Some summers, I feel the pull of the mountain, and I cannot stay away. This year, the ocean has called to me like a siren song, one that cannot be ignored. With an extra day added to my holiday weekend, and Marc away on a business trip, I thought this would be a perfect time to take Carter to my favorite ocean beach for a night of camping, just the two of us. He accepted the invitation readily, and plans were put in place. When he reneged only hours later, citing a forgotten golf tournament, I once again swallowed my disappointment about the lack of together-time with my son, and opted to go alone…
Still suffering from the cold I caught in Oregon, I got a slow start out the door on Monday. I wasted an hour looking for my missing first-aid kit, which I had repacked after the raccoon encounter of two weeks prior. I went back and forth from the car to the house countless times, only to finally discover it was in my car all along, and that it just looked a little altered, because it was a little altered. When I miss a departure time over such nonsense, I just shrug, and figure I wasn’t meant to be on the road when I thought I should be, and now it was safe to go.
I took a different route than I usually do, reversing my direction and heading north, via the Edmonds Kingston ferry, to see if it changed my driving time. In the end, it was still exactly four hours. It was a hot, sunny day, and the temperature reached 95 degrees, just before I took the 110 Spur to the coast. I stopped at the ranger station at Mora Campground to pick up my back country pass, and was informed that a burn ban had been initiated a few days prior. A campfire is one of the delights of overnighting on the beach, and it was one more minor disappointment to add to my list, but I forged ahead, with the only expectation that something good would come, I just had to be open to it.
I hiked in to the site my sister and I have used several times this summer, and once again, found it unoccupied. The weather had been warm when I arrived, but given my late start, and the developing clouds, it cooled in a hurry. After setting up my camp, I spent some time clambering over the large driftwood pile that spans Ellen Creek, looking for critters, then headed to Hole in the Wall to watch the sunset. While waiting for the sunset to develop, I sat on a log and admired the handiwork of someone else who had whiled away their hours, using the things they had found on the beach to create a work of art. After the sun went down, with a warming fire out of the question, I decided to eat a quick dinner, and tuck into my hammock. I knew I had a few hours until the moon rose over the trees, so I watched the stars, and drifted off to sleep.
I woke at 1:00 am, with the moon shining down in my face. My bladder told me to get up immediately, so I untangled myself from the layers covering me, and walked out to the beach to relieve myself. The full moon hung, heavy and orange, in a soft haze. The night air was warm, and the sea was calm. I stood on a log for a long time, watching the moonlight sparkle on the gently rising swells, then light up the surf as they broke on shore. After a while, I climbed back into my hammock, put my layers back in place, and set about staring down the moon, now fully awake. Suddenly, a dark shape crossed the moon, then another, and another. The bats were out, and putting on an aerial display. This went on for quite some time, some of the bats dipping alarmingly low and close to my face. While I was laying there watching, it occurred to me that to have properly paid homage to the moon, I should have stripped down bare to stand at the edge of the sea…a ceremonial bathing in the moonlight. I thought about getting back up to do just that, thinking I would be sorry later that I hadn’t, but I was just a little too lazy to try to extricate myself from my nest again. I decided that if this was like any other night, the next call of nature would not be too far away, and that I would have another chance very soon. In the interim, I would just lay still, and let the moonlight wash over me, willing it to seep into me, still my mind with its peace, and tune my body to its magnetic pull, lulling me into the rhythm of the tides. I soon fell asleep again, and when I woke again hours later, the moon had already set. Instead of being Woman Who Dances Naked with the Moon, I would have to settle for Woman Who Watches Moon with No Pants.
I woke again in the morning to gray, overcast skies. I had planned to stop in Sequim and Port Gamble on the way home, so I began to pack up. Though cloudy, it was very warm, and I could feel the sun rising over the trees. It seemed like just a marine layer that would eventually burn off, covering the sun and making it glow bright pink. My congested lungs caused me to move slowly, and they were already protesting the hike back to the car. I finished packing up camp, made a token offering to my sheltering log, since my sister had made off with the last heart rock I had left, then headed out.
I headed east, stopping in Forks to top off my gas tank, and wash the windows, which I could barely see out of. I had the top down, in anticipation of a sunny drive home. I called to check on Carter, who informed me that his golf match had been cancelled, due to the smoke and ash in the air. He said it looked like it was snowing, and that the deck furniture was covered with ash. I was beginning to get the idea that it was not a marine layer of fog, but wildfire smoke that had drifted clear across the state and stalked me to the ocean. I began to dread going home, thinking I would not be able to breathe. I was also annoyed that his match had been cancelled, and that he could have come with me, after all, but he assured me he had just been notified. I chose to believe that story, and he let me. I headed back north, the way I had come, open to any adventure that would make the trip home last longer.
When in that corner of the state, it is hard to avoid the Sol Duc River. It is a quintessential Olympic Rain Forest river, full of deep green pools, clear pebbly rapids, and boulder-strewn chutes. Every stretch of it is scenic and pristine. I haven’t studied a map enough to know how many forks it has, or how it meanders, but I do know that when traveling north on Highway 101, you cross it again and again. I always look down when crossing the bridges, seeking a spot that would be good for kayaking, and noting the many shallow rapids and places that would require portage.
As I was crossing one of the bridges, my eye caught sight of the sign to the Sol Duc Salmon Hatchery. Over the last few years, I have been on a quest to visit every salmon hatchery in the state. This goal ignites in my family exactly the level of enthusiasm that you would expect it to, which is none. Marc is usually good for one a year, two at most. Carter will go, usually only if he has already been trapped in the car with us under other pretenses. I had not yet been to this particular hatchery, and there was nobody with me who could complain, so off I went.
The hatchery is in a lovely setting. Open fields, surrounded by green forest. Tanks full of fish in various stages, a well-marked trail to the river and the adult collection area. I explored the holding areas and trails, and on the way back to the car, ran into one of the employees. I have found that if I hang around long enough, and show even the slightest interest in the facility, I will usually be treated to a full guided tour. I was not disappointed, and all it took was a wave and a hello, a few questions, and Scott was unlocking the secured area to show off the mature summer run of Chinook salmon, which they had been harvesting eggs from over the last three weeks, and would be again the following day. He shared the alarming statistic that only 200 or so Chinook had returned this year, for unknown reasons. We chatted at length about salmon, hatchery duties, the elk and bears that visit the area around the hatchery, and many more things that are probably only of interest to those who work with salmon, and the handful of us who find it fascinating. He told me about the release in March, the timing of which is based on the behavior signals of the fish in the tank, and how 250,000 fish swim through a gate into the stream that feeds into the Sol Duc, all in a matter of three hours. I plan to go back and watch, if I can time it right. Thoughts swam in my mind about how 250,000 could be reduced to 200. What do they see as they swim downriver, toward the ocean? What do they encounter at sea that so drastically reduces their numbers? Hatchery visit complete, I again hit the road, headed home. So to speak.
A little further down the road, I spotted the sign for the Sol Duc Hot Springs. Feeling gritty from a couple of days on the beach, and the sooty air, I decided a shower and a soak would make my travels more comfortable. So again, off the highway I turned.
At the gate marking the entrance to the Sol Duc section of Olympic National Park, I talked my way in without paying, by telling them I volunteer at Mt. Rainier, and chatted briefly with the friendly ranger. A short way up the road, I stopped at a pullout for the Salmon Cascade, a series of deep pools, surrounded by huge boulders. A signboard on the trail delivers the depressing news that few salmon are seen anymore at this spot, due to over fishing below. I spotted a flyer near the restroom for a missing person, and stopped to read the details. A young man, about the same age as my oldest son, had gone missing in April. I noted the details, and that information should be shared with the Santa Cruz police department. I made a mental note to ask the first park ranger I saw if there was new information.
I continued on to the Hot Springs. Just before the turnoff, I passed the ranger station, and there were three law enforcement ranger vehicles parked along the road, with a tow truck. I thought about stopping, but they all looked preoccupied. I pulled into the lot at the lodge, and found a parking spot. As soon as I had parked, the three rangers and the tow truck pulled in, and proceeded to the end of the parking lot. Curious, as always, I mosied down to see what was up. They had surrounded a man, who was sitting on the ground, with his meager camping supplies spread about. He was near a picnic table, and a dilapidated car, which looked like he had been living in it. He had obviously set up shop in an area that was meant for day use only, in a busy parking lot with tourists and families, and was about to be helped along his way. I noted one of his belongings was a large wicker picnic basket with leather trim, one of those trendy vintage-type sets that comes with wine glasses and a fancy bottle opener. It looked very out-of-place with his tattered sleeping bag, and I wondered where he had gotten it.
I paid my admission to the hot springs, showered, and spent a while soaking in the different pools. I had not been there in years, the last time being when both of my children were small. On that visit, my husband had refused to join us in the pools, declaring them unsanitary and full of “cocoon people”, in a reference to the movie “Cocoon”, where aliens in giant pods incubated in a deserted pool house. No pods were in evidence (on either visit) and it felt good to be clean. I headed back out to my car, still in my wet bathing suit, and settled on a towel for the drive home. I had been away from the parking lot for an hour, and the police were still surrounding the man on the ground. I noted his age and dark hair, and the thought crossed my mind that maybe he was the missing man. He wouldn’t be the first young person to fall into the chasm of schizophrenia and wander off. And if this confused, homeless young man was not the boy of the missing person poster, he must be somebody else’s missing person, and maybe his father is searching for him.
I drove back out to the entrance of the park, and stopped to thank the ranger for letting me in for free. I asked her about the missing boy, and if he had ever been found. She said no, they were still looking, and that his father had flown in many times from California to dive the river. She said he had been on the second day of a solo bike tour, and his bike and gear had all been found by the side of the road. The speculation was that he had gone down to the river for water, and fallen in. In April, the water would have been flowing swift and cold. She said they were baffled that he had not been recovered, because the water in the river is so clear, and there is only one log jam area, which had been searched. She said it was possible that he had gone all the way to sea, as had happened ten years ago, in a similar circumstance, and that body had been recovered in Canada. Having seen many of the stretches of the Sol Duc, that seemed an impossibility. But if not impossible, then horrific. I was reminded of something a Mt. Rainier park ranger had told me a few years ago, after a visitor from Florida went over Christine Falls while trying to take a photograph, and fell to his death as his son looked on. He said because we were in a park, and there are signs and railings, people think it is safe. But, he went on to say, “This isn’t Disneyland.” That analogy carried more weight before the toddler was attacked and killed by an alligator at Disney World. Even Disney World isn’t Disneyland. And my guess is, if one were to dig a bit, there are statistics as well hidden as the door to Club 33, that might show that even Disneyland isn’t Disneyland. My head full of thoughts, I thanked her again, and continued on my way.
On the rest of the drive home, I kept thinking about the parallels of my experiences of the day: Ashes from the Eastern Washington wildfires, drifting up and over the Cascade Range, to silently fall on my deck like snow, carried in a haze of smoke that blotted out the sun and darkened the sky of an entire state. Young salmon, circling and waiting in a pen, waiting for the mysterious signals that would tell them, and their keepers, that this was the day they should be set free, and left to their fate as they make their way to the ocean. The mature salmon, waiting patiently at the gate, for the chance to complete their destiny, not knowing it would be at the hand of man. The dead salmon carcasses, lying at the bottom of the river, having completed their genetic pilgrimage along the way, naturally. The heartbreaking thought of a father, repeatedly flying thousands of miles, to dive each length of the river, searching for his son. Evidence of events, each far from the scene of the crime…events that would have ripple effects that would be felt for miles, and years. My heart ached for the young man, the same age as my son, who was on what should have been the first of many chance-of-a-lifetime adventures, and it turned out to be his last.
So, what lessons do I glean from these experiences? That setting aside expectations can open the door to unexpected gifts. That the places I am drawn to for growth and inspiration have a dark and dangerous side, and I must always watch my step. That I should be grateful that my once-in-a-lifetime experiences keep adding up. That when idea and opportunity meet and could result in a memory that would last a lifetime, I cannot be lazy, and must climb back out of the hammock and take off my clothes and raise up my arms to celebrate the moon. Because you never know when you are going to be on the wrong side of a logging truck that is losing its payload, or your next step on a slippery boulder is going to be your last, or a creature is going to rise up out of the lagoon and take you in its mouth. And those lost moments, if we let them slip by, will drift silently out to sea, never to be seen again.
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