Back in the misty realms of time, I got paid to hike a section of the Olympic Cost in Washington with a bunch of kids. I did not, however, get to see anything. The boys wouldn't stay back with the girls, and we didn't want them wandering off by themselves (although with an ocean on one side and the rain forest on the other, how far could they get?). The other guide (male) decided it was too sexist for the man to keep up with the boys (yeah, right), so I was elected. Consequently I spent four days running after the males and tripping them up occasionally so we didn't get separated from the main group by a high tide.
So I wanted to go back to the coast and actually see something besides the rear end of designer jeans. Now, being children of the desert we don't know all that much about hiking in the rain or near the water. When I did my research, I found a jewel of a book called "Exploring Washington's Wild Olympic Coast" by David Hooper, and I cannot recommend it enough (No, he didn't pay me royalties). I also spent a lot of time irritating the very patient backcountry ranger at Olympic National Park via phone.
Now, people ask me questions lots of times about hiking in the Grand Canyon. They even email me from all over the world with their anxious queries. I don't mind. I like showing off, and if I can save a little bit of the desert from depravation by giving simple advice like "stay on the trail" or "no, I don't recommend a 50 mile day hike for your very first trip into the Canyon", that's all for the best. But do you know how many people ask my advice and then say, "Oh, I don't think so." About twenty-five percent. So why do they ask?
Anyhow, when I got advice from Those Who Knew about the Olympic Coast, I listened. The ranger said, put all your food in hard-sided plastic containers. I did not reply "Oh, you don't need those if you know what you are doing". I said, "Yes, ma'am" and ran out to a hardware store to get paint buckets. When the book said, "Carry an extra supply of clothes in zip-lock bags" did I answer, "That's too heavy: I just won't get wet"? No, I double-bagged an extra set of wicking long-johns for every member of the party. I figure if I am going to ask the experts, I might as well pay attention (hint, hint).
We dropped off one car at Rialto Beach and drove around and around and around to the Lake Ozette trailhead They were working on the dirt road (that road is so washed out, it is a wonder that anyone ever gets in there) and we made it to the trailhead fifteen minutes before the ranger station closed. The ranger had told me she would tack the permit to the door if we didn't make it in time (is that different than the Canyon or what?), but I wanted a tide table, so I was bit anxious to get there. I made it, got my tide table (nice to have when you can get cut off by high water at various points), and we threw on our packs to hike three miles through the rain forest to the beach.
We had Becky's daughter, Kelsey along for the two weeks. Just like potato chips, one teenager is never enough. She had never backpacked before, so I carried some extra stuff for her. Those plastic containers aren't that light, either, and I had been warned that Kelsey eats constantly, so we had extra food. When I hiked the coast route before, we were rained on for four days (another reason to go back -- I didn't even get to see the ocean last time), so we all had extra clothes and rain gear. Suffice it to say that my pack weighed at least 300 pounds at the outset.
The trail through the rain forest is on a boardwalk to keep busy little feet from destroying those nice plants. (Having done a plant survey in the Oregon rain forest, I suspect it is also to keep the hikers from floundering. Dan Binkley once threw a rope into the forest and told me to count every plant within twenty feet of each side of the rope. My feet didn't even touch the ground, the plantlife was so thick). About fifteen minutes from the car I thought: where is my wallet? I'd had it out to pay the permit fee, and it wasn't in the pocket I usually zip it in. Panic, panic. I slung the pack off and left it by the trail. I figured if anyone tried to steal it, I would spot them immediately from their hernia. I ran back about a quarter mile before I thought again: Oh, I think I zipped it in the map flap. I ran back again, past a confused older couple, and sure enough: there was my wallet. I do like to start out with a minor catastrophe, on the theory that this gets it out of the way.
We camped at Cape Alava with a couple of dozen other people. Access to this part of the coast is controled by permit and limited in number. Either they need to limit their numbers more, or some of these people didn't bother with a permit. Kelsey and Robbie, after complaining about the arduous hike, in started walking northward along the beach. And walking. And walking. I walked up to see the old site of the Ozette Village which was buried by a mud slide, and saw them far, far away. I had to run to catch them before they climbed over a headland, got caught by dark and high tide, and probably eaten by raccoons (the reason one puts food in those plastic containers). I guess wandering up the beach for five miles isn't as tiring as carrying a backpack on a three mile trail.
Next morning we started out. The beach is pretty flat, as Robbie requested, but it can be rough. There is no trail, and sometimes there is hard-packed sand or slabs of slate, but usually there is soft sand, or soft gravel, or slippery rocks. We hit the tide just right: it was low during the day so we could get around the headlands. We passed some petroglyphs in the rocks, the Wedding Rock and some nice whales. I've been to lots of rock art, but I haven't seen sea mammals so depicted.
At Sand Point we passed a group of teenagers. They had two guides with them. Could it be? I asked and yes, it was the group I had worked for all those years past. Their boys were hiking with their girls, I noticed. Maybe it was just me they were trying to get away from. We camped at Yellow Banks south of the dead whale. Campsites were hard to locate (I figured it wasn't a good idea to camp below the tide line). Though Yellow Banks is also limited in numbers, it was pretty darned crowded. Robbie and Kelsey spent the afternoon collecting buoys from the beach and amassing them at a large downed tree.
I suppose it isn't in the correct spirit of Leave No Trace, but there is so much garbage on that beach, I couldn't get excited about it. All the buoys were on the beach in the first place, and the first winter storm will take many of them back out to sea. Besides, it did look cool.
Next day more of the same. Sand and gravel and slippery wet rocks. At one point I bent over to crawl under a large fallen tree and put my hand on an overused hunk of whale blubber. Lovely campsite at Cedar Creek, and we were the only ones there. We camped right under a bald eagle, and watched a river otter scamper down to the beach to fish. I was sitting in the cold wind watching sea otters play in the surf when a group of eight arrived just about sunset. They walked one and one half mile of beach to camp directly below us, where they settled in right next to the otter pond and built a smoky fire. What is it about me that attracts these people, and why can't I cut it off?
Next day we climbed a headland to see an old lookout from WWII. We had two headlands to get around that we absolutely could not round at high tide, so we were under a little pressure. We camped at the last beach before the last headland. It was now the weekend, so we met all sort of hikers. We had a little beach with a very small drip of fresh water under an overhanging rock (we found another use for that raccoon bucket). Once the tide moved in we would be isolated. Until then, hikers kept coming through and eyeing the square foot of beach next to our site.
Always thinking, I sent the kids over there to play. They set up a cannibal camp, complete with spears (driftwood with lashed-on shells) and trophies set on stakes (old shoes washed up in the waves). Whenever a hiker paused at the potential campsite, they appeared, grunting and crouching. The hiker would scurry on past, careful not to make eye contact. By the time the tide rose, we were indeed alone on our beach. Next morning we found a whole group of nervous-looking backpackers huddled on the little batch of sand between us and the last headland.
The last day we waited for a low enough tide to go through hole-in-the-wall and fall into an ankle-deep pool of water. My guaranteed waterproof Gore-tex boots got wet, but I don't suppose walking in the actual ocean is covered by the guarantee. From there it was an easy stroll along Rialto Beach, just us and a couple of hundred solitude seekers. They really have to start controlling access to that part of the coast. Everyone but us built smoky, nasty fires out of wet driftwood. Even the day hikers built fires. There is but a little width of beach between the ocean and the forest, and I shudder to think of the human waste, trash, and campfire impact. Hey, Park Service: control the numbers, ban campfires, and tell people where the outhouses are hidden. Also you can shoot the people who leave their trash and those who take in groups of 50 kids. There are all together too many people in the world as it is.
We grabbed our other car, drove in to see the museum containing the artifacts from Ozette Village (as recommended by the book), and continued on to our kayak trip in the San Juan Islands.