.

The reality is that if it were not for Olympic National Park, the entire peninsula would have been scoured clean by now. Where replanting has occurred, and taken root, all we are left with are monocultures of genetically enhanced fir, whole tracts of same-age trees with the biodiversity of garden planter boxes. You can call them forests if you like, but they are different and wholly distinct from the forests that John Muir saw when he visited the region, trees that seemed as though they were "were courting their fate, coming down from the mountains far and near to offer themselves to the axe."

It took a long time to advance the notion that a forest is more than a collection of trees; it is a place where each living thing, every plant, animal and human, is inextricably linked to one another. America's forests are not the future, they are America's past, and we're fortunate that some of that historical record has been preserved. At least for now.

Daybreak at the Drunken Fir

An early morning, this morning. Gary and I were on the water by 6:30, putting in at Titlow Beach and heading through the Narrows to the Point Defiance Boat House. As the light came up and the wind stiffened, we could see the slides on the cliffs below the point. All along the shoreline, from the point all the way to Salmon Beach, pieces of the hillside have let go and slid to the beach below. Big slides and small, and the majority of them looked very fresh.

There is an old fir tree that grows out at an odd angle from the base of the sand cliffs near the point. It's been there as long as I can recall. When I teach classes at Owen Beach, I don't normally go past the Drunken Fir. The current usually picks up at that point and it can be difficult to get back when there is a large group of beginners. It's a useful enough landmark that I even point it out to the students sometimes: "Don't go past the Drunken Fir." That's its name... I know. I know because I named it.

I was there this morning just as the first rays of sun began to hit. Gary was out in front of me and I drifted into the quiet water near shore and took some pictures.

A happy thought

I was thinking about the economy, the demise of American kayak manufacturers and the shrinking polar ice caps this morning. Can you blame me for being a grouch?

It's funny how one thought can lead into another, and another, until the weight of it all turns even the lightest heart into stone. I am, it seems, something of a pessimist about the future of the environment, both locally as well as globally. I contribute to environmental causes and I support the protection and preservation of wild areas - the Olympic peninsula being a prime example. I can't help but worry, however, that it's not enough, that it won't ultimately matter. The course has been set.

And then, thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Down the River, I stumble across this admonition from the late Edward Abbey, and it brings it all back into sharper focus, those more important things: "Do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am - a reluctant enthusiast ... a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound people with their hearts in a safe deposit box and their eyes hypnotised by desk calculators. I promise you this; you will outlive the bastards."

Clubland

I am not a Joiner by nature. I tend to follow the Mark Twain ethic, which means that I'm not overly interested in any organization that would have me as a member. I am a member of two kayaking clubs, Kayak Newfoundland and Labrador and the Matelót but that's about it. I like people and I'm mostly gregarious, but I'm just as comfortable on my own.

I'm planning on going to a Surfrider Foundation meeting in a couple weeks though... just to see what that's all about.

The great Blue Heron

I mentioned the Blue Heron Bakery at the end of the last entry... I thought I should give it another plug.

For me, one of the highlights of any trip to the peninsula is the mandatory stop at the Blue Heron. A selection of exquisitely crafted confections along with perfect coffee makes it a pleasure to visit, and the loaf of bread I inevitably purchase to take home makes the pleasure last even longer.

It's a little shop down in the flatlands near Mud Bay. If you're heading west out of Oly, take the Evergreen College exit and turn left at the stop sign. I'll see you there.

Doesn't feel like winter

Up at dawn once again. I'd like to survey a few more kayaking options, maybe get on the water for a morning paddle, then beat it back to T-town in time to see the boy before his bedtime. I stop at a pull-out on Highway 101, a tourist scenic vista, that overlooks Nehalem Bay and the towns that cluster around it. There is a rocky cliff face at one end of the lot and I zip up my jacket and begin climbing.

To really get the feel for a place, there's nothing like getting to a high spot and looking down. It was windy when I woke up this morning and the wind is still blowing in the lowlands, but up here on the cliffs it is calm. Seems backwards to me, but that's how it is. The sky is pure blue and every detail of the landscape below stands out in high relief. The town of Manzanita lies below in the shade; the sun has not yet landed on its streets. The spit where the State Park sits is shrouded in green and beyond that, I can see sunlight reflecting off windows near the towns of Nehalem and Wheeler.

I can see the route I paddled yesterday afternoon. Out the river to the bar and back. The waves on the bar are visible from here, a line of white between the blue of the sea and the buff-colored beach.

Once I have had my altitude fix for the day I get back in the van and drive north. I stop in Cannon Beach, just to say I've done it. It is a beautiful spot, and it reminds me of all the other beautiful places that money can buy. Carmel, Malibu, Santa Barbara... where the poor people try to act rich and the rich people try to act normal. For such a small town, there are an awful lot of fat people walking small dogs. The beach is a natural wonder, however, and I sit for some time on the sand just to absorb the sights.

By lunch time I've had enough. I drive north, through Astoria and across the bridge that takes me to the other side of the Columbia. Up through the Willapa hills, past Long Island. The mud is starting to show as the tide drops. Soon there will be far more mud than water in Willapa Bay, something that kayakers must take into account when traveling here, as I found out a few years back. The low-lying farmland near the Palix River is a wintering spot for thousands of geese, and they call to each other across the fallow fields. The hills are patchworked with clearcuts, evidence of recent logging that has left the earth bare in its wake.

Way to go, boys! Cut 'em all down. Why, that's why God put them trees here in the first place, for us to use. Log this planet first, then we'll move on to the others.

I get gas in Montesano. I can see the high-water mark from the recent floods on the Chehalis as I drive over the river. I turn off the highway near Brady and head up the east fork of the Satsop. The floods are evident here as well, but the little river has returned to its normal banks and looks harmless enough. I need to get back here soon.

This is it for today though. I make short work of the rest of my drive, stopping only at the Blue Heron Bakery outside of Olympia for a few cookies and a loaf of bread to take home. I could use a shower.

Big rocks, big water

The wind is not dying down. If anything, it's getting stronger. The inky sky is awash with stars and the quarter moon is almost bright enough to read by. It's five in the morning and I'm by the side of the road in Nehalem, Oregon. I guess I could have figured it might be breezy… it is January, after all.

I drove through Cannon Beach in the dark last night, so I still haven't seen the place. Perhaps later. The coffee is brewing in the van and the comforting morning smell mixes with the other fragrances blowing on the night wind: salt brine and evergreen, that low tide funk off in the distance somewhere. Soon the sunlight will be spilling over the low hills off to the east and the day will officially begin.

I'm here to get the lay of the land, to do a little recon for a trip I'll be doing in this Fall. There's a group of ladies that book a three-day trip every September and so far, it's been 8 years of the San Juan Islands, but they want to come down here this year. I thought it might be a good idea to familiarize myself with the options.

After the coffee is done, I'm back on the road. Highway 101 again, heading south. The houses and towns glide by as the sky lightens and it isn't long before I'm at Cape Meares. I walk the trail to the point to see the water. The swells are arranged in sets, easily seen even from here, high on the cliffs. The strong offshore wind holds the waves up, spray unfurling from the peaks in silvery arcs that glow in the low-angle morning sun. It's hard to say for certain how big the waves are, but I can hear them all the way up here, so they are not small. Paddling out through those breakers would have consequences.

I'm looking for launch points as I drive, noting possible start and stop points for this September's visit. I drive out onto the dike on the south side of Tillamook Bay, to the end of the road, get out, and continue on foot. Sandy trails cut through the shrubs and stunted trees; I follow one out to the beach. Above the grassy dunes, a kestrel swoops and dinks on the gusty air, looking for a mousy morning meal.

The waves here are rowdy and less organized than the ones I had seen earlier. The wind is still offshore, but there are no discernable sets and the break is ragged and undefined. It's big water, though. Dumping big water. I loop the trail back to my starting point and get back in the van again, driving north.

Nehalem Bay reminds me of southwest Washington, Willapa Bay, or Gray's Harbor. Big rivers, muddy and swollen, emptying into an estuary and from there, across a bar and into the sea. Low islands laced in driftwood hover in the stream, gaining and losing definition with the whim of the tides. I putz through the roadside communities at Sunday morning speed, looking for something good.

Before long, I'm at the Sea Shack in Wheeler, eating clam chowder and watching the NFC Championship game. The battle of the birds – Eagles at the Cardinals. The flabby waitress is exceptionally surly and has the gutter tongue of a drunken sailor, but the beer is cold and the view is downright territorial.

From here, I'm going north again, looking to get out on the water for a twilight paddle, maybe somewhere around Nehalem.

My Oregon Trail

I'm heading out this afternoon for the Oregon coast. I have heard so many nice things about the place, I figured that I may as well go and see for myself.

Doesn't everybody kayak the Oregon coast in winter?

Going international

If you're ever of a mind to try a real open-water crossing, this could be the one. If you like strong currents and fickle winds and the possibility of crossing paths with oil tankers and other ocean-going über vessels, you might enjoy a paddle accross the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

It's not that far, just under 11 miles from Port Angeles Point to Race Rocks (above.) It used to be a fairly common route for the native population of both the Olympic Peninsula and Vancouver Island. I don't see many Indians out there anymore though.

Get an early start. You can park your car at the PA Point access lot at the mouth of the Elwha and carry your kayak down the trail to the beach. If you've done your homework and you've got the currents all figured out, you'll have a compass heading all ready to go. (There are buoys and markers in the straits that can give good feedback during the course of the crossing. Use these to determine whether your pre-trip dead reckoning needs to be modified en route.)

If it's a clear day, you'll be able to select a landmark on the island - a peak or a saddle in the island's ranges - to set your course. Use the compass in conjunction with your particular landmark to determine the effects of the currents on a continual basis. If the fog comes in, as it often does, you'll need to rely solely on your compass. If you haven't done this before, don't worry. It's a tad unnerving at first, paddling blindly into the soup, but if you're not prepared to trust your compass, you shouldn't bother bringing one at all.

If that ol' debbil fog rolls in, or even if it doesn't, you'll still need to be aware of the commercial traffic with whom you are sharing the water. The Strait of Juan de Fuca is a busy shipping channel, and it is inevitable that your paths will cross with vessels much, much larger than you are. Two tips: 1) They are moving faster than it looks - their bulk makes them look stationary, even when they are at cruising speed. 2) They will not see you and they will not even feel the bump that comes as they run you down - give them as much space as you can.

When you reach the other side, there are a number of suitable beaches to put ashore. There is no convenient customs house or other means of reporting your arrival to the authorities, but I have always been willing to tell any Canadian officials about where I have come from and that I have nothing to declare. I have not, however, run into any.

Two final points. 1) Watch the currents around Race Rocks. How do you think it got its name? 2) There's a beach just west of the lighthouse near Church Point. On the headland above the beach are the remains of an old egg-beater windmill, and there is a sign on the hill above the beach that says something about not trespassing. In the deep grass at the base of the sign is a bottle of Merlot. (Western Australia, 2001, if I remember correctly.) If you get back there before I do, please have a drink on me.

This last, fast year

I left for Vancouver Island a year ago today. The plan was for a sea kayak circumnavigation in winter, something that had never been done before. It still hasn't. It hardly seems possible that 12 months have gone by since then.

This day in history

On January 13th, 1890, the boys from the Press Party began their first push into the Olympic wilderness. The expedition had been on the go for over a month already, but still hadn't gotten past the last settler's house in the Elwha Valley - hardly what you'd call exploring. (No matter how daring and intrepid you may think you are, if you are boldly going where many others have been before, that's not exploration.)

The men had constructed a heavy, flat-bottomed barge to transport their extensive supplies up river. They named her Gertie. The plan was to haul Gertie up the river and into the interior, a plan that was abandoned after a few hard-won miles and several sinkings. The Elwha isn't much suited for barge travel.

I've never understood why the winter was seen as the right time to send the exploring party on their way in the first place. I suspect it had more to do with politics and the race to be the first to cross the range than it did with optimum conditions. When the Press Party got their traveling roadshow underway, there were other groups who were likewise gearing up for similar attempts later that year. Coming in second was not an option and, therefore, a winter traverse was the only solution.

The Press Party eventually made it to the other side after months of circuitous travel and many dead ends. they were the Gilligan's Island of explorers, stretching what is now a three-day hike into months of hardship in the deep snows of the Olympic mountains. And it all began 119 years ago today, with the first tug on the ropes that started their ill-fated barge on its way upriver.

2009 Pummel update

The winter storms and flooding have knocked the La Push Surf Pummel off schedule once again. The latest date is the weekend of Feb 13-15, 2008. I've already made other plans for that weekend so, once again, they'll have to survive without me.

The event was started back in 1986 by Seattle kayaker Sprague Ackley, a paddler who is known more for his whitewater experience than for his salt-water exploits. Still, I suppose that's fitting, being that there's no river anywhere that can rival the power and the white-knuckle ride that La Push can bring during a winter storm. I have often talked with river boaters who tell me that sea kayaking is too slow, too sedate, for them. They need the thrill that comes from big water, fast twitch muscular desperation and wild rides. My response to them is usually to invite them along on my next coastal trip. (They hardly ever come.)

For more information on this year's Pummel, contact Ken and Ellen DeBondt 206-527-2565 email debondt1@msn.com. If you send them an RSVP, they will fill you in on the details as the time gets closer.

If it's a jolt of adrenaline that you crave, take your kayak to a Washington beach in winter. You will discover, as has everyone who's made the trip before you, that the sea is a wild and unknowable place, that excitement and wonder can be found around every turn and that adrenaline is brown and runny.

Matthew Broaddus

Mathew Howard Broaddus, born November 12, 1962 passed away at home on December 23, 2008. He is survived by his mother Marylou von Scheele, his brother David von Scheele, his sister Paulene Collins and his nieces and nephews Brooke and Hunter Collins, Josh, Jessica and Janessa von Scheele. A celebration of Matty's life will be held Saturday January 10, 2009 from 12-6pm at Titlow Lodge 8425 6th Ave Tacoma, WA. In lieu of flowers or gifts, donations can be made at any Washington Mutual.

Matt and I first met when I was working behind the bar at the Parkway and he was a regular customer. As the years passed, we swapped positions - I no longer worked at the pub but Matt had taken a job there a few days a week. He was quick with a smile, had a strong hand shake and had the ability to listen and to empathize that that few people possess (and most of them are bartenders.)

I last saw Matt about a month ago. He came into the shop and we talked about kayaks for an hour or so. I went through the different styles of paddles with him and we talked about what kind of paddling he wanted to do. He was excited by the prospect of buying a boat, of going to places close to home and other places farther away, along the Inside Passage, between here and Alaska. He talked about the things he wanted to see, and about the peace and power he associated with the water. His desire to go seemed almost deperate, like a fire was burning inside him and the only way to keep it under control was to keep moving.

He didn't get to paddle his own kayak. I will miss him and I will always be sorry that I never got the chance to help him get out on the water. As it turned out, he didn't have as much time left as he thought he did.

But then, none of us do.

Run of the rivers

These are the seasons of emotion

And like the winds they rise and fall

This is the wonder of devotion

I see the torch we all must hold

This is the mystery of the quotient

Upon us all a little rain

Must fall.

-Led Zeppelin

It's supposed to get better over the next few days. Dry, for the most part, and cooler temps, which should stabilize the snow pack.

There's another mudslide on SR 112, so Neah Bay is cut off once again. Which is undoubtedly a hardship, but that is part of the price for living somewhere so beautiful. The road to La Push is open again. From what I can see, the western slope of the Olympics got off better than initial expectations. More to follow, I'm sure.

Rising waters

Neah Bay is cut off once again. Highway 112, according to the Washington State Department of Transportation, is "closed to traffic in both directions from milepost 12 to milepost 13 and from milepost 23 to milepost 29 due to flooding. Alternate routes are advised."

Another alert that caught my attention had to do with Highway 110, the road that winds from Forks to La Push. I was just on that road a few days ago and now, according to WSDOT, it is the site of a "Major flood. All lanes blocked in both directions from LEYENDECKER RD. to COUNTY PARK RD. until further notice.

Aside from the obvious jest about using an alternate route to get to Neah Bay - there are none, not by road, anyway - this is serious news. Rivers all over western Washington are breaking out of their normal channels. The towns of Orting and Fife have been evacuated wholesale, and it sounds as though most of the town of Chehalis (above), has already floated out to sea. For a large number of people, 2009 is already a bad year.

It's hard to know what the long term effects of these floods will be on the roads of the Olympic peninsula, particularly those that lead into the backcountry. Most of the maintenence budget for these roads will be exhausted quickly and the repairs that are too costly or difficult will very possibly be left undone. More ghost roads, like those at the Dosewallips and Graves Creek, are sure to be the result.

Stormy weather

"It's going to be wild and wooly in the Hoh the next few days."

That's the word from John Preston, a park ranger based at the Visitor's Center at the Hoh. With somewhere between 12 and 20 inches of rain expected by Thursday, the flooding is likely to be extensive. The warmer temperatures are melting the recently fallen snow, adding to the danger, and winds are strong as well, gusting to 60 mph in some areas, so fallen trees are going to be everywhere. Other rivers that will be hit hard include the Queets and the Quinault but there will be slides and washed out roads all over the western slope of the Olympics.

This must be why they call it a rainforest.

Dawn patrol

I am standing on the beach, checking to make sure my hatch covers are secure and keeping an anxious eye on the breaking waves.The surf is not overly large, 3 – 4 feet, but it is constant and driven hard by the biting wind. Relentless. Daylight is scratching at the remains of the night and the sky is leaden. The gravel beach is steep and the outgoing tide is making the waves close out in barrels of foam and pounding spray.

From the window, it looked smaller, less threatening. I pull the sprayskirt tight around the cockpit rim and survey my route one more time. Through the first line of breakers, then sharp left to avoid the 30-foot log flailing and twisting in the intermediate surf zone. Straight out to sea at that point, heading toward the red can buoy that bucks and heaves in the giant swells a mile offshore.

Pull. Pull. A face full of brine and a jarring stoppage of momentum as a wave smacks me in the chest. I duck to get out of the way of the next one, only to be cross-checked by the one behind it. Pull harder. I crest the top of one of the largest, and for a brief moment I am weightless. The water rushes under me and I shoot over the top of the peak and crash again on the back side of the wave. Ready for the next one.

I paddle for ten minutes – it feels like much longer – and I never totally get out of the surf zone. The wind, which is gusting now to 35 knots, is blowing the top off of the swells and there are white horses jumping as far as I can see. I paddle directly into the wind, toward the rocky headland that separates First Beach from Second Beach. My rationale is that, since the cliffs will obstruct the wind, the water there will be less chaotic, the waves will be more predictable.

Wrong. Because the wind is not as strong, the waves are twice the size. The force of the gale flattens the swells farther out in the bay but allows the ones in the lee of the headland to grow unhindered as they approach the beach. When I was a kid, surfing in the benevolent waters of Goleta, California, we measured the height of waves not in feet, but in increments of "overhead." These rumblers are at least triple overhead, and the larger among them are even more impressive.

I turn back out to sea. The "snot-green sea," James Joyce called it. The "scrotum-tightening sea." The swells are getting steeper now and coming at me from a half-dozen different directions. I realign the kayak for the downwind run and, once I have the powerful gusts at my back, I begin flying down the faces of the waves back toward my starting point.

I hold position off of the beach, outside of the first break, and watch for my route choices to develop. These are not waves that I am interested in riding. They are dumping more now, and I can see pebbles and small stones in the water as it crashes to shore. This is a classic survival landing; no points will be awarded for style.

My keel scrapes the gravel once again and just like that, it is over. A few deep breaths, and then I start the carry through the rising wind, up the beach to the cabin. And breakfast.

A room with a view

Long ago, or not so very long ago, hikers in Enchanted Valley could stay at the Enchanted Valley Chalet.

It was built in 1930 from logs of native silver fir. It's a big structure, 28' x 41', and two-and-a-half stories high. The corners are fitted in precise dovetailed joints. Situated as it is, in a meadow next to the Quinault River, it looks smaller.

The chalet began as part of a commercial enterprise, the Olympic Recreation Company, run by five brothers from Quinault Lake. Bricks, mortar, and construction equipment was brought by horse over the thirteen-mile trail from Graves Creek. Much of the original furniture was constructed on site. It was an economic success for a couple of decades until it was closed during World War II. For a brief time during the war, the Army used it as a forward observation post. In the mid-1950's, it was opened to the public by the new owners, the National Park Service. Vandalism and neglect eventually compelled the Park to close the building, but there were some good years there where hikers to the area could enjoy a night's sleep in this remarkable structure.

I came late to the area and have never been inside the chalet. It has been years since I have hiked through Enchanted Valley and I hear there has been major damage done to the trail as well as to the Graves Creek Road, the main access route for the area. The river, which used to be 200 feet away from the chalet across a meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers, has reportedly come to within 15 feet of the cabin walls.

I wonder what it would have been like, to look out of a Chalet window onto the exquisite scenery of one of the most bewitchingly beautiful places in the Olympics.

Snow at the Rialto

I think the snow has stopped, at least for now. The snow that fell yesterday is gone now and the temperatures have inched their way out of the freezer. The wind is still cold and there is no way you'd confuse the situation with summer, but it's a little warmer anyway.

There was a solid cover of snow yesterday morning as I paddled up the Quileute River toward Rialto Beach. The waves on First Beach were small and choppy, the tide was falling and it seemed like it would be a touch more enjoyable to take the paddleboard on a fresh-water trip than to get tossed around in the wind-blown peaks on the beach. Eagles perched in snags along the banks as I moved around the waterway, looking for the places where the current would hinder me least. There are not many eddies on this terminal section of the river; rocky breakwaters have been built to channelize the river as it enters the sea, and this has resulted in a strong, uniform flow.

When I got to the other side, I pulled the board and the paddle up the bank, stashed them in the weeds and took out on foot for Rialto Beach. There were a half-dozen cars in the parking lot but only one person, a young man who was setting out for a 4-day backpacking trip on the coast trail. I talked with him for a few minutes and wished him luck before he hoisted his heavy pack and set off down the beach.

Rialto Beach stretches up to the north in an uninterrupted 4-mile sweep that staggers the mind and the eyes. The constant pounding of the breakers on one side and the towering evergreens on the other frame a perfect half-moon of sand and driftwood that has changed little from the way it looked to the early European explorers. This beach, as well as the rest of the Olympic National Park coastline is, quite simply, a sort of time machine. (Thank you, FDR.)

I walked up the beach for 20 minutes or so, poking under the snow-covered logs and jetsam for glass balls - didn't find any - then headed back to the river and paddled back to town. I toyed with the idea of punching through the bar and paddling back to the cabin through the surf on First Beach, but I didn't. Maybe I should have.

The days go so damn fast. And when they are gone, they are gone forever.

La Push, Friday night

I have the door wide open, even though it was snowing just ten minutes ago. The wood stove here is very, shall we say, efficient.

We rented a house for the weekend out here in La Push. I've actually stayed in this cabin before, a couple years ago, and it makes a decadently comfortable base camp. Any time you've got a shower and a kitchen and a wood-fired stove, you've got a well-appointed home base. It does make me feel a bit soft, but I spend enough nights sleeping on the ground through the course of a year that I don't mind getting away with this scene now and again. I'm getting older, you see.

We got into town in the late afternoon, about an hour before sunset. I helped unpack the car, then headed down to the beach for a look at the surf, as well as to give the dog a chance to stretch his legs after the car ride. We made our way over to the river mouth as the waves pounded the sand. The surf was big but the swells have some shape and I'm hopeful about surfing opportunities tomorrow.

Where the river enters the bar, there is a breakwater. I turned here and went up into the town, which at this point is little more than a quiet collection of broken down houses. There are some civic buildings, a restaurant (closed), and a small fish packing plant, but mostly there are dilapidated wood-framed structures scattered along the main road through the community. Yards are peppered with rusting cars that have no tires, discarded appliances and dogs. Lots of dogs.

(To be fair, much of the village of La Push is located up the hill, away from the beach. I am only seeing a small piece of it along the waterfront.)

To the north of town lies the river. On the other side is Rialto Beach, Olympic National Park. There used to be a bridge here, but only pilings remain now. It's a 20-mile drive to Rialto Beach from La Push these days, back up the highway toward Forks, and a left turn onto another road that ends near the park boundary. A bald eagle sat on the upper snags of a logjam in the middle of the river. He was out of camera range for me but I could still make out his crest of white and the turn of his head.

James Island dominated the western view. It is situated at the mouth of the river, where it splits the current and forms shifting beaches and sand bars. It is covered with a thick topping of spruce and hemlock that shimmer in the last rays of sunset. On the walk back to the cabin, it started to snow.

I just looked outside, and there's an inch or so of snow out there now. A thin layer of white on the cars and the rooftops, on the rocks and the branches of the tall trees. Down on the beach, the logs and rocky high tide zone are likewise covered, and the different colors and textures of the gravelly shore are, for the moment, wearing the same uniform.

Going coastal

I am leaving for La Push later this morning. The whole family's going, along with a few friends and an old black dog. It's 5:00 am now and it's snowing, although I don't think it's going to stick.

The original plan was to go to the Surf Frolic (or Surf Pummel), but I got this weekend by mistake, and now it turns out I wouldn't have been able to make it next weekend anyway, which is when the event is actually scheduled. I'm disappointed because I really made an effort to remember it this year and I've never been to a Pummel before. I have heard that it is not to be missed, except by me, of course. Perhaps it will all work out next year. (Note to organizers: Try a little more advance publicity.)

I'm feeling pretty sanguine about the weekend we've got coming up. There's a kayak and a couple SUPs on the van which I hope to get some use of. I envision a combination SUP and beachwalk trip across the river and up Rialto Beach. I have paddled along shore here but I've never walked the sand, so I'd like to do that.

I'm actually not making any plans right now. There are many options and they are all good.

Año Nuevo

A New Year. Tabula rasa. A clean slate, with days and weeks not yet spoken for. 2009 is there for the taking and I can't help but wonder where it will take me. I have some plans already, other ideas too disorganized to be plans, at least not yet.

I have always taken the idea of a New Year very seriously. It is an arbitrary designation, a simple trick of the calendar, that one day should be chosen out of all others as the beginning of a new annum, but I don't mind the illusion. It is helpful in setting my hopes and goals to have a starting point, which is how I see January 1st. It is a beginning, where the seat belts are buckled and the rocket stands ready on the launch pad.

Time to light that candle.