Second Beach…all who walk here leave their mark

I recently visited Second Beach, on the Quileute Reservation in La Push, Washington. It is a lovely and pristine stretch of sand, reached by hiking a gently meandering trail through a beautiful forest, and then descending down many steps to a stretch of sun bleached driftwood. I have passed by the parking lot many times, but I always seem to have limited time, or somewhere else I need to be, and the parking lot has always been full. The fact that there is an overflow lot, which is also usually full, has always deterred me. When I visit an ocean beach, the last thing I want to see is throngs of people. On this day, however, the lot had only a few cars, I had all the time in the world, and when I inquired with a local teen at the general store, he recommended Second Beach over the others, with no hesitation whatsoever.

The forest is mossy, full of nurse logs in every state of decay, trickling streams and filtered sunshine, highlighting the canopies of life above. To see a ten foot high huckleberry bush and ferns growing on giant limbs 30 feet above your head reminds you that there is a whole other world up in the trees…I kept expecting a spotted owl to swoop down and do a fly by, but no such luck… When you get to the edge of the bluff, you catch your first glimpse of the haystack rocks through the trees, and you realize what you have missed until now. Just before the trail begins its descent, there is a gnarled root ball, covered in moss and ferns. In every nook and cranny, there are treasures tucked in. Rocks, shells, crab shells, coins, bits of string, feathers and other assorted trinkets have been left, some sort of blessing tree. There are no signs, no explanations, but you get the sense that it would be a mistake to forget to leave an offering on the way back up…

When I arrived at the beach, and clambered over the pile of huge driftwood logs, I scanned to see a mile of beach to the south, and tide pool rocks and haystacks to the north and west. With so many options of things to explore, I had to hesitate a moment to decide which way to go. My bladder made the decision for me, and since most of the visitors were scrambling over the tide pool rocks like crabs, I decided to head south. One drawback to a wide open beach is a lack of privacy to take care of business. I kept walking, and each time I thought I had spotted a good place for a quick stop, up would pop a person, their camp hidden from view by the large logs. The uniform de rigueur is apparently khaki shorts and any shade of brown tee-shirt, so as to better blend in with the driftwood, and then standard practice is to stand up unexpectedly, thus startling passers-by. I concluded that there were hidden, evenly spaced camps for the entire mile stretch of beach, and I would have better luck at the shoreline, where there were a few modest sized rocks. I made a beeline for the nearest one, 150 yards out, walking a bit faster now. When I got there, the rock turned out to only be about 3 feet high, but no problem. I bent over, pretending to view a sea anemone, or whatever, and whipped down my shorts. I am fairly adept at doing this quickly on the trail, since the places I hike never have bathrooms. However, on a mountain trail you don’t have to worry about the surf…one lesson I should definitely have learned by now, but apparently haven’t, is to never turn your back on the waves. Especially with your pants down. So of course, as I was trying to get may pants back up, and was momentarily hindered by my pack and all the other paraphernalia I routinely have strapped to me, a sneaker wave came in. If I hopped up on the rock, I would have to later explain the barnacle cuts on my bare behind, and that would also have been very uncomfortable on the ride home. So I stood there, letting my boots fill up with water as I put myself back together. Business concluded, I moved on to the exploration phase.

I strolled down the surf line, looking for interesting things to photograph. The late afternoon sun was skimming low across the wet sand, and a pattern caught my eye. It was the whirligig zig-zag pattern of some small creature, maybe a worm of some sort, and it was beautifully balanced in its randomness of direction. A pattern of thought came into my mind, and I began to look for the patterns of travel of the other beach creatures. I was amazed at how many different ones I found. A skilled naturalist would be able to identify them all, but the best I could do was narrow down to the categories of small shorebirds, gulls, worms, snails, beetles, sand fleas, and humans.

I spent the rest of the afternoon poking through piles of seaweed, peeking in the tide pools, looking for the makers of the tracks (only the gulls and humans showed themselves), and resting in the sun. I also looked around carefully for a proper offering for the blessing tree, and finally settled on a stick…one that felt smooth to the touch, and fit the inside of my closed hand like I had molded it that way. I teeter-totter stepped back over the driftwood barrier, and climbed the stairs back up the hill. As I neared the top, I turned around to get another glimpse of the beach, the view filtered by the trees. I stopped at the blessing tree to leave my gift, thanked the tree and the beach and the forest and the sun for being there, and hoped that my offering would be enough to get me safely home.