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…
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…
Photo by Arun Rohila, used with permission*
Recently, my sister and I headed to Mt. Rainier to catch the meteor shower…apparently 9 million other people had the same idea. We arrived at Sunrise about 11:30 in the evening to find a full parking lot and a multitude of people…Loud talkers, headlights, flashlights, bright phones, strobe flashes, diesel trucks running “to keep warm” (the temperature was near 60 degrees), car doors slamming, dogs barking. I walked up Sourdough Ridge, trying to find some peace and quiet, and it was worse up there. I was amazed at how many people were afraid to just trust their eyes and follow their feet. I felt like there was a traveling carnival at my sacred place. I have been at Sunrise when my car was literally the only one in the parking lot. Granted, it was 18 degrees and there was swirling dry ice, but it was magical. After three hours of too much humanity and fewer than hoped for shooting stars, we cashed it in. The best part was tracking the headlamps of the climbers coming through Cadaver Gap and ascending from Camp Schurman, slowly inching their way to the summit…a parade of tiny lights slowly marching on toward a life-long dream. As I watched, I prayed that the lights would stay in a straight, steady line, and that they were watching their foot placement, not looking down on us in the parking lot and wondering, “Just how far away does a person have to go to feel alone in nature?”
This is a modified version of a post to Facebook on August 13, 2016
*To see more incredible work by this talented photographer, go to www.arunrohilaphotography.com, or on his Facebook page, go to “Shop Now”
Increasingly, I seek out places where I know there will be no other people. And increasingly, those places are becoming difficult to find. In a state as magnificent as ours, with so many beautiful places to visit, you would think you could go somewhere, a beach, a trail, a river, and have it to yourself. Not so much, is the answer. During the summer months, especially, everyone else seems to have the same idea. When I feel the pull for isolation in nature, I wind up driving long distances, and going alone. This drives my husband crazy. He travels for work, so for him, being home is a treat. He worries about my safety. My sanity also seems to be frequently called into question.
Last weekend, he and I took a road trip together to the Long Beach Peninsula, with the goal of exploring and hopefully seeing birds and animals. One of our first stops was a beach near Oysterville. This particular beach allowed for vehicles to drive on the sand. I can see the allure,