Elk Mountain
So what was that noise coming out of the trees?
That is the thought you don’t wan’t to be wondering at four a.m. lying in a strange patch of woods. I could best describe the sound as a suppressed sneeze, or the sound of airplane wheels scuffing down on the tarmac. It came from one direction, then another. I lay in my bag wondering whether I should be concerned, feeling concerned in spite of myself.
Of course it wasn’t cougars I was hearing. They are supposed to sound like a woman screaming. Otherwise they just kill you in a silent ambush. So what was it? Chortling deer? Some very early, early birds sharing gossip from across the valley? Wide-eyed paramilitaries communicating in bird calls as they encircled the camp?
As the noises got louder, I eventually sprung out from the tarp, ice axe in hand and swung my headlamp through the darkness. Nothing.
“Get lost!” I shouted. The noises seemed to let up, and I went back inside my bag, satisfied.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard the first screech, then another.
“Beat it!”
The racket went on.
Finally, I turned over with the ice axe in hand, committed myself to fitful sleep. Maybe I’d get a chance to hack one of the monsters in my final struggles.
Morning came and no monsters were hacked. I was alive, but far from rested, far from stoked about the 3,000 feet of dirt road I was going to mountain bike under the weight of all my gear.
I packed camp with a cold breakfast and started pedaling up Deer Park Road into the park. I had already drained my water supplies, but I was counting on a stream that I remembered from my bike/ski doorstep adventure over the past winter.
I almost despaired when I got to the spot and saw a gulch full of dry moss. As luck would have it, there was still the faintest trickle of water running over the rocks.
It took me ages — swatting flies all the while — to fill up my supplies. And I really filled up.
The ranger I’d talked to back at the park visitor center told me not to count on finding water on the ridge. I had a hunch that some of the other streams crossing the road would still be flowing, but had been a hot summer, and I would rather not be wrong and thirsty. Wrong and winded was more like it.
The weight of two days’ worth of water, on top of a bear canister, sleeping bag and other gear was a hefty burden indeed. I should also mention I didn’t have the lowest gear on my bike. Why? Stupid apathy, neglect.
I still hadn’t fixed the bike’s rear derailleur (bent from when I had fallen on my bike during my winter expedition to Deer Park.) I hadn’t expected this to be much of a handicap though. This was the fog of memory. If I had remembered how steep the road was, I wouldn’t have been surprised when it utterly kicked my ass.
Additional challenges included loose gravel in the road that made my tires more likely to spin out. I got walloped under the hot sun with sweat running continuously into my eyes.
Then I would hear the growl of a combustion engine and the crush of tires flying up the road behind me. I would fight to keep my front tire in straight, in the narrow margin between where I would fall off the mountain and where I’d get flattened onto it. Then the vehicle would go by in a blast of pebbles and choking dust.
The vehicle occupants would certainly be on the trail before I was, and would have a lot more energy too.
I snarled and grunted against gravity with heart going like a jackhammer. The wheels would slow on a steep section and I’d set my jaw.
“No! No! No!”
I’d barely wobble over a deep rut in the road, veer into another switchback with a howl of triumph — but the split second of inattention was enough to throw me in the path of a big rock. The bike would lurch and start to endo over backwards before I put a foot down to save myself.
“Aaargggghhh! I hate you! Goddammit!”
Sometimes I would try to kick launch back onto the road. Otherwise, I just walked up a couple hundred feet to a flatter section and started pedaling there.
Three hours after camp, I pedaled with numb, dumb legs over the last section to the trailhead. There was a brief downhill to remind me what it felt like to go fast on the bike. Then I swung out of the saddle.
A clear brook was running down through the trees. I shook my head, thinking of the pounds of water I needlessly hauled uphill.
Well, that was over. Time to hit the trail.
Royal Basin
What I cherish about mountain adventure is that when I am up there, I feel that I am in touch with the sublime. There is a feeling that the world might, in fact, be worth more than I realized. The feeling transcends my intellect; it inhabits me and makes me feel more whole than I would feel almost anywhere else.
Even if that feeling only lingers for a second, it is enough to justify hours or even days worth of toil. The feeling of sublimation arose several times in the day that I adventured in the Royal Basin and in the adjoining valley to the north.
When I woke up, the tops of the mountains were already burning as the sunlight began its march into the valley. Royal Lake was a mirror to the clear skies. This view hadn’t come easy.
I’d finally reached my campsite around 11pm the night before after the hill-filled 30 mile mountain bike ride and 7 mile uphill run . The stars were spilled out onto the heavens like salt on a black cloth, closed by black jaws of mountain peaks. I set up my tarp above a dusty patch of ground, laid down my sleeping bag and zonked out.
I ate my breakfast cold. Soggy oatmeal in cold water.
Breakfast didn’t matter nearly so much as the glorious miles of busted rock in front of me. I was able to save weight by leaving the bear can and sleeping bag in camp. Despite the monster effort from the day before, I was energized rather than fatigued.
I ran up the trail into a glacial valley where patches of snow still clung to the north-facing bowls. A hundred-foot cascade to the east, gushed blinding white over the rocks. Deep turquoise pools of meltwater were scattered throughout the valley, laid out like saucers for a tasting ceremony of the mountain gods.
As good as it was, I wasn’t ready to call it a day. I needed to get higher. The challenge was that all the rock everywhere was broken, and it was impossible to trust any one hand or foothold. Still, it looked like I could make a path up the side of a north ridge.
My rambles were not in vain. I soon found that some other enterprising adventurers had blazed an informal trail through the rubble ahead. I clambered up this until I got to the top of the ridge, affording me a view into Royal Basin. Beyond, the volcanic cone of Baker rose out of the Cascades. I could trace the blue path of the Strait of Georgia east of Vancouver Island. Most satisfying, I could see the distant, white peaks of the Coast Range around Whistler — more than 100 miles away in Canada.
Mount Deception, to my west, was a Bara-dûr of a mountain, gothic in its protruding ribs of shale. Snow fields nested in the shadows.
An unnamed valley lay below me to the south. There was a lush green meadow where a turquoise stream babbled through, a series of glacial lakes, brown and blue with sediments, a towering snowfield, a mountain peak that looked treacherously steep, but maybe, just maybe, I could pull it off. I knew I was supposed to turn around soon, at least if I wanted to get back to Port Angeles anywhere close to a reasonable hour. The charge I was getting from the mountains had me feeling unreasonable indeed.
Adventure Route/ Spruce Railroad
The switchbacks of the Adventure Route eventually brought me to the Lyre River and then to the shores of Lake Crescent.
The lake is about eight miles long. It fills a glacial valley, with steep peaks rising up on all sides. I like to imagine these slopes continuing to plunge straight down beneath the water. It is a 500-foot deep lake — the bottom is below sea level. There is a brilliant, blue quality to the water that looks tropical. All of these are reasons that I enjoy guiding kayak tours here.
My tour was self-guided today, but not for long.
I came to the newly renovated railroad tunnel and pedaled through. A sign told me to walk the bike because there were no lights inside. Indeed, halfway through the tunnel, I could see nothing. It was only an act of faith that kept me going. If there was a trap door to the underworld in there, I was lucky enough to miss it, popping out on the other side of the tunnel unscathed.
Trail renovations didn’t go much further than the tunnel. The smooth road I had enjoyed earlier became gnarly mountain bike terrain. There was a stream to pedal through, rocks to weave around and thick roots coming out of the trail.
I wasn’t the only one taking on the tricky terrain though. I saw some familiar-looking bikes up ahead and realized that they were my friends from Port Angeles. They were heading back from their ride along the lake. I turned around to join them.
It was nice to finally have some company on a doorstep adventure. I was glad that I got to bike with friends even though I had passed on their offer to catch a ride with them earlier . The company was short-lived however as they cut back onto the road to Log Cabin Resort where their vehicle was parked.
Back on my own, I decided that I would try to get to the Lyre River mouth, where I had camped on a previous kayak adventure.
Shadows lengthened in the forest as I biked north over the miles of logging roads to Highway 112. Unfortunately, the road going down to the mouth was closed off. Plan B was a nearby pay campsite, but the RV’ers and car campers had already taken up every spot
Plan C was me going back onto the forest road where I remembered a grassy area under some power lines. I pushed into the woods a little ways and set up my tarp.
I was almost out of water at this point, and there was no way I was going to set the cook fire I’d planned without burning down the desiccated forest. Instead, I mashed on the dry flakes of dehydrated pea soup from my bear can, savoring the sharp edges crunching into the top of my mouth. I squirted in enough water to soften everything down into a painful bolus.
I had also saved weight by not bringing a sleeping bag (I’m full of fun ideas aren’t I?) This actually worked out just fine on the warm night. I put on my fleece and parka, and went to sleep beneath the tarp.
Tomorrow, I’d get back to Port Angeles, but before I did that, I had unfinished business with Lake Crescent and nearby Pyramid Peak.
Elwha
The Elkhorn campsite lived up to its name with two mossy pairs of elk antlers nailed to a tree. My headlamp beam played over a couple of wooden shelters. The bunks inside were empty! Perfect. I wouldn’t even have to set up my tarp.
The next day, I started running early under full pack weight. There were fourteen miles of trail ahead of me, weaving alongside the Elwha River until Chicago Camp. I hoped to leave my gear here and then push on toward the source of the river.
The start was promising. Without a tarp to take down, I got moving early. Pack running was slow but steady progress with only a gradual elevation gain. Usually, I would already be above tree line at this stage in the trip.
The low elevation adventure gave me more time to appreciate forest flora like the smooth-barked madrona tree, the waxy leaves of salal plants and Oregon grape growing along the trail. Even stinging nettle — gotta watch out for that one — popped up here and there.
I got to Chicago Camp a little after noon. I set my tarp up, ditched my bear can, and started running west up the Elwha Basin trail. It was a tricky path to follow. I found myself at a number of dead-ends, only to retrace my steps and find out where I had missed the trail at a curve.
The Elwha was now a shallow creek, splashing over the rocks. I guessed that at this point, I was above the reach of salmon, though it is best not to underestimate these plucky climbers.
My moment of transcendent bliss arrived at clearing in the river bottom.
To the north was a vast slope leading to the peaks of Mount Meany, Noyes and Seattle. An enormous cascade fell off the mountains to meet the Elwha. I estimated that it was a couple hundred feet of plunging water, close to the height of Niagara Falls. It plunged out of the snowfields above through terraces of alpine plants. I contemplated bush-whacking through the valley to climb to the top of the falls, but the source of the Elwha was still hidden within beyond the curve of the valley, on the slopes of Mount Barnes.
To get there, I would have to go off trail. I climbed a steep escarpment out of the river canyon, to reach a small flat area with steep-sloped terrain above and below me. I resolved to start hiking upriver, set a pile of stones next to a gnarled tree in order to remember where to climb down to the trail. Then I began a difficult hike upriver. With every step I would strain not to slip sideways on the slick pine needles and go sliding downhill.
Fallen trees offered short foot paths off of the slope, and I could move faster over balancing on them than I could walking on the forest floor. Still, my progress on the challenging terrain was far slower than I had hoped for.
Finally, at an overlook above some river rapids, I decided that I would turn around. The source of the Elwha would remain a mystery to me. Yet, all was not lost. A huge huckleberry bush grew nearby. I spent several minutes gorging myself the tangy red berries that were fat upon the branches.
I picked my way back to the trail, then ran the rest of the way back to camp.
I had one more day to explore the mountain country before I’d need to start back along the river toward Port Angeles.
I could have used the time to make another attempt on the source of the Elwha, but decided that the going beyond the trail was too tough and time consuming for me to commit.
Instead, I set my sites on Low Divide, where I could reach the top of the Quinault River Basin. Perhaps I would even try to summit a nearby mountain, though this wasn’t a very realistic plan given my limited time and resources. I planned to wake up, hit the trail, and see just what I was capable of doing.
Elk Mountain
I wheeled my bike a few yards down the trail before finding a place to sit down for lunch. A handful of hikers walked by.
“Y’know, you’re not supposed to have bikes on the trail,” a woman admonished me.
“I’m not biking on the trail,” I told her, trying unsuccessfully to mask my annoyance.
This is what I get after busting my hump to get here? A self-important lecture from someone who wouldn’t be here without Subaru and the Exxon-Mobil Corporation?
C’mon, Man, just let it go. You’re supposed to be having a good time here.
I hid the bike in some trees and started hiking.
A couple of day hikers who had just started from their cars with small packs, overtook me with their loud conversation. If I were a competitive guy, who never gets passed on the trail, this might have bothered me, but I’m not that kind of guy, so it didn’t bother me at all. Besides I could’ve hiked them into the ground any other day.
The beauty of my surroundings began to dawn on me at last as the trail climbed out of the trees, affording a panoramic view of the glaciated peaks to the south. Below, I could count ships in Port Angeles Harbor, trace the outline of the Dungeness Spit and the city of Victoria. There were so many past adventures within my sight, I thought with satisfaction. How many new ones was I looking at?
The first snow I encountered was near 6,000 feet on the side of Maiden Peak. Beneath the hot sun, this was a welcome relief. I packed snow into my ball cap for cooling.
A few miles later, the trail afforded me its first view into Grand Valley where waterfalls cascaded into alpine lakes. The Needles in the southeast were as forbidding as they were spectacular. To the northwest, the glaciers of Olympus shone resplendent in the perfect light.
It occurred to me that in all my years of hiking, this was one of the most beautiful places that I had ever visited.
A parallel feeling: These doorstep adventures were what I was supposed to be doing. There was no better place to be right now, and there was no way I would have rather gotten here.
The Roaring Winds campsite sits in a 6,000-foot saddle between Maiden Peak and Elk Mountain. I ditched my camping supplies and bear can here, and continued with a lighter load toward Elk Mountain.
In a couple miles, I could see the cars parked on the Obstruction Point Road at the west end of the trail. To hike further was to get nearer to the vehicles and any flip-flopped tourists milling around them. I decided I could pass on that.
The afternoon was still young though. I could have filled the time with a long hike down into Grand Valley for a lake swim. This would have meant close to 2,000 more feet of elevation gain however. I could take a pass on that too.
Instead, I opted to get to the summit of Elk Mountain, not far off the trail. I stepped daintily on the broken rock, trying to avoid treading over alpine life.
I got to the top and noted the geological survey marker — 6,764 feet above sea level. The number meant all the more to me because I had literally started the adventure at sea level. The night before, I’d been pedaling past the waves in the harbor.
With glaciers to my south and the sea to the north, I finally lay down in the sun and fell to sleep.
I awoke to thrumming chopper wings. A Coast Guard helicopter was flying over the ridge. The mountains were turning golden now.
The copter’s shadow shot by me. Funny to think that only minutes ago, the crew had been sitting on the pad on Ediz Hook, not far from where my own doorstep adventure had started.
The orange visitor flew by and diminished over the mountains — on its way toward wherever duty called that day. I lingered in the gorgeous light and wondered if I had time to explore the snowfields that stretched out below me to the north.