A Progress report

And, just like that... like snow melting, like the greening of the trees, like the breathy cheeps of the young birds in their nests. It's over, just like that. Bears awaken from dark dens to the light of another season; birds manuever back north once again. The moments blur together into one long chunk of memory and what seems, at the beginning, to be an impossibly long time, is over in a single heartbeat. Half over, at any rate. One day, it's a snow day in January, and the next you find that June is in the books and the year is half gone.

There is, I suppose, another way to look at it.

There is still half a year left.

And another thing...

If you look up the History of the Olympic Mountains on Wikipedia, you'll be hit with a long - albeit deceptively shallow - writeup of all things historical and Olympic. From the days of the Spanish explorers to the time of Lt. O'Neil and the mountain men... and then talk turns to the Press Expedition. For some reason, and I have no idea why, trash-talking the Press Party is cool, at least for some.

To wit: the judgmental bastard who coughed up these lines ought to be flogged. "The team was assembled by a foolhardy Scottish explorer named James Helbold Christie. Christie wanted to make a name for himself, and he knew if he waited to make the crossing until spring that he would be competing against a bevy of similar teams." The writer goes on to describe the Press Party's hardships and mistakes with the clear hindsight of a half-bright Monday morning quarterback. As if there was something untoward about Christie's desire to be first. As if going along with a bevy of similar teams was a better alternative than the one he chose. As if the wiki-critic has ever really done anything.

Tell me, anyone. When have you ever gone off the map? Christie and the others had their faults - they did enjoy their whisky - but once they passed the last homestead on the Elwha and continued upcountry, they were in a place that no one had seen before. The local tribes knew nothing of the interior; if others had previously been through, they had never come forward with their stories. The Press Party went where there were no maps, and it may be entertaining to quibble about whether they should have built a barge or whether starting during one of the worst winters on record was a good idea. But they went somewhere first, and you can't take that away from them.

And this is what's bugging me: those who make their claim to greatness simply by critiquing the performance of their betters. By comparing the real deeds of others against the imitations and imaginations of their own sad mental milestones. Those feeble hacks in their garrets, conjuring up in words what they could never hope to accomplish by their actions, not that they would be likely to try.

I don't know what has set me off this time. These days, I am resigned to the inevitability of my someday becoming a curmudgeon. I just hope I don't snarl, you know, like Dick Cheney.

Another safety rant

I spent most of the day yesterday on the paddleboard. Up one side of Commencement Bay and down the other, a beautiful summer Saturday, with hundreds of people walking the waterfront. At Owen Beach, two little girls were swimming in the water - really swimming and not just splashing about - their delight completely canceling out any thoughts of cold water. The air temperature, even at 10 AM, was approaching 80 degrees. Hypothermia wasn't an option.

Which is why the kayakers looked so ridiculous. Not 100 yards from where the bikini-clad grade schoolers were diving and laughing in the clear water, a group of sea kayakers were getting ready for a trip. If you didn't know any better, you might think they were gearing up for an expedition in the Chukchi Sea or some kind of antarctic survival episode. All dressed in wetsuits and drysuits, with waterproof boots and gloves... one goober was even wearing a helmet. Really? A helmet? In Commencement Bay? For what? And do any of you realize how stupid you look?

I understand that the water is cold and that prolonged immersion can be fatal. I get the concept of safety and how every precaution taken is potentially a valuable part of keeping yourself alive in the event that everything goes south. I have a drysuit and I wear it.

In the winter. When I'm by myself. If I'm solo on the open coast in December and the waves are double-overhead and there is snow on the driftlogs above the tide line. A drysuit is an amazing insurance policy, a difference-maker between life and death when the elements are against you. On an 80 degree day in Commencement Bay, where the only ripples on the water are coming from passing fishing boats, when there is no wind, and when I am paddling with a dozen other people who know how to assist me should I suddenly forget how to kayak... on these days, wearing a drysuit is not necessary.

But I can't help thinking that there's more to it than that. It's more than just unnecessary... all this gear may actually be a hindrance to what brought me here in the first place. Part of why I go to the places I go and do the things I do is that I want to feel the environment that I am passing through. If the weather is inclement and cold, if the situation in which I find myself is dangerous and tenuous, I'll use whatever gear I need to use to allow me to get to where I need to go. If, however, the conditions are comfortable, I want to feel that comfort. If I'm wearing barrier clothing to keep out the water, to keep out the sun, what am I doing here in the first place?

And don't recite that old saw about dressing for the temperature of the water. Bull hockey. On an 80 degree day in Puget Sound, dressing for the water means a bikini - those girls had the right idea. I wore a pair of shorts, with my shirt tied around my waist, as I paddled past the intrepid kayakers. Imagine, if one of those walking Goretex commercials were to capsize and come out of his boat, how quickly he would be rescued and put back in. With the air temperature a'sizzling, it would be a matter of minutes before he'd be warm once more. And I bet he would feel refreshed, when all was said and done. Which is the whole point.

I want to feel the water. If it's cold water, I will think of it as bracing, rather than perilous. I will use my common sense - it has seen me this far - and I will stay away from the herd. And if someone wearing a helmet comes paddling toward me in Puget Sound, I will turn and go in the opposite direction.

A Media moment

Big paddleboard story in the Tacoma News Tribune today, with the boy on the cover of the Adventure section. Not a bad video on the Trib web site either. Just go to http://www.thenewstribune.com/ and click on the SUP video in the video section. Then get out on the water.

The Press Party revisited

I have a book about the Olympics that talks about the Press Party in the most disparaging of terms. "Drunkards and imbiciles," it calls them. No mercy. And perhaps there is some truth to the slam. After all, it did take them 6 months to go 40-odd miles. You don't get numbers like that being sober.

Still, I've always wanted to follow that route, up the Elwah and out the Quinault, from one side of the range to the other. Over the Low Divide, to the headwaters of several of the peninsula's great river systems. There are trails now, of course, but I have heard that, if you know where to look, you can still see the blazes cut into the bark of the old trees, the three horizontal slashes that marked the route of the Press Party Expedition.

I'm going. After hemming and hawing for entirely too long, the Press route is where I'm headed at the end of July, using the time that I was to have been out at the coast. It's a giant, four-dimensional Rubik's Cube, this juggling of time and job, family and self. Always a balancing act. It's just gratifying when a plan comes together.

I want to go ultralight, but taking basic climbing gear... crampons, light axe. I think it went well last year in the Dosewallips, but I think I can get it even lighter this year.

Going faster

I'm not a racer. By nature, I travel fairly slowly. I make steady progress, whether it's in a kayak or on foot, and over the course of a long day, I may go farther than others, but I am not, in any sense of the term, built for speed. Which makes it hard to explain why I'm in a race today.

I suppose the simple answer is that I said "yes." I was asked to be the kayaker on the Mountains to Sound Relay team, Graybeards and Youngbloods. There's a couple of cyclists and a pair of runners involved as well, fairly serious competitors, and I'm pretty sure I'm not one of the Youngbloods. The paddling segment is 12 miles long, down the length of the Samammish River between Lake Samammish and Lake Washington. I will try to paddle with a greater sense of urgency than I normally display.

Scotch Broom

Scotch Broom is native to southern Europe and northern Africa (which is more than can be said for the country of Scotland itself, but that's the way it goes.) It seems just as likely to me, being a casual observer, that it is native to the Olympic Peninsula. It is one of those classic stories of nature run amok, like mongooses in Hawaii or frogs in Australia, that I expect will be on the FOX channel one of these days in an episode of "When Nature Goes Insane." It's another example of the unintended consequences of what can happen when our reach no longer exceeds our grasp.

Scotch Broom was introduced to the US as an ornamental. It was easy to grow and people liked its bright yellow flowers and its hardy nature. It's a tough plant to kill. It's tenacity and perennial growth made it attractive to various highway departments as a means of stabilizing roadcuts. It didn't take long before it was popping up everywhere.

It outcompetes many native species, taking over habitat niches and driving local flora away. Scotch Broom seeds have hard coatings that enable them to survive lengthy dormant periods and are transported easily in mud stuck to vehicles, shoes and the feet of animals. Storm runoff can carry the seeds for miles, and new colonies of the plant appear almost overnight. It is such a prodigious pollinator and seed dispersal expert that, even though it has been designated a noxious weed, it's unlikely that its presence, will ever be significantly reduced, much less eradicated. It's hard to believe that it got here on purpose and that people used to actually take the time to plant the stuff.

When it comes to playing God, it seems we're much better at playing the devil.

The Bar (Part 3)

It takes about a half-hour or so to make the switch between the SUP and the kayak. In that time, the wind dies down a bit and the effects of the current, while still strong, are less of a factor on the displacement hull of the boat than they had been on the flat bottom of the paddleboard. With two blades in the water and the ability to maintain a glide through the swells, it takes a mere 40 minutes to get to the beach at Westport.

The current is strongest in the channel near the Westport harbor. Crossing over to the sweeping sandy beach at Westhaven State Park, I pass from this swiftly moving section to the still water of the cove behind the long south-side jetty. The waves here are smallish and dumping and getting on shore is largely a function of being pushed to the beach by the white froth of the tumbling surf. I stretch my legs and walk on the sand while I eat my snack, take a bearing on my destination, and get ready for the return.

The waves that I had anticipated never really factor into my trip. I can see breakers off in the distance, at other places along the bar, but my route stays in deeper water and with the current getting closer to slack, the turbulence and disorder that I'd been preparing for never really materializes. The paddle back to my starting point is unremarkable and fast, and it isn't long before I'm back in the van, heading for home once again (after a stop at the Blue Heron Bakery in Olympia).

I'm fairly sure that the trip could be done on a SUP without too much difficulty. The currents will always be an issue, but they can be accounted for. When the wind combines with the flow of the water, however, it gets difficult to maintain forward progress. I've noticed the disparity between kayak and SUP cruising speeds in the past - it's a mattter of hull design, not paddler power - and I am still convinced that the way to take advantage of both vehicles is to combine their positive traits and form an entirely new way to travel. More studies should be done.

The Bar (Part 2)

Between Westport and Ocean Shores lies two miles of open water. Not just any open water either; we're talking the Gray's Harbor bar, a treacherous mix of wind, waves and currents that are capable of shaking the nerve of any waterman on any given day. The Chehalis River - along with the Humptulips, the Wishkah, the Hoquiam and others - dumps millions of gallons of fresh water into the bay every day, at least during this time of year. Snow melting in the distant Cascades and the Olympics eventually finds its way here, rushing downward on its gravity-fueled ride from the forests to the sea.

The mix of fresh and salt waters, along with the power of the tides, makes the bar a sporty outing, even on the quieter days. As I slide the paddleboard into the water, I scan the outlying water for any action. It's calm close to shore but there's a breeze that's building from the southwest and within a few hundred feet of shore, I can feel the current, already pulling at me. There are big waves to the west, near the hotel beaches at the tip of the Ocean Shores Peninsula. In front of me, however, the surface of the water is mostly flat, with little wind ripples breaking up the surface.

I make good time at first, my eyes fixed on the harbor and the jetties on the other shore. The wind has increased, more intense and coming right at me. The incoming tide is having its way with me as well, forcing me to take a ferry angle that makes the wind seem even worse. I can't help but think that I'd rather be in a kayak... these are the conditions that are just starting to get interesting, if I'm paddling a sea kayak rather than a SUP. I battle on, but the seeds of doubt are already sprouting.

And perhaps this is one limit of the standup paddleboard, at least in its present form. It has many positives, but beating it to windward against a rising tide isn't one of them. I try, for a while, to measure my progress against the buoys in the current, working my way from one to the next and getting an idea of my rate of progress. It isn't good. When I ultimately make the decision to turn around, I am in mid-channel and I've been paddling for almost an hour.

I am done with the SUP for now, but the day isn't over yet. I'm going back for the kayak.

The Bar (Part 1)

I was standing on the beach at Ocean Shores, looking across the water to the jetties of Westport, when the man emerged from the overgrown area to the west and began walking toward me. He was probably in his thirties somewhere, but he looked older. I had just put the paddleboard down on the sand and was going through my last pre-paddle rituals before attempting to take the SUP to Westport and back, across the Gray's Harbor bar.

"Good morning," he called out as he approached. He came up to stand next to me and gazed out to sea for a moment before he asked, "What are you using for bait? I've been here for four months now and I seen people on one side of me what was catchin' fish and on the other side too. And me, I ain't catchin' nothing."

Somehow, he had overlooked the fact that I had no fishing pole. I looked at him, then looked at the board by our feet, then back at him, and said, "Sorry. I do my fishing at Safeway." That cracked him up. He gave out with a laugh and a snaggle grin before he tuned to go. "Safeway, heh heh," he chuckled, as he walked away.

Westport looked close enough to touch. But not quite.

Interlude

It's summer, the time of year when the clumsy cubs are gamboling in the high country, the alders along the rivers are shimmering an electric green, and I am, as they say, "away from the office." Between late May and late September, I am much more likely to be in a kayak somewhere than I am to be at home. The cockpit is my home, or so it seems for these months of the calendar.

Which is not to complain, of course. I must enjoy it, or I wouldn't do it. I have a 2-day class starting today near Filucy Bay and I just got back from an overnight trip to Anderson Island in the south Sound. I'll be back again tomorrow night for a break, but it won't be a long one. I have some fiberglass work that needs to be done on my boat but it will have to wait until the fall; it's not likely that the boat will be dry between now and then.

Postings here may be more sporadic than usual. That's the way it goes. There is a time for telling stories, and a time for collecting them. I'm going collecting.

Hidden waters

Along the Oregon coast, the big rivers form extensive sloughs before they reach the sea. The Nehalem and the Tillamook are both good examples of rivers that are held separate by sand spit formations, allowing the last mile or so of river course to wander as it reaches the end. Salt water and fresh intermingle, creating a vast intertidal area that swells with life. The waterways formed by the meandering streams are classic estuaries, reeds down to the water's edge in many places, ideal habitat for fish and fowl, and the perfect location for kayaking life forms.

The Washington coast doesn't feature as many examples of this estuarine environment. Still, with all the paddling possibilities of Puget Sound, the San Juans and the Columbia River, most kayakers don't feel much sense of loss. We have an embarassment of riches when it comes to world-class paddling, making the Pacific Northwest the center of the sea kayaking universe. Rightly so. Anyone who tells you differently is wrong, and is probably trying to sell you something.

There is, however, an excellent example of the rivermouth slough ecosystem running through the tired little town of Copalis Beach. The Copalis River snakes under the highway bridge and moves steadily toward the Pacific. Shuttered storefronts and overgrown lots line the highway as it bends along the waterfront. Clearly, times are tough on this part of the coast. The breakers can't be seen from the put-in, but I can hear them calling from over the dunes. I launch from a vacant lot not far from the Green Lantern tavern, sliding into the cockpit and adjusting my spray skirt as the current takes me to the sea.

The shoreline is a mass of green, living things. I paddle next to the reeds and the grasses that buffer the edges, where the flowing water meets the intertidal flora. The boat glides with the current, and the shore moves quickly past me. I'm not going to the ocean today - I'm saving that for tomorrow - so I turn before I reach the beach and work my way back upstream. The current is not overpowering and there are ample eddies to assist me as I go.

I stay on the north side of the river as I move back upstream, past the point where I started and on under the bridge. It's quieter here, with the sound of the waves muted by distance and not many cars on the road to add to the soundtrack. I paddle up to where a heron is standing on a mud bank and I'm almost on top of him before I even realize that he's there. He rises noisily to the air, squawking his strong opinion of me in his husky primeval baritone. I do not take offense - he's correct, for the most part.

It's not a long paddle and before long, I am finished. The odd car revs past me as I load the boat and gear and prepare to drive north to Taholah. They pass over the bridge and race along he shore, getting through town as quickly as they can. They don't see the slough, they don't hear the songbirds, the sparrows and the blackbirds, whistling in the marshes.

Often, the best hiding place is somewhere in plain view.

Lake riding

I have always been partial to salt water. Perhaps, if I'd grown up on the Great Lakes, I would find fresh water more intriguing - those bodies of water have much in common with the sea, after all - but I didn't, and I don't. Lakes are defined by their borders, and the smaller the lake, the more this is so. The ocean, however, is larger than any regional definition can handle, and exists as a force in the lives of all it touches. It is not simply a matter of scale; the ocean is not only a big thing, it is also a different thing.

With all that, on a gray and misty Saturday morning, I went for a paddle on Lake Quinault. I took the SUP out from the Falls Creek campground near the village, and set a course for the middle of the lake. I was surprised, having never paddled here before, how quickly I was able to get across the lake. I didn't go all the way to the north shore, but I could have, and rather quickly. From my vantage point near the center, I could see the whole lake.

It was derby day on the lake and the fishhooks were flying, especially along the shore. I worked my way back to my starting point by paddling toward the southwestern corner of the lake, then back along the waterfront, just out of casting range. I saw one good-sized trout being taken on board a Bayliner, but that was the only catch I witnessed. Fathers and sons lined the more easily accessed points, and we exchanged smiles and waves as I passed before they went back to their task and I went back to mine.

I wasn't out there long, a couple hours, tops. After I got back and dressed, I drove up to the Quinault Store for breakfast. I don't remember the old owners, but the establishment is under new management now and I did notice an improvement. There's a small cafe in the back with good food and smiling service, which set me up well for the rest of the day. It was, after all, barely 9:00 AM.

A Trip report

I took the southern route to the peninsula this time. Just a little over an hour to Aberdeen, then west to State Road 109, the slow road up the coast, to check out the ocean beaches. Along the way, I visited some of the shoreline access points for a new guide book, stopping here and there all the way up between Ocean Shores and Moclips. I had plans to go to Taholah, but I decided to save that trip for the next day, and got on the Moclips Highway for the 20-minute connection to Highway 101.

That road comes out right around Lake Quinault. From there, I kept heading north and west on the 101 until I got to Queets. The wide river was flowing swiftly past the small community, the banks green with new growth poking up through the giant logs brought downriver by the floods. Fishing boats, tethered to the shore, waited in the silty water. I get the feeling that not much happens in Queets. It's a town that is hard to see from the highway, even if you're looking for it; nothing happened while I was there, anyway.

It was getting dark, time for me to start thinking about finding a place to camp. I turned off 101 onto an unmarked gravel road not far from Queets. At one time it had been a logging road, but it had been a while since any trucks had passed this way. The alders along the side of the road grew thicker as I continued and the road closed in to the point that I could hear branches scraping the sides of the van as I drove slowly on. There weren't many turns in the old roadway, no chance to extricate myself even if I wanted to do so, but after a while I could make out where the brush began to thin up ahead, a light at the end of the tunnel, as it were.

I broke out of the woods onto a cleared patch with a million-dollar view of the ocean and the beach 200 feet below. A "territorial view," the realtors would say. There was some trash, a few signs that I was not the first to be here, but I was the only one at the time. I had the entire place to myself, which is just the point.

Load-out

There is a party scheduled this coming Saturday in Port Townsend. The Hood Canal Bridge is finished and is opening a week early... as good a reason as any to celebrate in that grand village by the bay. I wouldn't mind going up there for that. It's hard not to have a good time in PT.

I've also been thinking about the Puget Sound Challenge and those that are still getting out on the weekends and chipping away at the route, here and there as time allows. My friend Jackie was in the shop this weekend; I know she'll be out there. Likewise Tom and Marilyn and the others. It should be a great weekend for a paddle. I wouldn't mind doing a section of that again, maybe over on the canal, and compare it to the way it was when I passed through the first time.

I'm not doing either of these things. I am, however, heading for the coast, taking the southern route through Olympia and Montesano. I've got research to do for an upcoming guide book - pretty pedestrian stuff for the most part - locating boat launches and public access points from Aberdeen to the Queets. Hardly exhilarating fare, but I'm hoping it won't be the sole focus of the time I'm there. I'd like to get to Taholah, maybe get away from the roads. I'm taking a kayak and a SUP, and hoping to use them both. If the weather changes, I may head inland to Lake Quinault... quién sabé?

More to follow, I'm sure.

Changes

Plans change. I will not be kayaking the Roadless Coast again this year, at least not the entire distance in one week-long paddle. The way it looks right now, that coastal section, between Neah Bay and Ruby Beach, will be part of a larger expedition that will circle the Olympic Peninsula. It's purely in the vision/planning stage at the moment, but I hope to be able to have the itinerary put together soon.

Meanwhile, there are other places I need to see. Now I have an extra week to see them.