I
caught a ride with a park employee just beyond the trailhead. This
gentleman
was dour. I mean he was dour with real distinction. When I was a boy
there
were lots of men this dour-- the dourness of loggers and cowboys-- men
who knew what they were about, and didn't feel they had to prove it
every
second to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.
I heard a few things about funding problems and staff reductions that
made
me doubt whether hiker user fees will help save the park. The more
money
we pay, the more likely funding will reduced from other sources. Why
should
government buy the cow, if they're getting the milk from us?
I had thought there was a local bus line that went up the coast and the
park employee confirmed this. He said it came at 3:30. I was still 6
miles
from the highway at the spot where he dropped me off, and I started
walking
hard pavement. I had two hours to make the bus. Summer cabins and
affluent
homes were the only things out there and no one picked me up. I walked
the whole six miles of pavement, after doing 12 miles of trail, and I
was
done in when I got there. My feet felt like they had been pounded
relentlessly
with a hammer. The bus wasn't due until 4:30.
Two men joined me at the bus stop. They were drinking beer and stared
at
me hatefully. By the look of their clothes, I thought that they
probably
had been setting chokers behind a cat for some small logging operation.
I told myself that I had just walked 50 miles and that a few (quite a
few)
years ago I had set chokers in Alaska in high lead operations under a
couple
of legendary hook tenders-- and so I wasn't going to let myself worry
about
these guys.
Another man arrived clutching a cooler. Yet another arrived holding a
bottle
of whiskey. The guy with the cooler asked the man with the
whiskey
what he was going to do with it. The man with the whiskey said the
whiskey
was 28 years old. No, not aged 28 years-- it was older than that. His
father,
he said, had owned the whiskey for 28 years without opening it.
"Well, what are you going to do with it," the man with the cooler said,
"you just showing it around?"
"I'm going to drink this whiskey tonight," the man with the whiskey
said.
"Well, why don't you just sell it and buy a whole case of whiskey?"
"Because," the man with the whiskey said, "I do what I do and don't
care
what the fuck anyone says about it, that's why."
A bus pulled in, but it was not going my direction. However, all the
men
got on that bus and left. I had no problem with that.
My bus came. I could ride to Forks and then transfer to Port Angeles.
It
was an hour and a half to Forks and the fare was 50 cents! I only
had a dollar and the bus driver said I had a credit for another ride.
She
was a terrific driver. She even used a CB radio to warn trucks that we
were coming when we approached a narrow highway bridge.
Out the window, I looked at Western Washington. Under the beauty, there
is much poverty out here and probably very little opportunity. The
prosperity
of the 80’s and 90’s never reached this country. I once worked out of
Forks
for a couple of weeks with a forestry crew. In later years, I used to
try
to re-energize flagging conversations by suddenly saying, "Did you know
that I've eaten in every restaurant in Forks, Washington?" For some
reason,
this was never particularly effective. But the people of Forks are
tough,
tough people, and very proud.
It began to rain as we entered Forks and I got out at the Visitors'
Center
to wait for the Port Angeles bus. There were three young men inside
with
hiking gear and none of them could put on their shoes because of
blisters
on their feet. They said they had hiked up the Hoh River to Glacier
meadows
but the last 10 miles out were agony. "Wait a minute," I said, "you
mean
you hiked to Glacier meadows and back in one day?" (That was a
round-trip
distance of around 35 miles.) I said, "you know most people would do
that
at least as an overnighter." They laughed and looked a little ashamed
and
a little bit proud of themselves. When my bus to Port Angeles departed,
they were laying on benches with their feet elevated.
The bus to Port Angeles arrived. It was a two hour ride and the fare
was
a mere $1.00. I was tired now and a baby cried most of the way. There
was
an accident on the highway at Lake Crescent and we had to wait. Finally
we moved again and we passed a turned-over van laying in a powder of
broken
glass.
It was hard not to be struck by the chaos of the human world compared
to
the peace of the wilderness. It was inevitable that I would compare
them.
Coming home is part of every hiking trip-- that's why I think it is
relevant
to write about it-- and sometimes, coming out of the woods, the human
world
seems damned dysfunctional. Thoreau said that "men lead lives of quiet
desperation"-- true then and true now-- except that no one is quiet
about
it anymore. That is one of the great differences-- our cities and towns
are so incredibly noisy these days that when you first go to the woods
after a long absence the silence almost seems like desolation.
It was 8:30 PM when we reached Port Angeles. I packed my way up hill on
sore feet to the Flagstone Motel where I always stay. The Lady who runs
the place acts like she has seen it all, and I bet she has. Once she
decides
that you are all right, though, she is as nice as pie.
I got cleaned up and went to town to find something to eat. There is a
new brew pub in town, but they don't really fix basic pub food (which I
wanted) but try for something more gourmet. I had a ribeye steak and
fettucini
in a Cajun creme sauce that was so hot that I broke out in a sweat like
I was back climbing the trail to Low Divide. It was so hot that I
almost
had to call in a retardant plane... But instead, I had a couple of
beers
to put out the flames.
There is an local outfit that offers transportation to trailheads. I
left
a couple of messages on their answering machine, but they don't return
phone calls. So the next morning, I caught the bus again and had them
drop
me at the Elwha Valley Road. I shouldered my pack again and started
walking...
When I was in my twenties, I hitch-hiked across the United States, up
and
down the West Coast and the Eastern Seaboard, and all through Europe.
Most
of the people I met were wonderful. One or two were not. I've slept by
the highway in Montana and woke up with my sleeping bag white with
frost.
I've slept in cornfields, backyards, half-finished houses, and flower
gardens--
when I had to, and if no one were looking.
Once, at Feldkirsch, Austria, when it was raining and getting late, I
had
my eye on an open garage and sat down nearby to wait until it got
completely
dark. The owner drove into his driveway, got out of his car and said
"Schlechtes
wetter heute abend, nicht wahr?" He knew exactly what I was going to
do,
and didn't mind. After I went into the garage, I noticed people
arriving
across the street with musical instrument cases. They were an Austrian
Um-pah-pah band gathering to practice. I was serenaded to sleep with
sonorous
brass band music.
Once I hitched a ride at Montreal and the driver turned off at the
airport
and pulled up alongside a small airplane. Throw your bag in the plane,
he said. We flew south to Vermont and I looked down at the Green
Mountains
and the glittering waters of Lake Champlain. Then I hitch-hiked east to
Maine and slept on the beach at Bar Harbor.
I hitched my last ride about twenty years ago, out of Portland, Oregon
toward the coast at Seaside. This guy picked me up and I quickly
realized
that he was not real stable. He pushed his vehicle up to 90 or a 100
mph
on that two lane highway and passed every car he came up behind. Soon
he
began to not even care if it were clear to pass. He would pass with
blind
corners ahead and no idea if there were any oncoming vehicles. I told
him
that I didn't like his driving and that I wanted to get out. But he
just
laughed at me and said, "If I stop to let you out I'll just have to
pass
all those cars again." Once he pulled back in inches from the
oncoming
grill of a loaded logging truck. That was death right there-- the grill
of that truck.
I could see that he didn't care if he died, but why do people like that
always want to take someone with them? By miracle, we made it into the
city limits of Seaside after several more breathtakingly close calls. I
knew there were a couple of traffic signals ahead where he would
probably
have to stop. I made a plan. His ignition was to the right of the
steering
wheel and I could reach the key. I planned to grab the key with my left
hand, turn off the car and pull out the key. If I had to, I was
going
to hit him as hard as I could with my right hand.
A traffic light turned red and he had to come to a stop in a line of
cars.
I told him I was getting out. My right hand was down by my side
squeezed
into a fist. Our eyes locked. He heard something in my voice. "Get
out,"
he said. I dragged my pack over the front seat, got out and kicked the
door shut. The light changed and he sped off. I went to a phone and
reported
him to the police. I don't know if they ever stopped him. I felt then
that
I had used up my nine hitch-hiking lives. That was the last time I ever
hitched a ride…
… well, almost. Because I saw this spacious pickup approaching as
I
beat the pavement up the Elwha valley road. It had a most
commodious-looking
bed, complete with bedliner, and it would have been a real shame if my
heavy pack were not given accommodation there. I stuck out my thumb and
he stopped. This gentleman was an avid Olympic hiker who lived up past
the park entrance and knew all the rangers and park employees. He
advised
me to leave my pack around back of the ranger station and walk the
gravel
road to Whiskey Bend without it. That was a great idea.
I wrote out a note to attach to my pack, took a long drink of water,
grabbed
my trekking poles, and set out on the 5 mile walk to Whiskey Bend. I
made
a game out of it by power-walking, pushing off on my poles with both
arms
simultaneously like a skier starting the downhill, and arrived at the
trailhead
in an hour and 17 minutes. My little, gutless pickup was still there,
completely
covered with trailhead dust. I was pleased for three reasons: 1) The
truck
was there. 2) It hadn't been broken into. 3) When I turned the key, it
started. 
It had taken me 24 hours to get back to my truck from the time I came
out
of the woods at the North Fork of the Quinault. I clocked the mileage
of
the Whiskey Bend road on my way out. It was only 4.4 miles, so I hadn't
walked as fast a s I thought.
So it was time for the long drive home. I'm a kind of romantic, I
suppose.
That's why I like to think a slightly different person drove that truck
home from the one who had driven it up there. I didn't wash the truck
for
over a month after I got back. It looked pretty bad but, every time I
thought
about it, I said no-- don't want to yet. That dirt is the dust of the
Olympics.
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