Quinault River
DAY 1
It was 5 am when I got up to start the 4-5 hour drive from Portland to
Port Angeles and the Olympics. 
My
pack was all ready from the night before. I'd been packing for three
days,
checking off things from my list as I put them in their
traditional pockets.
It takes a backpacker a while to achieve this kind of pathetic consistency.
But I like to know where everything is in my pack, and I don't want to
forget anything!
Actually, I didn't leave town until 6 am because… well… Starbucks
doesn't open until then. I'm sure you understand this. When I think of
the foul stuff I used to drink as coffee Prior to the Enlightenment, I
cringe-- burnt buckets of bitter tar, cups of the worst radioactive
muck.
And other things then were just as bad. Remember Burgermeister beer,
Gallo
Piasano, and Dinty Moore Beef Stew? Okay, let's not talk about it any
more.
But it's good that the years bring some discrimination,
even
at this heathenish level.
I enjoy the drive along the Hood Canal north of Bremerton. You always
get
trapped behind a motorhome on that curvy road, leaving you plenty of
time
to admire the waters of the canal and the coves of the shoreline.
You can also stop and sample the wine at Hoodsport (They need to work
on
that rhubarb wine, however, although it might serve pretty well as
stove
fuel). All in all, Puget Sound still has its beauties.
Shortly before Port Angeles I discovered something new-- the highway
now
by-passes the town of Sequim, which may save you, without exaggeration,
a good half hour jammed between logging trucks waiting for stoplights
to
change. Finally, I reached Port Angeles, a grainy, working town for
which
I have tremendous affection. From there it was west about 5 miles to
the
Elwha valley road where I entered the Park, filled out my permit at the
Ranger Station, and drove the final 5 miles of gravel to the trailhead
at Whiskey Bend.
The weather report was excellent. It was the first extended nice
weather
of the year. I shouldered my pack, extended my trekking poles (new to
me
this year) and lit out for the territory. My pack seemed obscenely
heavy,
and I was suddenly made aware of all the gear that's shared when you
have
a hiking partner and I began to list them: stove, fuel, water filter,
tent….
That's one thing the mind does when you hike alone. It makes lists.
Sometimes
you just have to tell it to stop making damned lists.
The first interesting thing I saw, just beyond Michael's Cabin, was a
small
laminated sign that said "Warning! A Cougar Has Been Seen Frequenting
this
Area. Be Alert!" The Trail at that point was heavily fringed--
old-growth
Bracken fern about five feet tall-- extremely fine specimens. You could
put a hundred cougars in there flank to flank and not see them.
I've read that the chance of being attacked by cougar is about the same
as being struck by lightning, However, it is usually also noted that
close
encounters with cougars are perceived to be increasing of late. Since
the
weather was clear, I decided to go primarily with the lightning
analogy.
Still, I looked behind me a few times to see if I were being followed--
having also read once that cougars will follow a solitary hiker for
miles.
Perhaps this provides us with a new term for the solo hiker: cougar
bait?
This first section of the trail will probably be the least favorite of
most hikers, because it contours high above the river to avoid an area
of steep canyons below, and if you get a late start you won't see
the
Elwha until Day 2 . The first camp you reach is Lillian River, and I
had
a decision to make here—
The 7 mile stretch beyond Lillian River, all the way to the Elkhorn
Ranger
Station, was closed to all camping because the bears in this vicinity
had
become proficient at stealing food from campers. It's kind of like
discovering
good coffee, as I suggested before-- you can never go back to Folger's
Crystals. Once bears get a taste for human food they can become
aggressive
in trying to obtain it. The situation is the fault of campers, of
course,
who either don't properly hang their food or don't hang it at all. As a
result, the most troublesome bears are these
Hang-Around-the-Camp-Bears,
because they lose their fear. This is bad for hikers and worse for the
bears, because any attacks, or near attacks, can lead to the
extermination
of the animals.
So I decided to stay the night at Lillian River Camp since it was
approaching
mid-afternoon. Not only that, but at this point I was strongly
entertaining
theories of the "New Me."
The "New Me" is in fact a perfect replica of me, an astonishing
likeness
really, the spitting image, der doppelgänger-- except that
the New Me goes a bit slower, rejects the maniac mode, saunters down
trails
instead of attacking them, stops to smell the wild roses, accepts the
compromises
forced on the older hiker by the touch of bursitis, the gimpy back, the
brittle knee.
In fact: the New Me never intended to go all the way to the Quinault at
all. The New Me was just going to take a look at the Upper Elwha and
then
turn around. I had not arranged any kind of car shuttle and it was
130-140
miles back around to Whiskey Bend by highway. The New Me was not about
to tackle that kind of logistical nightmare. So I made camp early.
The Lillian River Camp has some good sites, but it is in the midst of a
stand of tall trees and the dense canopy of limbs shuts out almost all
light. It's dark in there even on sunny days. The Lillian River barrels
down its gorge with deafening noise, dividing the camp into two
sections.
Rivers are very musical, and if a river like the Elwha might seem to be
playing Rhapsody in Blue or Concierto de Aranjuez, then
the
Lillian River seems to be playing Whole Lotta Love, over and
over.
It's almost inevitable that you'll be glad to pack up in the morning
and
head out for the open beauty of the Elwha.
DAY
2
Leaving Lillian River Camp the trail climbs, an elevation gain of about
800 feet. This is the most sustained climb of the hike until you begin
to ascend to Low Divide past Chicago Camp. In other words, once the
trail
has been cleared in early summer, and if it's dry and not too muddy, it
is pretty easy going for the next 20 miles. There's lots of good forest
soil here for a good, soft trail. The trail makes some short climbs to
get around difficult stretches of the river, while other times snaking
through beautiful, meadowy bottomlands with the river nearby. I stopped
to check out the temporarily closed camps at Mary Creek Falls and
Canyon
Camp and arrived fairly effortlessly at Elkhorn Ranger Station by
mid-morning.
Elkhorn is a beautiful location-- a small grassy meadow overlooking a
sweep
of river with the Ranger Station and a couple of outbuildings. When I
was
there, it was all quiet and serene and I sat down to eat my lunch. A
couple
of horse packers came by returning from upriver with a pair of pack
burros
in tow. I think burros are very fine and extremely handsome animals, so
I tried to get a picture of them but they were gone before I could get
in range.
Burros are absolutely superb-- but I confess with some embarrassment
that
I'm a little afraid of horses. Must be all those old stories of someone
"killed by a fall from his horse" like Sir Robert Peel and other
victims.
A fall from a horse used to be a pivotal moment in a lot of old novels.
And horses have other ways of dispatching unfortunate humans, such as
kicking
them or falling on them. Did you know that, even today, more people are
killed by horses than any other animal? Hitchcock shouldn't have made The
Birds, he should have made The Horses !
After lunch I walked up the river bank to look at the camp sites.
There was an
excellent
one secluded in trees before a bend in the river. At this point, the
New
Me took over again, and insisted on making camp although it was not
even
noon. "We will experience Nature in our new, seasonable manner,"
the New Me said in his best Cardinal Newman tone. "We shall read, he
said.
We shall write. Indeed, we shall be sanguine and content upon the banks
of this most congenial stream."
I set up camp, took walks around the area, and sat by river (it was
most
congenial) reading, soaking my feet, and watching the shadows change as
the sun worked its way incrementally over the ridges. But by afternoon,
I was getting a little restless. It seemed to me that, by definition,
either
in life or on the trail, the solo hiker has to keep moving. But how
could
I say this to the New Me? He seemed so proud of his seasonableness, and
his splendid sang-froid.
DAY
3
I arose early, wildly happy to be breaking camp in the cool morning
with
clear skies announcing themselves above the trees and the river pouring
by. Shortly after leaving Elkhorn you pass through a horse gate and
begin
to hike along some river flats. This section of trail is set back from
the river and could be muddy in the rain. I left the trail here and
headed
toward the river to see what the area looked like. There was a
beautiful
open camp out there that overlooked a long expanse of river. This
location
may be primarily used by equestrians because there is a long, alder
hitching
post near the camp. It could be the area known as Stony Point, but I'm
not sure. That campsite, however, is magnificent.
I returned to the trail and continued South through the bottomlands.
The
trail was easy and I made good time. My mind began to enjoy this
endorphin-enriched
exertion. Soon, I was thinking of Kristofferson's line, "Freedom's just
another word for nothin’ left to lose." A great line, of course, but I
had always preferred a line from one of Billy Joe Shaver's songs:
"Movin’
is the closest thing to bein’ free." Seems like Shaver is admitting that
movin’ is not really freedom, probably because movin’
comes out of some sort of restlessness, and is therefore driven, or
compelled.
Things done from a compulsion are not really being done freely. Perhaps
the idea of freedom is just a myth, altogether, to which we stubbornly
cling. Then movin’ is the homage a solo hiker pays to the
idea of freedom. Movin’ is what freedom would feel like
if
it really existed.
I stopped and surveyed Remanns Cabin and went down to the river bank to
survey the ford over to the Dodger Point trail.
| Official Notice: I declare |
| Squatter's Rights |
| to Remanns Cabin |
I've always wanted to hike to Dodger Point and make a loop of it by using this trail up the Elwha. On this day, the ford looked impossible to cross. It was late June and the hottest weather of the year. Snow must be melting in 55 gallon drums up in the high country.
I arrived at Hayes River Camp before noon, an idyllic setting with a Ranger Cabin in a small grassy clearing surrounded by tall trees and camps behind it near the River. No one around. Just total quiet with the sound of the river and the breeze. I ate a superb lunch of peanut butter and wheat thins, which tasted like it had been prepared by a five star restaurant.
My mind had been quietly plotting and calculating for sometime, and then came out with it: I'm heading for the North Fork of the Quinault. I've got the food and the time. It's what I've always wanted to do. I may never be here again. Getting back to my truck will just be Part 2 of the adventure. The New Me began to sputter some protests, but apparently received a look from the Old Me that was so wild that he held his seasonable tongue.
It also occurred to me that I couldn't write an article for this homepage entitled some thing like "A Few Days Camping on the Elwha River." I'd put myself asleep writing it.
I pulled out of Hayes River Camp and continued upriver, passing the junction with the trail ascending to Hayden Pass, and crossing the bridge over the impressive Hayes River. Robert L. Wood, in his Olympic Mountains Trail Guide, says of the next section of trail that it "penetrates wild, isolated country beyond the reach of the casual hiker," and that's how it really felt. The trail enters a tremendous old-growth forest
and
you push on through these stands of timber with the river only
occasionally
showing itself through the trees. Finally, I turned in at Camp Wilder
after
an easy 9.3 mile day. Camp Wilder is another good camp down along the river. It was silent and lonely-looking as I walked in. For some reason, there were quite a number of dead trees in the camp, and as I rested and filtered water, I heard several dead limbs fall from trees and hit the ground. Because of this, I spent some time selecting a tent site out beyond the drip line of some of the trees.
One thing I was not expecting on this trip was much solitude. With the perfect weather and the fact that the trails in the high country were not yet open, I had envisioned lots of hikers and full camps, but there was no one. I did not see anyone until I was a couple of miles from the North Fork of the Quinault trailhead, a period of almost three days. That was a complete surprise.
The Elwha canyon was narrower here and had a look of wildness and seclusion. Upriver I could see a triangular hill that represented the end of the ridge that was cut on each side by Godkin and Buckinghorse creeks flowing into the Elwha, the direction I was heading tomorrow. I set up camp, fixed dinner, and read by the river. Every camp so far was equipped with a bear wire, which makes hanging food a breeze. I didn't miss the nightly search for the perfect food-hanging tree. There rarely is a perfect tree for that, anyway.
At Camp Wilder I was about equal distance between Whiskey Bend and the North Fork of the Quinault. I decided to make the final decision on going through in the morning. But if the weather was good, and I felt ok, I would head for the Quinault. That night I slept well, as I always do along a river. I was not pulverized by any falling tree limbs, although I heard a few come down in the night.
DAY 4
The morning showed another beautiful day, and I felt fine: How long
should
it take a hiker to break camp? Well, there is no answer to that-- it's
all a matter of personal style. My style is that I really look forward
to getting on the trail. That morning I timed it to find out. From the
moment I woke up, looked at my watch, and twisted the valve on my
sleeping
pad to let the air out-- until I started walking with the pack on was
73
minutes. It shows you how much there is to do in the morning. The first
thing I do is make coffee and drink that while I'm taking down the tent
and stowing gear etc. I don't eat breakfast, but just put a couple of
Cliff
Bars in a little pouch I wear on my hip belt. I reach for these the
first
time I feel hungry on the trail.
I walked out of Camp Wilder and turned right toward the Quinault
without
really thinking about it. The Old Me was in complete control now. The
New
Me had given it a good try, had done some fancy flips and vaults, but,
in the end, didn't stick the landing.
The old-growth forest was stunning with the morning light flowing in as
if it were being poured from a bucket. Mostly the trail stayed back
from
the river, but occasionally came down to touch it. There were a number
of streams to cross in the next section. Shortly beyond the half way
point
to Chicago Camp, you cross a bridge 
over
to the north side of the Elwha. The river looked deep, cold, and
swollen.
The last leg into Chicago Camp was more boggy and muddy. The trees
changed
to hemlocks. Hey-- do you want to know how to tell the difference
between
a hemlock, a spruce, and a fir? My old tree planting foreman told me
one
time: One is whippy, one is sticky, and one is just right.
Just beyond Chicago Camp you come to the Elwha again and this time you
have to ford it. Certainly by mid to late summer this is really a piece
of cake, but it was high and fast when I was there. I walked up and
down
to look for the best place. I could see that it was pretty dicey. I
took
off my boots and tied them onto my pack and put on sandals. I had two
places
picked out that might be best to cross.
As I've mentioned before (see my Kalmiopsis trip report) I don't always
follow the advice to loosen all my pack belts and straps when
crossing
a stream. I worry that a loose, heavy pack can shift if the straps are
too loose, causing me to lose my balance. On this occasion, I loosened
my loadlifter straps about mid-way. My hip belt has a quick release
buckle,
and I practiced reaching for it and
releasing
it a few times. Probably no one should do it this way-- if you fell
into
a fast, deep, water and could not get out of your pack, you could
easily
drown.
I began wading at the first location I’d picked out but the current
seemed
too strong, so I backed out and went to the other place. I stepped in
to
the deep water here, facing upstream. I stood there a moment to get a
feel
for how strong the pressure of the water was going to be against me. It
was substantial. I began to crab-walk sideways against the current, one
step at a time, digging my feet into the gravel on the river bottom to
get good foot holds, all the time leaning into and bearing against the
current. My trekking poles were extremely helpful here in giving me
support
and balance. At first, however, when I tried to plant them on the
river bottom, the strong current would push them away until they were
completely
horizontal with the water. I had to plant them forcefully, as if I were
spearing a fish, to get them set on the bottom. After 5 or 6 big crab
steps,
I came into shallower water and then splashed up on a gravel bar on the
other side of the river.
Wow! I sat down on the gravel bed to put my boots on. My legs were
bright
red with cold and my feet were numb. I was enjoying a certain feeling
of
euphoria at having made it across that stream, and at that moment felt
pretty damned happy.
That was goodbye to the Elwha Valley. Now I had to climb over Low
Divide
to get to the Quinault drainage. The climb was about 1500 feet in
elevation
gain-- nothing to a Columbia Gorge hiker-- but add a 40-45lb. pack and
an 80 degree day and you have hard labor. The trail up is real
primitive.
Some sections were like the trail builder just slid down on his butt
dragging
a pulaski behind him and then called it a trail-- okay, it's not quite
that bad, but pretty close.
However, the trail down the Quinault is certainly rougher than the
Elwha
trail. Much of it is rooty and rocky. Some parts are more like a trench
than a trail. For this reason, hikers might want to start on the
Quinault and hike the other direction in order to get the harder stuff
behind them.
Climbing the hill, I surprised and separated a grouse hen from its
chick.
The hen plunged down in the brush while the single downy chick ran up
the
trail. The hen then flew at me, drumming her wings inches from my head,
probably more to create a diversion so that her chick could escape than
any attempt to seriously attack me. I heard myself saying, "take it
easy,
take it easy, I'm not going to hurt your baby." I managed to get by the
chick and hurried on in order to give them space to collect themselves.
I finally topped the pass and went past picturesque Lake Mary and Lake
Margaret. Here there were many snow banks covering the trail. Many were
melted out underneath and I had cross with some caution. The pass
around
the Ranger station was mostly snow-covered with bare patches. It was
beautiful
up there, coming out into open meadows with snowy peaks all around.
There
were some footprints through the snow that I came to trust because they
always led to trail on the other side. But the pass did not look like
very
hospitable camping, and I elected to continue on down to the Quinault
at
Sixteen Mile camp. No trail crew had yet been through here and I had to
crawl under and climb over numerous downed logs.
When I arrived at Sixteen Mile Camp it was still fairly early in the
day,
but that was enough for me. I had hiked 12.2 miles for the day. A
maniac
(of which there are many) could do this hike in 4 days. A complete
maniac (and there's also quite a few of these) could grind it out in 3
days. A rabid maniac, I suppose, could do it in 2 days. But
don't
be a maniac-- this is beautiful country.
In the morning I would be faced with another ford to start the day. The
Quinault was as high as the Elwha, but here there was a rope strung
across
for a handhold. I had heard that streams fed by snow-melt are lower in
the morning than later in the day. To test that theory, I noted the
height
of the water over a couple of rocks to see if it would be lower in the
morning. No one else showed up that evening. It seemed like I was all
alone
in this world except for river and stars.
DAY 5
The next morning at a very early hour I was at the river's edge in
sandals
and gym shorts (cutting a ridiculous figure, sure, but who was going to
know?) ready for the icy plunge. The water was not any lower than last
night. So much for that theory. I held the rope with my right hand and
had a trekking pole in my left. I had my sleeping bag double-sacked in
garbage bags. It was deep and cold, nipping at anatomical elevation
levels
that all men, since the beginning of Time, have found more shocking
than
bracing.
I've noticed that any kind of immersion in waters, out in a wilderness
area, makes you feel like you belong there. I'm not sure how to
articulate
this-- when you are just hiking up a trail it is more like you are
simply
there viewing wilderness. It takes that plunge into a
lake
or stream-- or maybe on a boiling hot day you throw off your pack and
get
down on your knees at the side of some small creek and stick your head
under water in a little pool and leave it there as long as you can--
some
kind of plunge that intensifies the feeling of being there. Know what I
mean?
Or the way things look from the middle of a lake when you've swam out
there,
treading water in a bowl of wilderness encircled by hills and shore.
And
the coldness of the water and the wind and the lake-ripples coming at
you
and passing through you-- wind made visible. I think the Wilderness Act
says something like "Man should be a visitor who does not remain," but
sometimes the idea of being just a visitor doesn't seem deep enough.
I spent that day walking out down the Quinault. Another beautiful day.
I soon reached trail that had been cleared by a trail crew and that
made
the going easier, although as I said earlier, this trail is
surprisingly
rough in parts. I admired the new bridge at Kimta Creek. The smell of
cedar
was still in the air. Numerous other creeks poured down the from
the north side of the trail. They were all high and the ones without
bridges
had to be crossed with care. All that water coming down made me think
of
the Olympic high country, up there giving way reluctantly to the season.
I passed camps at Twelve Mile Camp, Halfway House, and Wolf Bar, among
others. I suppose I was proceeding under a homing instinct now, that
"heading
for the barn" feeling. Not much was going on in my head. I was
overtaken
by the exertion and the sights and sounds and smells of the river and
the
woods. A couple of miles from the trailhead I began to see day hikers,
actual humans, and wondered just how crusty I must look to them.
I reached the North Fork of the Quinault trailhead, and took a picture
of the sign that said "Whiskey Bend 44.0 miles." What an awesome hike!
I had that fine feeling of accomplishment that comes after a long
backpacking
trip. Now how the hell do I get back to my truck?
Part 2: Getting back to
Whiskey
Bend
Back
to Camp
