An Olympic winner
National park gets the gold on father, son camping trip
CAPE ALAVA, Olympic National Park — My son saw the bear first.
It looked to be about 300 pounds, and its shiny black coat glistened in the sun as it poked around the berry bushes and tall grasses where the beach met the forest.
It looked to be about 300 pounds, and its shiny black coat glistened in the sun as it poked around the berry bushes and tall grasses where the beach met the forest.
Then it was gone. We turned our attention back to the Pacific Ocean, the small islands offshore, the shimmering tidepools, the flocks of seabirds and the huge trees that lined the strand.
(Ryan Pagelow/News-Sun)
(Matthew B. Clark/Sun-Times)
WHAT TO DO: For information on activities in the northern portion of the Olympic peninsula, including sea kayaking, hiking, scuba diving, beachcombing and skiing, go to olympicpeninsula.org or call (800) 942-4042.
If you’d like to try surfing on the wild and woolly northwest Pacific coast, contact the Lost Mountain Surf Co. near Sequim at lostmountainsurfcompany.com or call (360) 683-9001. Just don't ask owner Michelle Wilson where the secret spots are. You’ll get her in trouble with the locals.
WHERE TO STAY: Nightly rates at Lake Quinault Lodge start at $96; visitlakequinault.com, (888) 896-3827. The lodge is open year-round. For those who’d rather stay in cabins at Lake Ozette ($66 a night), try the Lost Resort; lostresort.net/index.htm, (800) 950-2899.
Then it was gone. We turned our attention back to the Pacific Ocean, the small islands offshore, the shimmering tidepools, the flocks of seabirds and the huge trees that lined the strand.
After two weeks of rain, we were fortunate to find a window of sunny weather for a backpacking trip to one of the more isolated — and beautiful — corners of the United States.
Though I’d lived in Washington for a decade and traipsed all over the state, I’d never made it out to the wild coastal strip of Olympic National Park, about 170 miles west of Seattle, or a roughly five-hour drive.
With my son headed off to his sophomore year of college, this early September outing was a great chance to dust off my backpack and spend a few days with Matt.
When the bear reappeared minutes later, it had ambled south along the beach — away from our campsite behind piles of bleached driftwood — never seeming to notice us.
After Matt and I crawled into my two-man tent later that night, I was roused from a light sleep by something big moving around outside, less than a foot from my head.
Luckily it wasn’t the bear, or a cougar, porcupine or even a pesky raccoon. Just my 6-foot-4-inch (230 pound) “boy,” putting some of our gear under the tent’s rainfly to protect us from the heavy drizzle drifting down through the cedars.
I thanked him, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Our adventure had begun a few weeks before, when I’d called the park’s backcountry ranger office to reserve a campsite. Because I’d chosen a Thursday, and most schools were back in session, we had no trouble getting a camping permit.
We picked a trail bordering Lake Ozette, where Matt, his mother, another family and I had gone sea kayaking 15 years before. This time around, we were headed for the ocean.
Because I was flying in from the Midwest earlier in the day, we chose not to rough it the first night, instead staying at the Quinault Lodge. This rustic hotel, built in 1926 and situated on picturesque Lake Quinault, resembles Yellowstone’s Old Faithful Lodge. It’s also one of my favorite Olympic peninsula getaways.
When morning rolled around, we ate a breakfast of whole wheat pancakes and a salmon omelet before registering with the park rangers, whose office was conveniently next door.
We borrowed a mandatory hard-sided “bear canister” for storing our food, toothpaste and anything else that might attract the attention of a hungry critter.
A few hours later, we’d filled our water bottles, loaded up our backpacks and were crossing a footbridge over the Ozette River on the north end of the lake. The stream was clear but tinted a tea-like color, stained by root tannins from the tall trees that lined its banks.
For some reason — call it vainglory — the pack I carried was twice as big as my son’s. While that would have made sense a decade earlier, it didn’t now. But some old habits die hard.
The gravel beneath our boots crunched as we hiked up and down hills on the trail, bordered by a tangle of salal sorrel, ferns and mosses that grew both on the ground and hung down from trees like scraggly beards.
Soon we came to boardwalks, some made from wood, worn shiny and thin from years of use. Other sections were made from recycled plastic, which presumably would last longer.
The sun slanted low through the trees, but we were in no real hurry. It was only 5 p.m. and the trail to the beach was just a bit over three miles long. Though the temperature was only in the 70s, sweat rolled off my brow. I stopped to strip off a sweatshirt and jacket.
After an hour, we came to Ahlmstrom’s meadow, an open spot where a Swedish immigrant had homesteaded nearly a century ago, back when only trails lead to the small farms near the lake. Half an hour later, we were in the bluffs above the beach, picking our way down to the shore. We were greeted by barking seals nesting on an island. They would continue to bellow all afternoon, night and morning. After a while, we didn’t notice the cacophony.
At the mouth of a small stream, a woman backpacker was drawing water through a filter into a plastic bottle. We traded hellos and Matt and I tromped another 50 yards to the next campsite and plopped down our packs.
We sipped water and then set up the tent that had only seen use in my backyard in Wisconsin. Because the sun was shining and the forecast was for sun, I told Matt I didn’t think we needed the rainfly. But he still lives in the Pacific Northwest and knew better. (It rains 100 inches a year on this coast.) I thanked him on the drizzly walk out.
After setting up our campsite, we hiked south along the beach about a mile. With the tide far out, we had a huge area to explore. The shore was littered with big logs. On the hike back, we picked up armloads of dry sticks for our campfire and watched the sun sink behind a fogbank to the west.
As I fired up the small propane stove, Matt lit kindling in the fire pit. Soon we were spooning up our dinner of freeze-dried curried stew and tea. I also brought freeze-dried blueberry cheesecake, but we were bushed so it stayed in the bear canister.
The next morning, while Matt slept, I hiked north along the beach to the craggy Tskhawahyah Island, the westernmost point on the contiguous U.S. coast. (English-speaking settlers named it Cannonball Island because of the plethora of round rocks at its base.) With the tide out again, I stepped over slick rocks to the swatch of land but didn’t tred on the island because a sign said it was off-limits, sacred to the Makah Indians.
On my walk back to our campsite, I saw three frisky deer and a spotted fawn on the beach. While Matt slept, a doe and another spotted fawn munched on new grass near our tent. Because no hunting is allowed in the park, they were anything but shy.
By 10:30 a.m., we’d eaten our granola, drunk more tea and were walking south to Sand Point, another three-mile jaunt. We passed only a few other hikers, and basked in the wilderness solitude. Eventually, as the sun broke through the clouds, we came to the sign that marked the trail back through the forest to the ranger station. The last leg of our nearly perfect triangle was, of course, three miles.
Instead of solitude, we were accompanied for half our hike by two ladies who must have been in their mid-to-late 70s. Rugged Washington natives, they had camped next to Lake Ozette and were doing the nine-mile loop as a day hike.
Their vigor and spirit impressed me almost as much as the beauty of the rocky coastline — seemingly untouched by humans — the old-growth forest and the abundant wildlife, including Mr. Bear.
Brian E. Clark is a Madison, Wis.-based free-lance writer.