There are few places more primal and untamed than the wild coast of Olympic National Park. Its rugged cliffs and rock strewn beaches are lashed by the fury of the Pacific Ocean, and that fury builds to a crescendo in the midst of the Pacific Northwest Winter when great typhoons bring pounding surf, torrents of rain, and howling winds to the twisted forests and the snow capped mountains that rise over the lowland rainforest. Exploring the Olympic Wilderness coast in winter is not for the faint of heart.
There is some insane part of my soul that drives me out there into the maelstrom, despite the repeated misery of past experiences. The raw power of nature on display is intoxicating, and to spend days at this point where the forces of land and water clash is an experience like no other.
We had thought to have timed our arrival as the tide was retreating, but the weather being what it was, the waves were still coming far up the beach. So far in fact, that they crashed against the gooey clay embankments that abut the uppermost edge of the sand, and we were several times forced to scramble to a hasty refuge upon a rock as foam and brine surged around us. Once I had to scramble up the clay bank, only to find myself knee deep in sucking mud!
Despite this, we made progress - though possibly at great peril to ourselves. However, our efforts were for nought, as ahead we found ourselves faced with an unexpected and daunting obstacle. A great chunk of land had seemingly recently sloughed off, leaving a tangled mass of mud, boulders, and shattered trees. It extended so far out that the waves were breaking against its foot, sending vast plumes of spray into the air, and we could see no way of even approaching it till the tide receded. We retreated back along the perilous beach to a point of relative dryness and safety to wait.
Some time later, the waterline seemed marginally lower, and we returned to the impasse. It was still impossible to skirt on its seaward side, and so we decided to traverse over top of the slide - the alternative being a shameful retreat and defeat. Ascending the mound can only be compared to traversing a vertical bog - alternating between rain-slicked boulders, the spiked remains of fallen trees that found new purpose as ladders, and oozing slopes of thick and sticky clay. The top of the football field long slide was no less tricky - it’s surface so contorted and jumbled that at times even the nearby crash of surf sounded distant as we clambered over, under, and around the debri. It was with more than a modicum of relief that we descended back to the beach and marveled at the Idyllic waterfall tumbling from the cliffs at the sand’s end.
However, our trials had just begun, as our route lay beyond the tops of those aforementioned cliffs, and our next climb would be no picnic. Mouldering half broken ladders followed slimy, fraying rope on this grueling climb - each complicated by the ever present clayish mud that simultaneously trapped the feet in place and threatened to send us slipping and sliding to our doom. It’s only slightly hyperbolic to say that Sam and Frodo would have found the pass of Cirith Ungol less difficult by comparison.
Considering the difficulty of our journey so far, and the significant amount of time it had taken us to travel only a few miles, we decided to nix our planned goal of reaching Strawberry Point; instead deciding that we should locate our camp at a much foreshortened location. However, the headland that was our reward for climbing that terrible hill wasn’t the easy woodland stroll we expected. Up and down it went, weaving in and out of little gullies overflowing with impenetrable brush, the tread a writhing swarm of twisted roots each intent on tripping the unobservant hiker into one of the myriad of trail side swamps. We also weren’t done with the climbing; in order to extract ourselves from one of the aforementioned ravines, we had to pull ourselves up a rock wall via hand holds hacked into the rock face. This was followed by a long sluice of treacherous clay masquerading as a trail that we had to pull ourselves up with yet another fraying rope.
Soaked by rain and mist from without and sweat from within, we eventually found a reasonable campsite on the other side of the headland. The last good campsite, as we discovered, for some distance down the beach. Thankfully, the rain took a break just long enough for us to rig our tent and our cooking tarp. Dinner was pleasant enough thanks to the tarp, and thanks to our sheltered forest campsite, the wind never bothered us unduly. It was all I could do, with a full belly and aching muscles, to force myself to shoulder my camera gear and hit the rocky beach below. It was worth the effort, for even in the waning light of an overcast afternoon the sea stacks, caves, and tide pools were spectacular.
Unfortunately, despite our having chosen the best possible site for the tent, we did not stay dry that night. It rained so hard that every surface in the forest was flowing with water, and nothing could keep it out of the tent forever. By the next morning half my pad was floating in a spreading pool of rainwater. We tried to persevere and ignore the weather. The clouds were so thick that morning didn’t so much as dawn slowly creep into existence. The rain was so heavy that as we explored the beach it was difficult to tell ocean, land, and air apart. Eventually we came to the next overland route. This “trail” was the worst thing we’d seen so far. Standing at its base we watched little avalanches of mud tumble down amid many fitful streams. Even with the aid of the slimy rope provided to ease the climb, it was impossible, and we soon gave up and high tailed it back to camp. This morning adventure proved to be a fatal blow to any thought of spending a second night, and upon returning to the ever growing puddle in the tent, we decided to leave later that afternoon.
I couldn’t bear just to leave without one last little adventure. On the morning’s sojourn I had glimpsed an idyllic waterfall, hidden tantalizingly close up a little ravine. It looked a simple enough task to traverse the short distance from the trail to the cascade, but any notion of simplicity and ease vanished the moment I stepped off the path into thickets of salal that rose well over my head. Blindly, I staggered on. In what could have been no more than a few hundred feet as the crow flies, I felt I must have traveled a good few miles. There is no such thing as straight lines in that jungle. Look at the surface of the brush and you will see a gently rolling surface. However, dive beneath and you will find a contorted landscape of little cliffs, sudden invisible potholes, swamps, hidden creeks, giant fallen trees and mouldering stumps.
It was not until I was well and truly committed to my expedition that I wondered what would happen if I were to stumble over a bear snuffling through this jungle. However, I doubt there was much danger of this, as a moose could not have made more noise crashing through the thickets than I did!! Eventually with a feeling of mixed triumph and hysteria I reached and photographed the falls. Then, of course I had to get back. All told, my 200 foot walk had taken more than two whole hours, and I could only afford a brief rest before we picked up our tent and raced back to the car before nightfall.
Thankfully, the return journey was far easier. It was still a nightmare to descend the devious chutes, ladders, and ropes, but at least the tide and waves had retreated far enough that we could round the foot of the slide instead of repeating the previous day’s shenanigans. We timed the waves, and ran with our packs bouncing wildly to get to safety before the next breaker rolled in. We had to take refuge half way in the rubble of the slide, but we made it in the end and were grateful to have that behind us.
I do not consider the trials and hardships of this adventure in a negative light. Rather, they made this trip a special and memorable thing. The crazy weather, the mud, the difficulty, the peril - those are the hallmarks of an authentic Olympic wilderness experience.
