2010 February 20
Elwha Campground
Distance Hiked/Biked: 14 miles
Somehow it got into my head this morning that climbing Hurricane Hill was a good idea. It wasn't twelve miles of switchbacks that had my blood going. No, seldom if any of my adventures have been motivated by a desire for physical exercise, though such seems to be a inescapable element of traveling outdoors. In 2005 I was induced to ascend Mt. San Jacinto, all in one day. Lured by photographic opportunities, and despite being in no condition for 22 miles through knee-deep snow that it would entail, I summoned whatever chutzpa was in me to march up with camera gear, granola, and a group of heady young men.
I survived, sure, like the erect frame of a house otherwise emptied by a hurricane. I did the same in Yosemite, the Sierras, and other places, moved by a desire to experience living more than comfort. Admittedly, one isn't always so idealistic in the actual moment. Then it's just, Get up this, and get out! But once again, visions of an Olympic panorama proved more compelling than a restful body. I tossed emergency gear, a weather radio, and my down jacket into a bag and rode down to the trail head.
Rangers had warned that Hurricane Hill is a strenuous climb up primitive paths, steeply graded and overgrown with ferns and gnarled roots. Expect four hours up, and three down. Sure enough, mile after mile were continuous ramps and muddy stair steps through dense overgrowth. Ferns, thorns, and vines clasped at my limbs. Slick moss and wet soil made hazards out of ordinary paths that wound narrowly like black yarn through a thick green tapestry.
[view larger]
Here I found use for the Leatherman Charge I carry everywhere. Unfolding the saw, I cut poles from fallen branches and used them for added support. The poles were especially helpful fording creeks and descending ledges. Nevertheless, as hours wore on the arduous climb took its toll on my calves and thighs, searing them with every step. A Sangean weather radio in my shirt pocket, sized like a pack of Marlboros and outfitted with a speaker, played Scottish tunes. Sounds of wind, crunching of footsteps, occasional chirruping birds; a cascade far down the slope, and the bleating of bagpipes. No human voices. No cars or machines. This is why I climb.
[view larger] My favorite shot from the trip so far. Canon G11.
Just after noon the trail met the tree line, emerging onto wheaten waves of snow flattened grass. A massive granite bulge protruded from the peak of the hill, and to the west and south the Olympics stood in solemn consistory. Not wanting to disturb their meeting, I found my seat quietly on the brink of a craggy knuckle jutting over the valley.
By now the programming had changed. An opera was being broadcast by CBC2, Radio Canda. Out came salt and vinegar chips, a can of tuna, some chocolate chips. Sunlight spilled down a wash of warmth. Catnaps ensued. Then I piped a pinch of #1, the local blend of black and gold Cavendish tobaccos, with a hint of vanilla leaves, while reading Owen's On Communion with God. O, what a wonderful view of things.
The descent, I must say, was more painful than the way up. Perhaps my knees are unusually poor or no one is meant to walk down six miles' worth of staircases? Even with poles, the walk down was often interrupted by ejaculatory groans and winces, such that I was pleased to be alone. Near the bottom my quads were reduced to shivering spasms, as if the whole way had been swam through icy waters. I am not an athlete, but neither am I totally unfit. Perhaps something is to be said for the fact that bicycling forty miles this same week over steep hills was hardly challenging to my legs. Something about switchbacks makes mulch of my muscles.
After resting in camp, I was invited by my neighbor, Jim, to his RV. Jim gave me nothing less than Milwaukee's Best, and told me about how great the world used to be, which, I presume, refers to the 1970's. His winding rant included detours into homosexuality and the evils of the American tax system. "I had to pay $12 to camp here, in a National Park, of all places! Didn't my taxes already pay for this National park? They taxed me $12 to get in!"
Wisdom seemed to justify a childish silence on my part, only stepping in at some point to express my religious convictions, which at that moment produced a near conversion of rhetoric from Jim. "Oh, yes. I agree with the Good Book, we all need grace."
We do indeed need grace. Taking my leave, I prayed for Jim and the many others who look for life in their own righteousness, instead of in Christ's life and death for sinners. Into my bag I crawled, full of thanks for a healthy body and enough money to eat and pay taxes.
Elwha Campground
Distance Hiked/Biked: 14 miles
Somehow it got into my head this morning that climbing Hurricane Hill was a good idea. It wasn't twelve miles of switchbacks that had my blood going. No, seldom if any of my adventures have been motivated by a desire for physical exercise, though such seems to be a inescapable element of traveling outdoors. In 2005 I was induced to ascend Mt. San Jacinto, all in one day. Lured by photographic opportunities, and despite being in no condition for 22 miles through knee-deep snow that it would entail, I summoned whatever chutzpa was in me to march up with camera gear, granola, and a group of heady young men.
I survived, sure, like the erect frame of a house otherwise emptied by a hurricane. I did the same in Yosemite, the Sierras, and other places, moved by a desire to experience living more than comfort. Admittedly, one isn't always so idealistic in the actual moment. Then it's just, Get up this, and get out! But once again, visions of an Olympic panorama proved more compelling than a restful body. I tossed emergency gear, a weather radio, and my down jacket into a bag and rode down to the trail head.
Rangers had warned that Hurricane Hill is a strenuous climb up primitive paths, steeply graded and overgrown with ferns and gnarled roots. Expect four hours up, and three down. Sure enough, mile after mile were continuous ramps and muddy stair steps through dense overgrowth. Ferns, thorns, and vines clasped at my limbs. Slick moss and wet soil made hazards out of ordinary paths that wound narrowly like black yarn through a thick green tapestry.
[view larger]
Here I found use for the Leatherman Charge I carry everywhere. Unfolding the saw, I cut poles from fallen branches and used them for added support. The poles were especially helpful fording creeks and descending ledges. Nevertheless, as hours wore on the arduous climb took its toll on my calves and thighs, searing them with every step. A Sangean weather radio in my shirt pocket, sized like a pack of Marlboros and outfitted with a speaker, played Scottish tunes. Sounds of wind, crunching of footsteps, occasional chirruping birds; a cascade far down the slope, and the bleating of bagpipes. No human voices. No cars or machines. This is why I climb.
[view larger] My favorite shot from the trip so far. Canon G11.
Just after noon the trail met the tree line, emerging onto wheaten waves of snow flattened grass. A massive granite bulge protruded from the peak of the hill, and to the west and south the Olympics stood in solemn consistory. Not wanting to disturb their meeting, I found my seat quietly on the brink of a craggy knuckle jutting over the valley.
By now the programming had changed. An opera was being broadcast by CBC2, Radio Canda. Out came salt and vinegar chips, a can of tuna, some chocolate chips. Sunlight spilled down a wash of warmth. Catnaps ensued. Then I piped a pinch of #1, the local blend of black and gold Cavendish tobaccos, with a hint of vanilla leaves, while reading Owen's On Communion with God. O, what a wonderful view of things.
The descent, I must say, was more painful than the way up. Perhaps my knees are unusually poor or no one is meant to walk down six miles' worth of staircases? Even with poles, the walk down was often interrupted by ejaculatory groans and winces, such that I was pleased to be alone. Near the bottom my quads were reduced to shivering spasms, as if the whole way had been swam through icy waters. I am not an athlete, but neither am I totally unfit. Perhaps something is to be said for the fact that bicycling forty miles this same week over steep hills was hardly challenging to my legs. Something about switchbacks makes mulch of my muscles.
After resting in camp, I was invited by my neighbor, Jim, to his RV. Jim gave me nothing less than Milwaukee's Best, and told me about how great the world used to be, which, I presume, refers to the 1970's. His winding rant included detours into homosexuality and the evils of the American tax system. "I had to pay $12 to camp here, in a National Park, of all places! Didn't my taxes already pay for this National park? They taxed me $12 to get in!"
Wisdom seemed to justify a childish silence on my part, only stepping in at some point to express my religious convictions, which at that moment produced a near conversion of rhetoric from Jim. "Oh, yes. I agree with the Good Book, we all need grace."
We do indeed need grace. Taking my leave, I prayed for Jim and the many others who look for life in their own righteousness, instead of in Christ's life and death for sinners. Into my bag I crawled, full of thanks for a healthy body and enough money to eat and pay taxes.
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