Way, way out of the office

Incommunicado again. I leave this evening for Port Angeles and the Whiskey Bend trailhead, then begin hiking tomorrow. I'm planning on retracing (more or less), the route taken by the Press Party on that first Olympic crossing almost 120 years ago. I'll be taking approximately one ton less supplies with me - no bacon, flour, ammo or whiskey, for instance - and I'm hoping to cover the ground in about five days, about five months less than they took.

It is summer, however, and I do not plan on breaking trail through chest-deep snow. I won't be building a barge to transport all my gear up the Elwah - my pack weight will be right around 30 pounds, with water - and I have a map. The Press Party were under some serious environmental pressures and logistical nightmares that are not likely to figure into my route planning decisions.

I am hoping to climb a little, most likely Mt. Barnes and possibly Mt. Queets. I was also hoping to summit Mt. Seattle as well, but I will likely not have the time for that before I have to start down the Quinault, back to the lowlands. The actual hiking distance is right at 50 miles and any climbing will tack on miles to that number. With temperatures in the 90's (so they say), this week has the potential for true suffering and possible weight loss. Ah, well.

Thanks to Mike and Chris, the shuttle crew who are making this trip possible. A 50-mile hike is significant but the shuttle, if I were to do it myself, would involve hundreds of miles. There is simply no way I'd be able to manage this trip without assistance and I am grateful for friends who are willing to help.

Even the Press Party had a shuttle.

A T-town salute

If you ever write anything down in the outdoors, whether it's on a glacier somewhere, on a windy beach or at a high school football game, you probably already know about Rite-in-the-Rain products. Made right here in Tacoma (the City of Destiny, y'know). It isn't often that I find myself in the backcountry without one of their little, yellow notebooks. Click here to see my smiling face on the R/R site.

Then go outside.

My left foot

Last winter I stepped on a nail. That puncture still gives me some pain. I had the doctor look at it a month ago and he said I should maybe think of seeing a podiatrist.

On July 4th, I gouged out a 2-inch chunk of the arch on a barnacle. (That scar is still visible in photo as dark line above the bandaged area.) It happened down at the waterfront, just before the start of the SUP race. With all the excitement, it didn't really start hurting until later.

Now there's a crack in the heel. That thick, calloused pad that comes in handy when it's barefootin' time... it has betrayed me. The crack is hard to see because of its location - right on the back edge of the heel - and I'm not sure if there is any infection involved. I slathered the antibiotic ointment on it before bed and covered it with an obscenely large bandaid, then duct taped it in place for the night. (It's almost impossible to keep a bandage on it during the day - at work, in the water, etc.)

I have a 50-mile hike starting tomorrow. I wonder if my left foot will be part of the story. I certainly hope it is not.

SUP Social - July edition

A Public Service Announcement

There is a Standup Paddleboard Social this evening, July 22nd, at Owen Beach in Tacoma's Point Defiance Park, from 6pm-8pm. Demo paddleboards will be available to try out and area paddlers will be on hand to help explain the basics of this exciting new sport. The event is hosted by Backpackers Supply and is free to registered participants. To sign up, call Backpackers Supply at (253)472-4402. See you there!

It begins

I started the process today, putting the pack together for the Press Party hike coming up this weekend. I'm planning on heading out to the Elwha on Saturday evening, then spending the next week following the route that the Press Expedition took on their Olympic crossing of 1889-1890. Up the Elwha River to Low Divide (where I'm anticipating doing a little climbing), and out the Quinault.

I'm hoping to get the pack weight down to 20 pounds, not including water.

Dreams in the night sky

On July 16, 1969, three men shuffled off the boring constraints of gravity and rode a giant candle to their date with destiny. Luna. The moon. Just nine years earlier, President John F. Kennedy had promised that by the end of the decade the country would put a man on the moon and return him safely to Earth. The actual landing came about on July 20, 1969, making Kennedy's pledge a reality with just a few months to spare.

I remember where I was. I was six years old (almost seven, dammit), and living in St. John's, Newfoundland. We didn't have a TV so my parents had arranged for us to be at Alice Walters' house for the event, up on the hill by the Fisheries College. It was a warm evening in St. John's, and I remember being outside, playing in the lot across the street, when my father called me back over. I recall going into Mrs. Walters' living room, watching the strange looking men in shiny suits bounce awkwardly on the screen. I remember the scratchy audio, "One small step for man..."

I went back outside at some point. It was a long time ago and the details are a little fuzzy, but I remember looking up at the moon in the dark North Atlantic sky, trying to reconcile the images on the screen with that glowing disc so impossibly far away. I went home and immediately made plans to be an astronaut. That was 40 years ago, tonight.

Where were you?

Mary's flowers

The day after my hike on Klahane Ridge, Mary took time to do a solo of her own down the Hurricane Hill trail, from Hurricane Ridge down to the Elwha River. The top part of the trail is a ramble through the high country meadows and the wildflowers were out in force. She took a passel of great photos.

I leave today to set up a 3-day San Juan Islands trip that will start tomorrow, a sea kayaking weekend with seven participants from the Portland area. The weather should be decent and I'm sure it will end up being a great weekend. I should be back home on Sunday night.

Foiled again

Mount Angeles is not a difficult mountain to climb. It's a scramble really, rather than a true climbing experience, steep but nontechnical. It's one of the most frequently climbed peaks in the entire range; it seems most anybody can get up it except me.

I tried it once in winter. Sleet and driving snow kept me down low that day, wind whistling all around me as I turned around and felt my way back to the car. Another time I was climbing strong up the Swichback trail from the main road when the fog came in, thick, white, viscous. A swirling opacity that forced me back once again, to plan for the next attempt.

That next attempt ran short on time. Some things take longer than you think they will, and the result is that you don't get to do everything you might have wanted to do. Like climb Mount Angeles.

I was hoping to finally get to the top last week, but a late start on the trail from Hurricane Ridge doomed that idea fairly quickly. I went right past it, I could see the route clearly in the perfect blue-sky conditions, I just didn't have enough time. There was no way I could summit, and still make it all the way across Klahane Ridge and down the Lake Angeles Trail in the time that I had available.

There is never enough time.

Win some, lose some

There's a new Marine Trail site on Indian Island. According to the WWTA web site, the new Cascadia Marine Trail campsite at Portage Beach on Indian Island is "located on the dynamic waters of the Portage Canal... an ideal stop for boaters circumnavigating Indian and Marrowstone Islands. Visitors can stretch out their sea legs on two miles of hiking trails or practice navigating swift tidal currents in Portage Canal." It's only a mile or so away from the Kinney Point site at the south end of the island, so what this means is that the number of tent sites on that end has just doubled. That should give more options for anyone who's thinking about making it a 2-day trip.

Unfortunately, all is not good news. The next item on the WWTA home page concerns the recent closure of Strawberry Island, possibly the most beautiful camp site in the San Juans. To quote the WWTA page once again: "Due to state budget cuts, the Department of Natural Resources (DNR) has closed the campground facilities at Strawberry Island, effective Thursday June 18, 2009. All facilities have been removed, including picnic tables, signs and fire rings and the toilet. Day use is still permitted, but the site is strictly pack in/pack out - including human waste. "

I have two bottles of Merlot cached on Strawberry Island. Before the word came down about the closure, I was planning on camping there this Friday night with a group I'll be leading on a 3-day San Juan kayak trip. Plans change, I suppose. I will miss those lazy summer nights on Strawberry Island, out there in the fast moving waters of Rosario Strait. I will miss the crackling fire, the brilliant glow of the stars and the sound of porpoises feeding in the rip just offshore.

I am looking forward to staying in the new place though. It's just change, right? Change is good.

The long way back down the mountain

It's 6 AM on a Saturday morning. The sun is already high in the eastern sky but the tall fir and cedar trees block the direct rays; the light that reaches me here at the Heart o' the Hills Campground has been filtered through their branches, and the air is still cool. It is a peaceful scene. I am the only person stirring at the moment, and I'm waiting for the water to boil, anticipating that first cup of coffee.

I am sore this morning. After the hike to Hurricane Hill with Mary and Micah yesterday morning, we parted company at the lodge. It was Micah's nap time and I was looking forward to seeing the trail between Hurricane Ridge and our camp site. From the lodge to Heart o' the Hills is about 10 miles, and I'd planned the hike this way because I was under the impression that, since I'd be starting at the top, it would be mostly down hill. Smart me, clever me.

There is a man at the next camp site over, sitting at his picnic bench and staring at his fire. As I walked to the restrooms earlier, he asked me for a lighter... something about he'd lost his, burned it up, something hard to make out. He had a can of Busch in his hand and on the table was a letter he was writing, in sloping cursive on an unruled sheet, and a pouch of rolling tobacco. There was a drama here - I could tell - but it was none of my business. I just got him a lighter, handed it over and went back to camp.

I thought he wanted the lighter to have a smoke but he had something more in mind. It wasn't long before he was scouring the area for dead branches and carrying back armloads of blasty boughs. Combustibles. With all the downed trees here at the campground, there is plenty of fuel. The blaze he has going now is a big one, a real caucasian fire... it must be warm over there.

From the northeast corner of the parking lot at Hurricane Ridge, there begins a trail. I started here, climbing the asphalt path among groups of other day-hikers. Above the top of the ski area, the crowds disappeared and, although I would see other hikers at various points throughout the day, the route was not overused. I climbed for longer than I thought I would, but the views of the mountains and the straits kept me enthralled. My feet felt light and solid. I took off my shirt and hiked on in the heat of the sun.

The trail from Hurricane to the Klahane Ridge is up and down, like a walk on the edge of a pie crust. Swichbacks and skidding stone pathways, far more work than you might expect. More than I had expected.

At one point, I came across a group of 4 or 5 hikers who were trying to get off the trail to the right. The undergrowth was thick and the hillside steep, but they were all moving with dispatch, with a sense of urgency. "There's a big goat coming," one of them said. "You better get off the path." Beyond the hikers, and moving toward me, was a large mountain goat, his wool mottled and hanging, radio collar around his neck. Behind him came his tribe, his women and children, six of them, all told. His pace was steady, his gaze resolute.

I joined the others in the underbrush by the trail, as far from the big fellow's route as I could get without falling down the slope. He watched me as he passed, glowing yellow eyes and an old face. The rest of the family followed, the younger ones sprinting skittishly past and the others holding a steady, unhurried pace. Once they had passed, I got back on the trail.

Once I had made it through the goats, up the endless switchbacks (and past another, even larger, alpha male mountain goat that was blocking my way - but that's another story for a different time), after all this, I finally got to Klahane Ridge. Vistas opened up on all sides, a 360-degree panorama of all that is right in the world. Port Angeles looked like a toy town, and the huge ships in the straits looked tiny and insignificant against the deep blue water. On the south side, the backdrop of jagged mountains changed as I walked on, as my angle of view progressed. From time to time, my trail cut across areas where the snow had yet to melt away completely. It seemed incongruous and a little odd, to be sweating in the July heat while crunching through the snow, but it felt right somehow, just the same.

Down from Klahane Ridge, past Lake Angeles and back to camp: it's all downhill at that point. I relished the descent at first, no longer grunting my way up the slope, done with fighting gravity. By the time I got to where I could see the lake, however, I was singing a different tune. At least my knees were. I slowed down to minimize the wear and tear on my joints. The trail was steep and the footing was treacherous at times, but I eventually made it to the lake and took a well-earned break.

Lake Angeles is cut from the mountain in a way that it reflects their colors and their edges, even their moods. The little island in the middle adds to the beauty, as if that were possible. This is a very special spot, a high country lake in a hidden fold of the mountain, on a Friday evening, and I had it to myself. I sat on a log near the north end of the lake, drinking in the view with the last of my water.

From the lake to the road is just under 4 miles, on a steep but well-maintained trail. I could tell when I was getting close to Heart o' the Hills by all the blown down trees, scattered around the hillside like discarded sticks. I am glad I was not in these parts on the night that storm went down. I can only imagine the explosions, as giant trees snappped in the wind, would have been deafening. I thought these thoughts for a few minutes and then I was there, done, back on the main road just outside the campground. Dinner and family, cold beer and a warm bed, just ahead.

But I am sore this morning.

Hurricane Hill

Above 5000 feet, it is still spring. At Hurricane Ridge, the wildflowers are blooming in little explosions of color all over the meadows and along the sides of the trail, where just a few weeks ago the ground was covered in the last of the winter's snow. Penstemon, lupine and paintbrush abound, along with lanky cow parsnip and the occasional shy orchid. The grass is green and growing, and the entire ridge looks like a well-tended garden.

A garden that is thick with deer and marmots, anyway. The deer hang around the parking lot, jockeying for parking spaces and posing for tourists. Overweight women in sensible shoes circle their subjects, shooting frame after frame of the grazing animals. Some of these pictures will undoubtedly be featured on those rotating digital picture frames, summer vacation shots, proof of a wilderness adventure.

I am always struck by how few people actually get out of sight of their cars in places like this. To drive this far from Cleveland, or Modesto, or whatever blighted burg they hail from, to come all this way just to snap some shots of the mountains, to buy a softee cone in the snack bar and sit on the john for fifteen minutes hardly seems worth it. But that's what they do, over 90 percent of all visitors to our National Parks.

Which, of course, leaves more room for those of us in the other 10 percent. Backcountry trails are often lightly traveled and real wilderness comes a little closer the further out you get, the further away from the pavement. Hurricane Hill is not wilderness, but you can certainly see wild country from the top. The path is thick with hikers (the fact that the entire 1.5 mile route is paved may have something to do with it), but even with the others on the trail, it didn't feel overly crowded. You expect it here... it's part of the deal. We set out from the parking lot at 10 o'clock on a sunny Friday morning.

My hiking companions are the rest of the family, Mary and Micah. The boy has new hiking poles to try out today, old ski poles that I cut down to fit him. "Hiking dicks," he calls them, in that charming idiom of the two year-old.

Most of the hike is open country. There are a few spots where the trail dips under cover, but most of the route traverses mountain meadows and the views are a scene from a fantasy. Under the clear blue dome of the sky, everything is right there, so near. Marmots perch atop their middens, each standing sentinel duty in his own little kingdom. We climb to the top, where we settle in for lunch. The chipmunks quickly find us and scamper about the rocks and gravel as we eat. Micah tries to catch one, holding out his hand and then making an awkward lunge at the rodent, not even getting close. They want food, but we don't give them any.

I can see the deep scar of the Elwah valley, running from the northwest to the south in front of me, easily the deepest and most pronounced of the river valleys within view. Mount Carrie and the Bailey Range are closest and most detailed, but beyond them, the tops of the other peaks are visible. Mount Tom, Mount Barnes and Mount Olympus, these and others rising up, still streaked with snow and cloaked in glaciers. It is a panorama that whets the trekking appetite, and as we start down I am thinking of the hike I have coming up that afternoon, Klahane Ridge and Lake Angeles. There will be less people there, I tell myself. Less people, more of everything else.

Names

There's a movement afoot that is getting some press time, to change the name of Mount Rainier. Native American tribes in the area referred to the iconic Cascade peak as Tahoma, or Takhoma, and there are those who say that these earlier names are more appropriate and more authentic than its current moniker, a tribute to Rear Admiral Peter Rainier. This navy buddy of explorer George Vancouver (the man who hung the name on the mountain in the first place), was a pompous, obese British officer who actually commanded forces against American ships during the Revolutionary War. He was the enemy. Hardly seems right that he should be remembered in such a grand fashion. The Indian name, because it predates the current one, should be returned.

That's how some people, good, patriotic people, see the situation.

But consider this: Elk Lake, on the flanks of Mount Olympus, was once called Beaver Lake. Glacier Pass, farther up the mountain, used to be known off and on as Hoh-Blue Pass and Blizzard Pass. Morse Creek, near Port Angeles, used to be called Chambers Creek. Lost Cabin Mountain had its name changed by the Press Party to Mount Brown (after Amos Brown of Seattle, a prominent Seattle lumberman in the early days), then saw its name changed back again to Lost Cabin Mountain years later.

When it comes to things like mountains, rivers and other unique features of the natural world, just because one name is older than another might not mean all that much. Geologic time is slow to unravel, and human perspective is so foreshortened. Ultimately, the mountain doesn't care what you call it; it is simply there. The river doesn't answer to any particular name; it flows to the sea just the same. Arguing about the validity of the term that should be used in these cases completely misses the point.

Whether it's Rainier or Tahoma, McKinley or Denali, Everest or Chomolungma, the mountains remain the same. Even if the name on the map were to change from the Olympics back to the Sierra Nevada de Santa Rosalia (the first name given to the range), the peaks themselves would look no different. Mountains, rivers and the rest occupy a completely different timeline than the one used by mortals and it can be a humbling (but useful), revelation when this lesson finally sinks in.

The Elusive season

After a month of steady sun and blue skies, western Washington has pulled the covers over her head once more. Clouds have moved in and the sky is gray and lumpy, what author Tom Robbins would call a "hemorrhoid sky," gray and threatening. It's not really cold, but after temperatures in the 70's and 80's for these long, languid weeks, it feels chilly now.

Summer usually begins on the 5th of July around here. That isn't when it's supposed to end.

Hurricane Ridge

The year is 1889. Port Angeles is little more than a wide spot on the Straits, population: 40. A sawmill and a couple of other stores make up the entire business district and the whole affair is still very much in the process of being carved away from the surrounding forest. The interior of the Olympics are terra incognita, and although various mountain men and hunters have made forays into the high country, it has still not been crossed from one side to the other.

Lt. Joseph P. O'Neil is a man driven by an intense curiosity and aided by a strong sense of discipline. Still, the way is far from easy. O'Neil chooses to start his 1889 trip in Port Angeles, because it is situated so well for mountain access. His party of soldiers and scientists, packers and adventurers, sets out southward, in mid-July, toward Hurricane Ridge but they only get there after a full month of cutting trail through tangled rainforest and windfall.

A month. An entire month to do what we can do today, traveling the 17-mile Hurricane Ridge Road from Port Angeles, can do in a half-hour. And once you're there, the entire Olympic range is laid out in front of you like another world. It is possible, even on a busy weekend day in summer, to gaze out onto that tableau and feel like yours are the first eyes to see such raw beauty. "Like stout Cortez," in that crazy old poem.

On one side, the impossible jagged peaks are jumbled together like immense shark's teeth. Snow caps the summits and extends in fingers down the flanks of the mountains, to the dark valleys waiting below. The deep greens and browns of the lowlands weave around and through the mountains, hinting at the unseen course of rivers large and small. To look across the deep chasms and see the real wilderness that remains in the Olympic interior is both a humbling and a hopeful pursuit. Humbling, because of the scale of the territory: steep, difficult and utterly wild. Hopeful, because it is there at all, because we haven't destroyed it yet, and because there's a chance my son will be able to experience these same unspoiled vistas when he is in his dotage.

To the north lies the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Vancouver Island. The sparkling blue waters of the Strait are plowed by freighters and tankers, ocean-going behemoths that, from this perspective, look like child's toys. The western San Juans are visible as well, dots of green in a cerulean sea.

After a month of slogging through thickets of alder and mud, cutting trail through a dank, dark shadow land, this view must have been a tonic to O'Neil's tired crew. From the summit of Hurricane Hill, where the old, doomed fire lookout used to stand, you can see the world. The best parts of it, anyway.

Off to the races

Well, the first annual Freedom Fair Battle of the Paddle is in the books, or it would be if there were any books. On details, I feel I am woefully short, but then I wasn't really watching the race, I was too busy being in it. There were 10 participants (9 men, 1 woman), the course was a 3-lap route that stayed close to the riprap waterfront, and the winner was named Mike. I hear the finish was pretty exciting but I didn't actually see it. I finished in front of some, behind others, pretty much the way I expected I would. The conditions were ideal and it was an enjoyable (and educational) experience for all involved.

After competing in two races in two weeks I have come to the conclusion that my gifts don't include much in the way of racing expertise, ability or aptitude. I have always been a long-haul paddler, regardless of which craft I may be paddling. When it comes to a canoe, a kayak or an SUP, I think I am much better at going further than I am at going faster. Of course, I'm planning on being there again next year anyway, where I will likely learn this same lesson again.

Still, there were a great many people who got their first look at a standup paddleboard yesterday, and I've got to figure that I'm going to hear from some of them in the coming week or so.

Independence Day

First of all, a raising of the glass to our veterans and currently serving military members. For your continued service, in austere and often hostile environments, for standing in our place in some of the most difficult places on Earth, we thank you. Be safe and come home soon.

For as long as it's mattered, my two favorite holidays have been Thanksgiving and the 4th of July. Thanksgiving has all of the friends, food, family and football that you'll find in Christmas, but without the religious conflict, the pressure of the gift psychology and the wretched excesses of runaway consumerism.

The 4th of July, on the other hand, was always a time for me to light off fireworks, to drink too much and to enjoy the heat, if only for a day. It was a loud and rollicking day and night, right up until a few years ago. I'm older now, infinitely older, and I no longer blow things up on purpose, I usually fall asleep before I get the chance to drink excessively and the hot weather hurts. There is still something about the 4th that speaks to me, however, and, in spite of the stickiness and discomfort that it brings with it, even the heat feels right on this day. It doesn't hurt if I can spend part of the day on the water somewhere, either.

Which is what I plan on doing tomorrow. The weather report is calling for temperatures of 89 degrees here in Tacoma, which means that the real high will be somewhere around 92. (If I was a gamer looking to make a living on the forecasted temperature predictions for these parts, I would automatically bet the over. Actual highs always seem to be out in front of the predictions by 3 or 4 degrees. It's almost like we refuse to see the possibility of mercury that high... it's so completely out of character for how we, and our meteorologists, see the world and our place in it.)

With all that, tomorrow, sometime around noon, I'm planning on taking part in the inaugural standup paddleboard race at the Tacoma Freedom Fair. The Freedom Fair is a bombastic, family-friendly, carnival-type celebration held each July 4th on the Ruston Way Waterfront, with midway rides, bands, an airshow and a monster fireworks show, synchronized to music on a local radio station. All that's patriotic, and then some.

I've avoided it for my entire time here in Tacoma but I'm going this year. I will miss the boat race at Salmon Beach and I will probably complain at various points throughout the day about the mass of people I am pressed against, but I'm excited about the SUP race too. Not because the event itself is likely to be anything grand – a dozen participants, maybe – but it will be the first of its kind here in the south Sound.

I predict that the race at next year's Freedom Fair will be a much larger affair. But this one will still be the first.

Mr. Wood

Many of Robert Wood's best books are out-of-print now, which is a shame. I understand why the guide books might be discontinued, since they need to be revised and rewritten every now and then to keep them current. (Bob Wood doesn't update his work much anymore on account of he died some years ago.) So, even though I love the Olympic Mountains Trail Guide and still use it to plan my trips, I can accept that it has been allowed to go fallow.

But Across the Olympic Mountains and Trails Country? These are not guide books, they are portraits of a place; they are art, in the way that so many books try to be, but aren't. They dazzle with deftly chosen words yet come across as familiar, while all the while continuing to inform in shimmering prose. Yes, they are books that can guide your travels, but they can guide your thoughts as well, presenting history, ecology, and politics with humor and wisdom.

Robert Wood was a magnificent writer with a strong commitment to the Olympics. He first came to the area in 1946, and for the next half-century, he walked the trails and the backcountry of his favorite place. That love of the land came through in every line he wrote. In the best tradition of writing, he wrote about what he knew, and what he knew were the stories of the Olympic Peninsula.

Men, Mules and Mountains. Lt. O'Neil's Olympic Expeditions. These titles and others are still out there, if you know where to look. But you should definitely start looking soon.