As we drive to the trailhead a mid-April snow squall blows through, starting to blanket the ground and dampening the mood as our excitement for 3 days in the backcountry of Olympic National Park wanes. While Libby, Monica, and I were full of enthusiasm for two nights in the backcountry when we got our permits at the park office on the previous
day, the weather makes us question our decisions.
Thankfully, at the trailhead snow has turned to intermittent rain and we muster together our fragmented motivation
and head out through vibrant green coastal rain forest. Over 1.5 miles of easy trail we slowly fall into the rhythm of hiking and adjust to our packs, allowing work and the civilized world to drop away behind us. I can feel myself fall into trip mode naturally, as the pungent dampness of the forest, intermittent bird calls, and rustling of abundant greenery seep into me.
More quickly than seems possible the trail drops elevation towards the beach, where we clamber over a pile of driftwood and are greeted by the sun peaking through the clouds and waves crashing on the beach. I feel like I have entered another world, and the snow-filled morning drive belong to some other plane of existence. In the distance large standing stones reach out of the breaking waves; our map tells us this is the “Giant’s Graveyard.”
I have never backpacked alongside
the ocean before, and am awed by the constant crashing of waves and the giant rocks which stand as sentinels,
guarding the coastline from some unknown sea monster. The beach is rocky and well packed, such that it is not unpleasant to hike on, and as the crashing waves drown out attempts at conversation, we fall into silence punctuation by exclamations as we discover rocks shaped like castles and huge driftwood sculptures
left on the beach by fierce waves and high tides.
Our wonder of the beach slowly turns to guessing at the exact location of our first ascent onto land to traverse across a section of rocky headland where the beach all but disappears into steep sea cliffs. When we reach our first circular black and red patterned sign of the trip, which indicates an overland trailhead, we are greeted by steep, loose banks with large rope ladders and rope hand rails. Our first ascent is easy, however, as we travel onwards and upwards the bank sections get steeper and the amount of protection gets spotty. In some easy areas there are ropes to assist,
in other, more difficult areas, sometimes we find nothing.
Despite these obstacles we head onwards across the land, traversing more quickly once we reach relatively flat ground. However, the flatness comes at the price of lots of mud, which we squish our way through, periodically stopping to remove the pounds of goo that adheres to our boots and pants, making each foot feel like a lead weight. While the rain is light and intermittent
as we hike, it is clear the coastal rainforest lives up to its name in near-constant rainfall.
Continuing onwards we descend down to another beach, which again fills us with wonder and awe, and traverse across another headland, complete with tricky rope ascents and descents, landing us on the beach with perfect timing, as it can only be crossed at low tide. While variable, today it falls mid-afternoon.
The last stretches of beach before we make camp wind from point to cove, mirrored by the standing giants
that have dotted the coastline. When we reach our camping
beach we discover
why the ranger had encouraged us to push onwards and go 6 miles: we feel like we are on a deserted island displaced from any other kind of reality. The starkness of the rocky coast and constant crashing of waves fills me with a sense of otherworldliness.
A small freshwater stream provides water, and the giant standing stones outwards away in all directions.
As we set camp and prepare dinner a brief sun shower produces a brilliant double rainbow that looks as if it is growing out of one of the giants.
I have trouble believing that the rest of the world
exists as we eat sitting upon driftwood logs and discuss
everything under the sun, in the free flowing way that is apt to occur on such trips. We watch the sky darken and stars appear slowly, and gaze in wonder at the moonlight glinting off the crashing waves which lull us to sleep.
Upon rising I wander the beach by myself, discovering
new things about the rocks which stand guard. I feel more alive and connected to the universe than I have in a long time. Once we are all up and fed we gravitate towards yoga on the beach before hiking onwards and all comment on how much more real life feels when in the backcountry.
The hike back is filled with bald eagles, osprey, and dead beach creatures. We discover a mostly eaten stingray that is 3-4 feet across, and a beach later we come upon a seal carcass that is just beginning to be devoured eagles. We pass and are passed by several groups of day hikers speeding onwards, too wrapped up in mileage to notice their surroundings.
We spend our second night perched on a headland in a costal rainforest, I race the sun to sleep as my circadian rhythm further aligns with each day’s light cycle. Despite the foreboding weather we started with, I am grateful for the full day in the backcountry, a day without so many of the things we depend on daily, a day to remember how few of the things we consider necessities, such as running water, buildings, and electrical outlets, are truly necessary for survival.
Our last day all too quickly return
us to the world of automobiles, jolted back into civilization. To ease our transition from the backcountry we head to the Hoh rainforest, where we hike through moss and fern adorned trees, marvel at water droplets
on clovers, and spend the night camping in the front country. As if telling us our time is truly up in the peninsular paradise, in the morning a herd of elk push us out of our campsite by aggressively
grazing towards us. They remind us that on our trip we are simply borrowing their land, stepping briefly into their daily existence.
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