I always start out with grand designs, but in the execution stage, they sometimes become less grand. In most things, it is usually good to have a plan B, and even C. In my case, I am lucky that the alphabet has 26 letters.
When I began my kayak adventure this morning, I had intended to launch at the confluence of the Sol Duc and Bogachiel Rivers, at a muddy little boat ramp under the bridge, where they join and become the Quillayute. My plan was to paddle a ways up the Sol Duc, float back down, then paddle a ways up the Bogachiel, then back down again to point of origin. In looking left and right from the bridge, the Sol Duc seemed docile enough. Where I should have been looking was right under the bridge… The mud puddle at the launch, where the river had receded some, was full of salmon carcasses and ankle-deep mud. I hopped in the kayak, went about 12 feet, and bottomed out in the mud. Out I climbed. I dragged the kayak over to deeper water, and hopped in again, going about 10 more feet before I hit shallow water, and bottomed out in the rocks. False start number two. I get out, drag the kayak across the bar, and see what I failed to notice from the bridge: very large and slippery rocks, very fast rapids, and no way to walk the shore to get above the rapids. I pictured a broken ankle, or tripping and dropping the paddle, or worse, tripping and losing my grip on the (borrowed) kayak. Fine, I think, I will skip the Sol Duc and just do the Bogachiel. But of course to get over there, I have to reverse what I just did, in and out and in and out. I start paddling up the river, and immediately come to fast, shallow rapids, which would require yet another portage. At this point, I have been in and out of the kayak six times, having gone practically nowhere, and managed to scrape and bruise my shin in the same spot every time. I am thinking, this is going to get old quickly, because I have no idea how many more rapids are upstream. I am also thinking about the broken skin on my shin, and picturing flesh-eating microbes from the salmon-carcass water wiggling their way in. (I should probably stop watching late-night episodes of “Monsters Inside Me”) As I am contemplating all this, the wind and current are turning me backwards and downstream. I decide that the elements are going to tell me which way I am going to go, and it will be better to cooperate rather than fight. My host* had suggested that I just kayak down the river from the hotel, and had kindly offered to deliver my truck to another haul-out spot downstream. It felt a little like cheating, not doing the upstream work before the downstream floating, but I conceded. Little did I know…
The first rapids were just beyond the hotel, and were a little more than I had bargained for. My immediate thought: Why am I wearing a straw hat and not a helmet?! Next thought: My life jacket is strapped in behind me, and not strapped on me. For the record, and this should be a comfort to my family, there is absolutely no danger in me becoming an adrenaline junkie, because I scare too easily. Full disclosure: Aforementioned rapids would have been considered the kiddie ride at any water park, and the water was all of a foot deep, but it felt fast and out of control, a combination I am not at all fond of. I made it through without incident, and it turned out that although there were more rapids downstream, that was the worst of it.
For the next two hours, I floated, worked on my sunburn, and only had to stop and portage a couple more times, which conveniently coincided with needing to stretch my legs. Traveler note: Anything that you tuck into the rear waistband of your shorts is subject to falling out, unnoticed, when you pull your shorts down to pee behind a log. I really liked that bandana…
As I got nearer the ocean, the wind began to pick up, and eventually, starting pushing me back upstream. I was faced with two options: Get stuck where I was, or actually put out some effort. I could bushwack my way out, while dragging the kayak behind me, then hitchhike to the truck. But I had neglected to pack a machete, and a kayak would probably deter any ride offers, and anyway, hitchhiking is a bad idea. So I began to paddle in earnest. I finally arrived at the downriver boat launch, which is where the Dickey River joins the Quillayute. On my last trip there, I had spent a lovely two hours at the mouth of the river, circling the island, watching the birds, and just floating about. Today, however, with the high wind and low tide, that was not an option. I took a hard right, and proceeded up the Dickey. My thought was to paddle a ways up, then float back down…you get the idea. I got around the first turn, and the river narrowed to a stream, downed trees blocked the way, and the was no way around. Fine, I think, four hours of kayaking is enough. I land at the launch, slip in the mud, and scrape my shin yet again. As I headed for the truck, I decided I had a few ounces of energy left in me, so I may as well go for a beach hike…there was still time to make it a perfect day…and no helmet required.
*For a charming place to stay on the Olympic Peninsula, try the Quillayute River Resort…6 cozy, well-appointed rooms, a tranquil garden setting overlooking the river, gracious hosts and like-minded guests. www.qriverresort.com
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