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Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula, 1997

We have reached Seattle. I am full of questions as we begin our trip. What will the wedding be like? At what point will Sara and I start our backpacking trip in the Olympic Peninsula? What is our role in the marital preparations involving Sara's sister, Sue, and her partner Gordy? I am a little anxious about the impending family festivities. Most of Sara's relatives arrive after we do. The wedding actually puts Sara in the limelight, and by this I mean that she is now the only sister out of four who remains unmarried, and I am tagging along with her. Although the attention is not on us, it could be...this is a dangerous thought. I find more comfort in calculating the number of Power Bars that we can stuff into the nooks and crannies of our internal-frame backpacks than in ruminating on such abstract follies. Weddings! Houses! Furniture! In-laws! I think of a few other important things: good boots, ponchos, gorp, and sleeping bags. At least, that is what I am dwelling on as the first few days in Seattle are spent socializing and sightseeing. As a bonus we explore the downtown area, complete with an entourage of babies, sisters, mothers, and friends. I even get a chance to do a sketch in the street park overlooking Puget Sound and the City Market. Seattle basks in a humid northwestern breeze that carries with it melodies of street musicians; market vendors sell crabs and clams dipped in hot tubs of butter; and mobile cappuccino carts stake out territory on the street corners. Colorful murals echo images of Jimi Hendrix, whales, and Russian iconography.

The first few days in Seattle are spent socializing and sightseeing...

After the wedding, Sara and I decide how to get to the Olympic Peninsula from the Seattle shore. We estimate that renting a car after crossing Puget Sound would be the option most free from anxiety, but also the most costly. Finally, we decide to make use of the bus network that makes complicated transfers between the sleepy little peninsula towns. With this plan in mind, we cross the sound on the ferryboat, wave goodbye to our extended family, and hoist our mighty backpacks. We attempt to look normal with 50 (or is it 60?) pounds strapped to our backs while tourists with ice cream cones give us curious looks. It takes us a full day and a morning to reach our destination, the ranger station at the Soleduck river. Our final ride from the highway to the trailhead is from a born-again Christain driving a van full of young boys. After a modicum of moralizing, he leaves us at the place where we are to acquire a permit for our five-day journey. Our choice of trip has a lot to do with wanting to experience the variety that the peninsula's mountains afford, and because of this desire we choose a popular path, one that allows no spontaneous campsites to be made but that will give us a chance to experience both the rainforest and the high, snow-capped peaks and elevated ridgelines that make the Olympic Peninsula so well known. We accept the lack of solitude (this time), and head on out. We begin our journey in the full sunshine, picking our way along a mossy path, noticing kingfishers and butterflies. We also notice that our bodies do not move very fast. Sara seems fairly bent over, and I realize that I, too, am compensating for the weight of my load. Perhaps it is the excess of granola that I so carefully baked and packed away. Could it be my backpacker's guitar? Or perhaps my home-dried vegetables? This year I felt that the construction of my own dinners would be a welcome change from the ubiquitousness of freeze dried fare. I eat as much gorp as possible when we stop to rest at the first waterfall, hoping reduce my load. Unfortunately, playing my guitar does not make my pack any lighter!

...we begin our journey in the full sunshine, picking our way along the mossy path, noticing kingfishers and butterflies.

Sara and I wake up the following morning ready to face the steep trail and gain some elevation. We are sore from our introductory hike but excited at the prospect of catching a glimpse of the high glaciers, only a few miles away. Our realization of the sheer numbers of campers here comes first during an encounter with a backcountry ranger, who, with a blank face, checks our permit and then asks us not to hang our clothes on the nearby bushes. I can tell that he is tired of policing humans. To my dismay, even hanging socks on a bush to air them out is an environmental disaster. This discovery makes me realize how easy it is to take the woods for granted, and I resolve to hang my clothes on friendly rocks instead. We face a steep trail, one that ascends in an almost maddening way. However, with the gain in elevation, my mood also begins to change. I am feeling free and expansive, full of energy and momentum. We break for gorp and I absorb my surroundings. The high elevation and the abundance of moisture have created a fine matrix of flowers, trees, and grasses, unique to my eyes, accustomed as they are to the Colorado and New Mexico forests. We let our t-shirts, soaked with sweat, drape freely in the delicious cool breeze and talk about whatever comes to our minds. From our vantage point we can see Mt. Olympus, high above the Ho River valley, beaming good will and sunshine. We also notice, in Sara's binoculars, a tiny line of what looks like mountaineers on Mt. Olympus, bridging a snowy saddle, headed into the unknown. I feel like a mote of intelligence, limited yet expansive, against a backdrop of magic and beauty. We slap at misquitoes (they are plentiful) and think about our next campsite. Our resting spot for the evening lies a short distance away, nestled comfortably with 7 other parties in a protective, lakebound nook. We shuffle towards our evening repose in a lopsided, injured manner. Both Sara and I are feeling our bodies protest at the direction our minds have taken.

...from our vantage point we can see Mt. Olympus, high above the Ho River valley, beaming good will and sunshine.

We decide to have a layover day. By now Sara and I are well versed in the techniques of food preparation, the division of labor involved in such preparation, and outhouse etiquette. With these things under control, we lay plans for the day's adventure: to seek out unnamed peaks, explore unexplored views, and go where probably a bunch of people have already been before, but we haven't. We get our boots and legs soaked in the dewy greenery as we ascend the nearby ridge. Without our packs, we are as light as the butterflies that drift from the purple to blue flowers. I want to run uphill. Sara drifts about, following a loping, intuitive trail. I dart from beneath ancient tree limbs, scout the views as they progress, and wonder about the rain. So far, we have been spared the familiar moistness of the peninsula, but I am keeping an eye on the clouds, especially as we ascend to higher elevations. It is an unnecessary worry; moody clouds change their shape around us, alternately obscuring and revealing the view to Mt. Olympus, but they are not the thunderheads of the Rockies, and I relax. From a pinnacle, we eat peanut butter and salsa on crackers and survey our temporary kingdom. To the north, a deep basin is punctuated by a lake, surrounded by jagged peaks. To the south, the Ho River valley and snowcapped peaks surround Mt. Olympus. Everything is surrounded by something, I realize. But what surrounds the universe? Unable to answer this question, I have more food. On our way down from the peak, and while I am sketching, Sara discovers a pristine lake, perfect for swimming. I can see her as she strips her clothes, surveys her queendom, and visits the water. She wants me to come down and join her, which request I oblige. I feel refined and clear, as the water and atmosphere cleanse my body.

...to the north, a deep basin is punctuated by a lake, surrounded by jagged peaks.

As the evening unfolds and we return to our tent, a grand herd of elk slowly moves from the edge of a distant ridge into the valley we survey. The binoculars help distinguish between young and old. I realize how highly aware and sensitive they are to their surroundings as the elders pick their way through the grass, leading the lot of them. We guess that they are searching for a place to bed down for the night. By morning they are gone, and in their stead we face a small bevy of deer who roam right up to our tent, searching for food. Cute as they are, I ask politely that they leave us alone, but they persist. I throw small pebbles at them and they retreat a few feet, curious, unperturbed, still hungry. Better deer than bear! Our hike the next morning takes us down the valley. I immediately notice that my knees feel terrible and grow alarmed when I realize that it is more than just soreness. I must be carrying too much weight! Sara, too, has pains in her knees. We resolve to go only a mile or two, following steep switchbacks into the rainforest. We hear the Soleduck River far before we reach it. After finding a cozy spot to set up a tent, we take our huge packs off and consider our situation. We should retain our strength for the following day's hike out to the hot springs. Why not do some exploring along this wild river? In no time we branch out from our camp, each following a separate, invisible trail defined by mossy hummocks, mushrooms, and fern-covered passageways. I am drawn to the river, which flows in a basin of dark basalt, sculpted over the ages in luxurious folds and ripples. To scramble along this corridor is a delight. I forget my aching knees, temporarily at least, and lose myself in a sketch. Sara, too, has been captivated by the river, and I find her an hour later pursuing her own conversations with the rushing water. We are lost in the embrace of the Pacific woods, open to the subtle hierarchy of plant, water, air, and rock life. It is invigorating! Sara and I crawl into our sleeping bags after one of my creative dinners, and I hope that the rest will ease the pain in my knee.

...I am drawn to the river, which flows in a basin of dark basalt.

We wake up to face two realizations: that today is Sara's birthday, and that it is raining steadily. In fact, it has rained all night, and it does not look like it will clear up anytime soon. We have a 4 - mile hike out to the trailhead, where the Soleduck Hot Springs await us. Fortunately, my knee feels better. With the hot springs ahead of us as our inspiration, (you can do anything when a hot spring awaits you at the end of the day!), we pack up the soggy tent and make our way through the moist forest. Waterfalls and tiny rivulets burst out of every gully; mushrooms make haste to push through the springy topsoil, and mist and rain fall in delicate waves. The rain is peaceful. We are wet, wet! Yet at this point we do not regret our soggy state of moisture - that is, until our boots soak through and we are sloshing down the trail. We reach the hot springs, where it also occurs to us that we need to find a place to camp for the night. The cabins at the hot springs rent for about $90 a night, a little steep for us. We face the inevitable: setting up a soggy tent. With teamwork, we manage this liquid task. Our bags are still dry, and that is the saving grace. We cover the floor of the tent with a "space blanket" which does an admirable job of keeping things dry. Soon, we reach the hot springs and savor the pools. Wait! We are still immersed in water, only now it is hot! The evening has a silver lining. Before we splash back to our stout tent, we have a birthday dinner at the Soleduck Hot Springs restaurant. What a dramatic change from the wet outdoors! We enjoy the gourmet finery of tablecloths, napkins, and fresh food and forget about the vagaries of the weather. With the mountain part of our journey completed, we start to think about visiting the Olympic coast. We want to visit the beaches south of La Push. The first step is catching a bus out on the highway, and the second step is to stop at a laundromat somewhere along the way and dry our wet gear. Sara stresses the importance of this necessary procedure. I can tell that she will not enjoy the ocean if she feels as wet as the ocean! The same is true for me, though I am not so ready to admit it. So off we go, overwhelming a laundromat in the fine town of Forks with our soggy equipment, and lay plans for a visit to the ocean.

...mushrooms make haste to push through the springy topsoil, and mist and rain fall in delicate waves.

Our choice of destination signals a shift in our emotional state. Visiting the ocean is different from visiting the mountains, in terms of altitude and attitude, and I notice Sara is having a rough time with the transition. I think that she does not want to continue getting wet, and after all, we are going to visit a large body of water. I myself feel some anxiety over actually camping on the beach, which I have never done before. What about all those rip tides? Sharks and jellyfish? Boy Scouts? Our gear now thoroughally dry, we catch a bus, driven by a Native American woman, out to an isolated trailhead. Time for another jaunt! The weather looks good, and we comfort ourselves in knowing that we only have to walk a mile or two through the densely fern-filled coastal forest before we reach the beach. Now we are feeling excited, those earlier worries giving way to the unfolding mystery of how the ocean will look and feel to us. This is exactly where we want to be. We can smell the salt air and, at moments, hear tantalizing echoes of the surf. The dense forest canopy finally opens up, and light streams through the branches; we pad through the sand and rush down to stand on the beach. Hello seaweed! All that remains for us to do is find the right spot for a tent, consult the tide chart, and break out the munchies. We are treated to a visual symphony of pink and orange light upon the clouds as the evening approaches. We dine on burritos and notice that the storm that we suffered through in the mountains just a few days ago continues to disperse, and so we view a pastiche of open sky and corrugated clouds, reflecting sunlight back down to us. The dark forest frames our view on one side, and the ever- energetic surf opens up before us on the other. The sound of the ocean, which initially stands out with its unusual melody and rhythm, soon fades into the background, and we feel as if we have arrived in a sacred place. We adjust our senses to our new location.

the dark forest frames our view on one side, and the ever - energetic surf opens up before us on the other.

Our decision of the day is centered on how active we are going to be for this portion of our trip. Neither Sara nor I feel like traversing long distances, and we are content to keep our campsite, cozy as it is, and go on explooratory walks. We have sunshine again and notice that the evening's high tides have left great and diverse amounts of seaweed strewn about the beach. Everything seems new and refreshed with this washing of the sands, and we rejoice in the moment of peace and renewal that a full day and night on the beach brings. I am wondering why I have never done any beach camping before! We have a detailed map of our location, and with it we can tell where it will be difficult to walk once the high tides roll in. There are steep rope and wood ladders leading up and around sections of the coast that have no real passageway during the times of high tide, and when we ascend these, we find ourselves high above the surf, looking out from an aerie of dense trees. The silence of the woods and the contrast to the beach is striking, a little like entering a closet full of fur coats, like Lucy does in C.S. Lewis's The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Sara and I take leave of each other for the day. I enjoy the solitary time to explore and recconoiter with the landscape, as does Sara. I manage to find at least three different places to sketch. I ramble between woods and beach, going up and down ladders, walking amongst pearly white tree trunks, now stranded on the beach. These icons seem to have been cast off from the forest, almost as if there were no more room for them in the woods after they died. Now they drift with the surf; they are polished and cleansed by the motion of water and time and lie stacked like skeletons, forming new patterns every time the winds and water are strong enough to carry them away. In the evening, we take a walk along our beach. It has started to sprinkle again, and we meander over to another camp. We find a group of folks making wonderful sculptures with driftwood and sand, and another group that tells us about a whale skeleton, tucked away on another beach. We go investigate, tramping over rough rocks strewn with tiny barnacles, and find the huge spine, exposed and clean like the dead trees, quietly resting in a cove.

...these icons seem to have been cast off from the forest, almost as if there were no more room for them in the woods after they died.

It is our final day on the Olympic coast, and we are ready to explore a bit further. We pack a lunch for a full day's outing and head south, moving in and out of the forest, up and down the ladders, walking around, over and under the driftwood, and watching the sky and the sea change. My fears about Boy Scouts are well founded (but short lived), as a large troop of them with backpacks and dads and attitudes plow by us. They are doing some serious beach walking. They leave a wake of intersecting footprints, marring the shore at first but later disappearing in the high tide. Their conversation fades into the distance and we meander slowly forward. Every bend in the coastline brings a view of distant rocky beacheads, hazy summer scenes that show no sign of human habitation. Sara has brought her binoculars, and when we reach Toleak Point, she practically jumps in delight at the number of seabirds that are flying and floating around. We lunch, Sara birdwatches, and I draw. . For awhile I am lost in thought and think suddenly about music that I like, and about the Grateful Dead and the feeling of celebration that they bring to people. It is a fleeting thought, and I don't pay it much attention until later, when I learn about Jerry Garcia's death. It occured on the same day that Sara and I walked out to Toleak Point. In the moonlit evening, a small surprise graces our campspot. A mother seal and her cub swim up to the beach right next to our tent, and we hear the squealing of the confused one. One moment of frantic shuffling around and they are gone, leaving the sound of the water flowing over the pebbles. Early the next morning, right before we head out, Sara's creativity bursts forth and she spends several hours constructing an elaborate pebble-and-shell mandala on the sand. She doesn't want me to see it until it is finished. We both know how temporary it is, and that we can t take it with us, but it is beautiful, and it will delight the next campers when they choose this hidden spot. The sculpture is a finely tuned gesture to the sea, a prayer to the spirit of all things transitory, a bowing to the Goddess of the Ocean. I am impressed and moved and recognize in my own drawing similar motivations. Are we all not temporary? Should we not be moved to express this emotion? We say goodbye and hike on out to meet buses, planes and people.

...Sara has brought her binoculars, and when we reach Toleak Point, she practically jumps in delight at the number of seabirds that are flying and floating around.