2014 update: a year a later I crossed the peninsula again and exited out the Queets watershed, a variation that now prefer to the Hoh exit described below.
The first thing I noticed when the alarm went off was Chris’ bare feet rubbing against mine in the bottom of our sleeping bag. The warm sensation reminded me of Ed Veisturs’ and Kelly Cordes’ description of the ManSpoon, and I thought I was fortunate to have an adventure partner that pumps out BTUs like a nuclear reactor. We were sharing a sleeping bag in an effort make our backpacks lightweight and compact. Our objective was to cross most of Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula by foot and inflatable packraft.
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| Route map and elevation profile The Olympic Mountains have a history of being mysterious and fierce. In the 1880’s the U.S. Army mounted numerous unsuccessful missions into the Peninsula. Upon return one party concluded, “The mountains were as wild as Alaska.” Then Governor-elect Elisha Perry wanted to "unlock the mystery of the Olympics" and partnered with the Seattle Press sponsored the 1890 Press Expedition, which entered the Elwah Basin with six men, four dogs, and two mules. Six months later they emerged minus one man, one dog, and both mules. Chris and I aimed to cross the Olympics east to west, around 110 miles total, in five days. Neither of us brought animals for assistance. We left Seattle at 4PM on Tuesday and ate massive quantities of barbequed southern food on the Evanston-Kingston ferry. Pulled pork sandwiches, sweet potato fries, buttered corn bread, and fried and mac and cheese balls went down our esophagi as the boat shuttled us toward the peninsula. Half way across, horizontally blown rain hit the boat and dark, evil clouds smothered the mountains. It was nuking. The storm reawakened Chris’ concerns about using the wood-burning stove that I guaranteed him would be fine in the rainforests. Despite my confident promise of hot meals—we were also bringing a 100g fuel canister and upright burner as a backup in case we needed to melt snow—Chris confessed, five minutes down the trail, that he packed an extra canister. That night we walked eight miles up an old washed out road and into the rainy darkness. My following morning, and all subsequent mornings, began with a delicious Martha Bar. This Maine-made piece of heaven has quickly become my favorite cold-weather energy bar because it’s covered in dark chocolate and packs a whopping 167 calories per ounce into a minute package that melts in your mouth. Instead of cooking a hot breakfast we started walking ASAP and chowed energy bars. I was having trouble feeding myself on the trail because I would stop to smell the ten-foot tall pink rhododendrons for part of a minute and then hustle to catch back up to Chris, while trying not to drop precious bits of Martha. Day One took us 26 miles: up the Dosewallips River, over Hayden Pass, and up the Elwah River watershed to a backcountry campsite. We saw old growth trees twelve plus feet in diameter, a blaze left from the Press Expedition, and a multitude of plants that spanned the entire range of green colors visible to the human eye. Gathering twigs from beneath colossal trees, we cooked with wood: pasta, cheese, and sardines. Then we massaged our wrinkled wet feet and snuggled into the double bag. |
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| Formerly bridge, now a plank |
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| Trekking poles are the bomb |
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| Shwacking across the Elwah We knew Day Two was going to be interesting because the trail crews had only cleared part way up the Elwah. After a Martha Bar and some water, we set out in the rain. Chris took the lead and started navigating through the tremendous woody debris fields. He hopped up and over huge trees, and heinous clusters of average size trees, while I took circuitous routes around or played limbo, often getting on my knees or lying down to squeeze through small gaps. Eventually the debris became so thick we lost the trail and, instead of trying to get back to it immediately, we opted for a “shortcut” around a marshy area. But that became a terribly slow mile-long detour that required climbing over trees larger in diameter than we were tall. I joined Chris in committing to the wet-wood-foot-smear climbing moves. We traveled about five and half miles in four hours then made faster progress on the next three miles. After some tea and oatmeal, and discussion of potential routes up the upper Elwah valley, we set off for some of the best bushwhacking of our lives. The valley was about 2.5 miles long and gained 2,500 ft. of elevation. We choose to travel the right bank, whose slope was exceptionally steep and littered with down trees and landslides. In some areas it looked liked the mountain had vomited trees. We tiptoed from one wet balance beam to another. In other areas it looked like the mountain had diarrhea. We kicked steps in the hillside for footholds. Chris slipped on wet shrubbery and nearly slid into the river. Not all bushwacking is the same. In North America I've found that shwacking generally gets more fun as latitude and liquid precipitation increase, and less interesting as elevation increases. The Olympics are low elevation, high latitude, and very wet; their highly productive forests create fantastic shwacking. When we reached the snowfield, where travel would be much easier, we were soaked to the bone and chilled. A cold wind whipped off the snow and the visibility higher up was terrible, it appeared to be raining harder there. We decided to camp earlier than desired, on solid ground, and wait to see if the weather cleared the following day. I insisted on bringing a dark chocolate Trader Joe's Pound Plus bar, which weighed more than twice as much as our tarp. After settling on a campsite we feasted on the chocolate, dried out, and enjoyed a view of a waterfall across the valley, which we could see from under the tarp. |
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| Campsite at the headwaters of the Elwah River The next day I poked my head out around 5AM and was STOKED to find that the clouds had lifted a bit and the rain had stopped. Today was our big day. It was either up and over three passes or back down and out 20+ miles to the nearest road. We climbed up the Elwah snow finger, crossed the snow bowl of Dodwell-Rixson Pass, shwacked through Queets Basin, crossed several rivers, climbed up and across the Humes glacier, over Blizzard Pass, across the Hoh glacier, over Glacier Pass, and down across the Blue glacier. At 4PM we sat atop a fantastic lateral moraine and chowed on cheddar cheese, meatstick, and tortillas. The terrain we encountered was a stunning combination of dark threatening clouds, blue glaciers, white snow, and black rock…breathtaking. Now, we were off snow and passed the crux. Psyched that weather was no longer a significant challenge, psyched that we were able to descend Blizzard pass without rappelling (we didn’t bring a rope), and psyched to have entered the final stretch of walking. |
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| Humes Glacier and Blizzard Pass |
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| Hoh Glacier and Glacier Pass |
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| Blue Glacier and with Mt. Olympus in the clouds Our enthusiasm was infectious and, knowing the remaining 20 miles on trail were do-able, our thoughts immediately turned to the next crux: the boating. Just after starting up again, however, we met some rangers that suggested putting the boat in after the confluence of the Hoh’s South Fork, where there would be fewer logs in the river. So, with 26 more miles to go, we cruised down the trail, descended 5,000 feet over ten miles, crossed the breathtaking High Hoh bridge, and camped along the Hoh.
Getting out of bed the next day was hard but we managed to do it. The scenery along the trail was stunning. Like in the Elwah basin, there were massive trees and halls of mosses. Our pace increased when we passed two people without a backpack about three miles from the trailhead. Then, as we got closer, people’s outfits transitioned more and more toward urban. Blue jean shorts, sandals, $10,000 DSLR cameras, and little kids appeared. At the trailhead we saw tourists from around the world, washed our hands with soap, filled up on water, and began the six-mile march out down the road. By the time we arrived at the South Fork confluence our legs and feet were ready for retirement. With no rush whatsoever, we transitioned to boating mode. Chris packaged up the trekking poles, crampons, and ice axes with soft things and stuffed them into the pack that would ride on the bow of our Alpacka Explorer 42. I filled the Zip Bags with other things and put them inside the boat, then closed everything up and inflated. That’s right, the boat has a burly airtight zipper that allows you to put things inside of it!! Super radical. Neither of us had any significant prior whitewater experience. We both prepared for packrafting by floating Yosemite Valley’s Merced River (calm flatwater) and by skimming through Roman Dial’s Packrafting!, where I learned to look in the direction I want to go (not at what I want to avoid), that wood is the most dangerous threat to packrafters (satellite imagery shows the Hoh is littered with down trees and house-size log jams), and that in an open boat, like ours, a person would likely be cold if they weren’t paddling. I carried a neon green inflatable life jacket and Chris improvised by inflating a short Therm-a-Rest NeoAir XLite sleeping pad underneath his hardshell jacket. Climbing helmets covered our noggins and we used a full-length sleeping pad in the bottom of the boat to insulate and elevate us, and to cushion our bony butts from rocks. Sufficiently prepared, we set out downstream. In less than a minute one of our paddles broke. It was due in part to my optimism that an ultralight flatwater paddle would work in a river and in part to Chris' sheer strength. One person was now charged with paddling and the other with taking in the views, helping to scout, and being cold like Packrafting! predicted. Despite the paddle deficit we quickly learned how to maneuver the boat and gained a better understanding of how the river’s behavior affected us. We portaged around one massive logjam and successfully avoided others. I was paddling up front on my knees when some Class II rapids appeared. They looked huge from inside our boat and I was proud when we made it thorough without tipping over. A some point I realized I was having a blast. Rafting was much more efficient than walking. We were moving an average of 5.5 mph!! But Chris was getting colder and colder in the back. His legs were wrapped around me and I could feel them shaking.  Our goal was to get past the “Oxbow” that rangers said usually spits people out of their boats. Entering it the channel narrowed and the valley walls became steep. The sun was getting lower and we were cast in a chilly shadow. Chris' leg shaking increased. I was nervous. The rapids would be coming any moment. Then, miraculously, we saw a commercial size raft on one bank and ferried over to ask what lay ahead. An enthusiastic river guide walked us downstream and pointed out the best line through the rapids. He explained, “The key to whitewater boating is to avoid the white water. Just follow the smooth, grey water." With a line identified, I paddled hard. The target gap between two rocks hid a much larger drop than our river guide had likely anticipated. We crested it, saw the cascade of water and rocks below, and rocketed over them. Still upright two seconds later we knew we had made it. The crux of the river was behind us and we were JAZZED. In the morning we fired up the extra fuel canister Chris carried. Caffeination, without the effort of building a wood fire, felt fantastic. The remaining 15 miles to the Pacific were smooth and sinuous. There, our eyes rejoiced with new sights: bald eagles flew overhead, waves crashed into the exiting Hoh, and driftwood covered the beach. The sun was shining brightly and a breeze dried our clothes and blew salty air up our nostrils. I ate my last Martha Bar and we walked to meet Chris’ mom and sister who graciously came to pick us up. |
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| At the ocean |
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