I thought about writing the Anderson Award festivities, and maybe I will, but I don’t have much to say. There were some thoroughly cool things, I met some thoroughly cool people, I was wined and dined when all I wanted was beer and burgers, and then it was done. It wasn’t bad, it’s just the sort of thing to talk about with folks back home who work for REI rather than spout out here. Nothing secret, just not particularly of interest to write about.
I woke up in a slightly hungover haze Friday morning, my brain and body still out of sync as the adrenaline wore off and jetlag began to kick in. The plan was to head out to the coastal portion of Olympic National Park to backpack the Ozette Triangle Trail. That required me to first get a rental car.
I gathered my stuff and hobbled downstairs thru the labyrinth of a hotel REI had put us in and waited out front for the shuttle to the airport with a sizable crowd. Somebody from the festivities pointed out to me “he’s clearly from REI, I mean he’s already ready to go backpacking” as I stood there, my backpacking kit on. An obvious assessment, and perhaps a not so subtle hint I should go over and mingle, but I just didn’t want to.
Well, you can’t always get what you want and as I got on the shuttle the same person sat next to me. To be fair – she was perfectly nice. It was just something about finding myself in a part of the world I’ve never been before and within days being defined by “oh another REI guy” that just felt off.
As I got to the airport, I realized a critical oversight – I had no goddamned clue how to get to the car rentals. I wandered the parking lots aimlessly until my senses caught up to my body and drew a course back to the terminals, towards the sea of others waiting to board the shuttle for the rental lot. I’ve never wanted a rolling bag more.
At the rental lot I chose a bright blue Nissan Sentra – not quite Baby Blue, but she’d have to do. I stopped through the closest REI for fuel and food. It’s odd stopping through other REI’s, where everything is familiar yet distant, the green vests an uncanny valley of impressions of the ones I know. Nice enough store. My waning adrenaline got replaced by a newfound excitement – a new part of the world, novelty at every switchback, every mile, I was headed out to big trees, big rocks, big waves. The four hour drive westward felt how a forty minute drive would back home, the vastness of the landscape stretching and distorting time as my mind took a backseat to my body.
I reached the parking lot no later than 5pm. It felt like it should’ve been late, but sunset wasn’t for another four and a half hours, and I was greeted by similarly tardy parties getting their packs out in the lot. Parts of the drive there reminded me of my time in the North Country as trees kissed lakefronts from sloping descents of surrounding mountains. As I got closer to the coast, though, a distinctly western character revealed itself. There’s no mistaking the monolithic trees of the PNW.
I’ll touch on this more in a later post, but the west has young mountains, young landscapes, but relatively ancient, towering trees, while the east for the most part has ancient mountains, ancient landscapes, but young trees. What I’d give to go back a few centuries to see the swathes of old growth east, filled with towering American Chestnuts. I’m at least alive for the west, if we can keep it.
The hike towards the coast was through dense swathes of temperate rainforest. Can you tell I was impressed by the trees? It felt how forests felt as a kid. Massive. Impressive. A solemn calmness. Endlessness, until it ended abruptly as endless trees gave way to endless sky and endless waves. If there’s a creator, this is why they made Earth. I wanted a cigarette. It was probably for the best that I didn’t have one.
Sand Point Camp was a short way away, and I was greeted by a group of folks scarfing down their dehydrated meals to let me know that’s where I was meant to be. I passed them and the first few tents by a quiet spot, next to a little path out to shore. After pitching my tent there, I prepped my own dehydrated delight and walked out onto the beach for dinner.
I was mesmerized by the sea stacks jutting out of the Pacific and the tide, taking the brunt of the cold advancing waves, chiseling them out crash by crash. There are things happening on scales of time we can’t even begin to fathom. I finished my dinner and walked up a grassy stack on the point of Sand Point. I was finally eye-to-eye with the evergreens that had gazed down on me during the hike out. It was 50-something-degrees and clear. If that had been my last night, I don’t think I’d have been upset.
As a golden hue slowly tinted the sky, I headed back down to shore and onto the rocks to explore the transition point between land and sea. I wandered out towards further sea stacks, unsure where the rocks beneath me would give way. I reached a point where every way ahead was slippery or slowly being filled in by the coming tide, and as the sun retreated westward, I retreated eastward in due course to watch its departure from more stable ground.
By this point a group had amassed at the grassy stack at the point of Sand Point. I didn’t speak to any of them, but I didn’t need to. Beauty doesn’t need to be pointed out, simply admired. The sun sunk behind the sea. I sauntered back, and fell into my sleep.
I don’t quite remember waking up the next morning. The body knew what to do and before I knew it, it was cloudy, 8 AM, and I was headed northwards along the shore. The tide was retreating to even lower levels than it had been at the night before, clearing a path for my approach. The beach was littered with sea stacks, seaweed, and downed, sea-bleached trees. A misty rain permeated around me. The rain didn’t fall more than it simply surrounded.
There were various “oh shit” points where you could scramble up a sea stack if the tide made certain stretches of beach inaccessible. Even at this low of a point, there were points where scrambling over slick rock was the only option. I went up one of these points by accident – assuming it was the way I was meant to go. I scrambled up, putting a bit too much faith into the frayed static rope they had placed alongside as my left hand is still attempting to recover. It wasn’t until I got up to the top that I realized I didn’t have to go that way, I shouldn’t have to go that way, and now I had to do the sketchiest descent I might’ve ever done. It wasn’t quite rappelling but damn near close. A rappel would’ve been easier. I found myself what can only be described as tactically butt-sliding while hoping I wouldn’t hit my head, using my hand as natures’ belay device on the rope. It would’ve been one thing if both my hands were in full use, but necessity sometimes requires pride to be put aside.
I reached the next campsite, and headed back towards the trailhead. What I failed to realize until I’d reach the car was that if I’d continued maybe a few hundred feet northwards from the campsite, I would’ve seen a massive collection of ancient indigenous petroglyphs. Something to see next time.
As I turned out of the trailhead towards Port Angeles, a baby black bear came out into the road and we locked eyes for a moment, like it was thanking me for coming before going on its way. Ursus americanus, thank you for looking over me. More posts to come soon.