100 Kilometers in the Olympic National Park

100 Kilometers in the Olympic National Park

August 14th, 2016

Having trodden many of the trails in the Olympic National Park, an idea simmered in my mind involving some of the most rugged sections. After two weeks of late-night staring contests with my Olympic National Park map, I devised a loop. After a four hour nap, I started at Obstruction Point around midnight on Sunday. I ran down the road back to Hurricane Ridge, then I dropped down to the Elwha via Wolf Creek Trail. Witching hour was living up to its name. The forests were dark, eerie, and full of silent watchfulness. The eyes of a small bobcat, illuminated by my headlamp at Whiskey Bend, only encouraged the spooky feeling that time of the night brought. As I ascended up to Dodger Point, the west peaks reflected the spectrum of early sunlight - which lightened the mood. A buck with its thunderous hop was the only sensation that brought my mind out of the hypnotic state of climbing. As I approached the last half mile, my eyes were agape as they saturated with Mount Olympus and the Bailey Range. I arrived at the Dodger Point Fire Lookout as the sun rose, shining bright on the surrounding ridges and mountains.

The navigation became difficult after proceeding off Dodger Point to the Elwha. The trail is a well maintained deer trail closed in by undergrowth. I circled for 30-60 minutes as the trail merged into a meadow and became an elusive path to follow. As I descended, I wondered multiple times whether I had to navigate a labyrinth of untouched forest down to the Elwha River. Solace filled my marrow as I spotted an orange tag on a tree, the universal sign of being back on track! After that, the descent down to the Elwha ford was pleasantly steep with the reassuring whip of salal on every stride. The river was marvelously cold on the feet and a relief from the heat and friction that builds up on steep descents. The Elwha Valley is the epitome of picturesque Olympic National Park river valleys. Green moss, walls of trees, and mushrooms misting the air with spores.

A left turn up and out of the valley leads into a pine forest. As the elevation increased the temperature decreased. Soaking my hat in every creek helped lessen the onslaught of the sun’s radiation. Hayden Pass is not too steep but lasts 8.4 miles; the word slogging comes to mind. Hayden Pass is out there, but once you arrive, you don’t want to leave. The view of Mount Anderson massif with its peaks surrounding Eel Glacier entices one up the ascent.

Mount Claywood and Sentinel Peak form the gateway that welcomes into the Dosewallips River Valley. The descent off Hayden Pass is a memory preserved deep in my mental vault to return to when hopelessness reigns over my being. On the first switchback, Sentinel Peak exposes its massive, glistening scree fields.

A left turn down another switch back points straight at Mount Claywood, standing tall as a wave about to crash upon the rocks. 

Creeks and waterfalls are hopped, skipped, and jumped over. The mood is light, frolicking through the flower filled meadows. The 1000 foot climb in .9 of a mile to Lost Pass contrasts sharply with the elevation of the previous descent off of Hayden Pass and nature frills. Roots, dust, and more roots create a cedar scented staircase that elevate me off the valley floor. 

At the top, the Lost Pass sign stares with defined numbers, 5-5-5-0, welling up a sense of accomplishment as the lungs are being sucked down into the diaphragm. 



Cameron Pass looms up ahead and Lost Peak cliffs crumble into scree field, giving it the look of a mountain worn down to the bones. 



A peak of euphoria at the top of Cameron Pass floods my veins. Wishing I could stay a while and scurry on the ridge crests like a squirrel on a power line. 

The descent had the potential of turning into a scree party if I was in better shape. Hamburger feet don’t make good scree ice skates. The disappointment in a lack of scree bombing was minimized by the splendor of Upper Cameron Basin. 



Head Cameron lays like a massive old dragon that has shed its scales around its tired frame. Snowfields and small runoff streams feed into the winding Cameron Creek below.


 

I descend, pushing into the valley. Cameron Creek trail is overgrown and my mind reminisces movies with dense jungle and machete wielding adventurers. Just before I give up hope and turn around to search for the lost ascent trail, I find the junction. Another escalator, up and up. More crawling snake root staircases and more breathing in the air as fast as the evergreens around me can make it. Grand Pass welcomes along with the golden hour. 



Grand Valley lies ahead, past an icy lake and a descent like the swoop of a hawk. Coming down the rock staircases to Moose and Grand Lake tear up my left iliotibial band, which reduces me to trading off between stiff legged running and walking. The darkness settles in and I ascend to the top of the climb. I feel like a knuckle dragging ape climbing a hill after being exiled from the troop. Dark thoughts accompany the enveloping night. Beneath a star-lit canopy, all the regrets, what-ifs, and fixations on expectations are created and destroyed, persisting and cycling through my tired brain. The top of the ridge brings the comforting thought: “we are close”. My shuffling run/walk eventually brings me back to Obstruction Point. A massive buck stands next to the end of the trail, observing. My feet are relieved. I feel like victim of alien abduction. Did that just happen? Was that an actual occurrence? Around 69 miles and 20000+ feet of elevation gain. Exhausted, I crack a beer. What now? 

https://www.strava.com/activities/676522755

The Bailey Range Traverse

The Bailey Range Traverse

August 19th, 2017

My interest was piqued. Chatting after a 50k race that circumnavigated Mount Saint Helens, the man sitting across from me said, “I heard it’s a long 24 hours”. Others warned of at least a three to four day trek. A friend had bailed off a month ago due to snow. Indeed, another journey, another day. How long would it take? How far was it? The unknown. Two weeks later I was getting out of bed at one in the morning and headed for the trail head. The plan was to start at the Sol Duc and finish at the Sol Duc - traversing the Bailey Range to Mount Olympus, continuing on to the Hoh River Trail and climbing up the Hoh Lake Trail back up to Seven lakes Basin, and from there back to Sol Duc. 

I started up the Sol Duc River Trail and considered the long day to come. Still half asleep, grogginess permeated my consciousness as I forged through a tunnel of old growth trees illuminated by my headlamp while the rhythmic beat of my ice ax bounced along with my body's undulations. Time sprinted by. Before I knew it, the early dawn started to distinguish ridges and shapes on the dark landscape around me, while the crescent moon relaxed herself into the horizon.

Ascending to the sub alpine; heather and fir trees sprinkled in tiny orbs of dew. As I climbed up toward the High Divide, I gazed down on Heart Lake. Half shaded by trees and gently illuminated by the light of the rising sun.

Continuing to the crest of the ridge line, the trail meandered through the trees and heather meadows, making way to the cat walk along the ridge. The path became an ascending sin wave staircase of root and rock. The shoulder of Mount Carrie lifted me to the sky. Meadows reduced to sparse patches of grass intermingled among scree fields. My sight drifting down, admiring the marine layer crawling up the Hoh River Valley from the ocean.

I dig in. Claws up front grasping to occasional solid rock, searching for any purchase on loose scree. Toes finding a stable island of rock or sinking into soft slope. Getting one step up while losing two precious steps back to gravity. The glorious sight of the sun taunts from the opposite side of Carrie. Almost to summit, almost to warmth, almost to waking light.

The summit of Mount Carrie. Views expansive, flooding my consciousness. Vivid memories imprinted that I wont forget. A glimpse of remoteness. That feeling is a very rare occurrence. Out there - further. The Bailey Range sprawling and undulating. Expanses of rock and snow. A heavenly trail above the primeval rain forest. To the south, Olympus Massif, a standing kingdom of white shattered by protruding black crags. The distance to the Massif a lifetime away. After a break for water and food, I don glacier glasses and microspikes and step onto Carrie Glacier.

Following along the snow ridge in the middle of the glacier that leads a curved route that traverses below Ruth Peak... Ruth entices. A route to summit? I decide no. Knowledge of the route is lacking I've got many more miles to cover in very little time.

Onward I march to the steep eastern finger of Carrie Glacier. 

Cracked ice glistening in the sun. Snow melted off the steeper section of the glacier incites a decision: with only the microspikes, climbing up the solid rock to the right of the glacier would be a safer route.


I climb up glacier-polished rock. Hand holds are sparse. Hitting a difficult patch, I splay out on the smooth dome of rock, reaching. My body finds tiny protrusions allowing ascent. Success! After that, easy and loose rock lead to the sun-baked snow field above.

I eye the ridge crest for the gully descending to Stephen Lake. Peeking my head through the gaps between the rocky spires for the descent.  I follow a ramp that descends down to loose rock and snow fields. I glissade down the snow fields as far as possible. The wide open gully funnels down into a creek that cuts down to Stephen Lake. I hop from rock to rock along the cascading creek bed, less difficult than navigating the loose, steep scree slopes.

The creek disperses across a delta into tiny streams of water all finding their own rambling path to the azure lake.

Ascending Mount Stephen, I stick to a snowfield to avoid the frustratingly loose scree. Eventually, the scree is the only option. The climb is steep and long, one of the biggest of the day. I finally reached the top of a broad ridge a few hundred feet below Mount Stephen. Still holding a reservoir of energy, I make a small detour and find the jagged summit of Mount Stephen.

The descent is gradual on the ridge. Snowfields and rock are traded for trees and meadows. I follow trails. They are so faint it is hard to tell whether they are game or faint paths left by past traverses. I stay up high, and when a view of Ferry Basin appears, I descend. The view is picturesque. A network of streams and game trails meander through the heather and stunted firs. Alpine pools and streams glisten in the midday sun. What a paradise.


I linger for a while taking in the heavenly basin. I eat some much needed nutrition and wash it down with a small stream running off the snowfields of Mount Ferry. I climb a short snow field and a gently sloping ridge up to the summit of Mount Ferry. On the descent, the view to the right is a beautiful lake, still coated in snow and ice even in August.

I skip Mount Pulitzer this time. Skirting around on its east shoulder and descending down to Lone Tree Pass. I search for elk in Goldie Basin, but there are none to see.

I descend down a bare ridge off of Pulitzer Pass. Eventually returning to snow. I travel through a gully with the Urchin and Ragamuffin to the left. The names are fitting. Sharks teeth, devil's fangs, and demon talons would all be suitable names. I move over sun holes and snow crests making my way toward Mount Childs. After ascending up a ridge of snow I am surprised to see two humans making there way across the traverse. They are probably just as surprised. They have just come up from the Elwha Snow Finger and they say that it is nonexistent this time of year and a horrendous path without snow, a maze of slide alder and steep slopes of loose rock. Sounds like a typical bushwhack in the Olympics.


I approach the summit of Mount Childs. My thighs growing heavier as I ascend over loose rock interspersed with jagged chunks. I reach the apex and admire the sharp needled peaks below.

Bear Pass glacier is only a mile and a half away and I make my way over rock and snow towards it. Once on the glacier I realize how tired I am. My feet sinking into the sun-cooked snow encourages my growing fatigue. At the top of Bear Pass glacier I overlook the glorious Queets Basin. Remote as all hell. Has anyone been here? Gray and black rock spotted with white snow patches. Mount Barnes stands out, her snow fields glinting in the sun. Many tiny streams accumulate into the headwaters of the Queets River. I descend easy terrain into the basin and make my way past cascading creeks, rock, and mounds of heather.

Stepping off the scree and rocks I enter a meadow. I spot a bear meandering around down below, looking for whatever a bear looks for. He pays no mind to me. I head for low brush clinging to the hillside. Traversing towards Humes Glacier I start to have trouble in the brush. Steep, steep, steep. I cling to brush and branch. I even bring out my ice ax to grip the steep hills. I find a rotten tree torn to pieces by a bear and the biggest pile of bear scat I’ve ever seen. I have to descend and ascend two steep ravines still using my ice ax on the loose slopes. Frustrated and sun burnt, I did not want to deal with route confusion this far in. After descending the last ravine, I find myself staring at the north drainage of the Humes Glacier. I maneuver through the drainage, a maze of boulders and rocks smoothed by glacial movements. I climb up slabby rock ledges and view the sprawling glacier with a silty lake at her terminus. The glacier resembles a dirty ice cube. I walk up easily with my spikes on bare ice, happy that there is no soft snow, no crevasses. Tiny rivulets run down grooves in the glacier and a few small moulins dot the surface.

I climb over Blizzard Pass and make a detour. I climb Circe for my last summit of the day. The sun descends through wispy clouds. The rocky peaks of the Olympus Massif silhouetted in front of blue sky and golden sunset.

I move down snow fields to the Hoh Glacier. For a split second, anxiety that the route does not go makes my mind whirl. A symptom of weariness and low calories. Of course it goes through, and I eke out a whoop.

I maneuver slowly through the cracks of the Hoh Glacier being cautious, and marvel at the rock of Mount Mathias towering regally above the ice.

I climb over Glacier Pass from Hoh to Blue Glacier. I watch small blocks of ice clatter down the ice falls.


The sun drops behind the blue ice and the sky turns orange. I feel a surge of energy, the end of one leg of the journey done. I run down the gently sloped Blue Glacier and jump the two foot wide crevasses.

I make my way to the lateral moraine, the end of the glacier covered with dark rocks and rough ice. I get to the top of the moraine and look back at the glaciers and rocks. Ice ax and spikes away, jacket on. I take a quick 15 minute nap under the orange sky. 



I wake up, eat a few dates, and continue on. Through the dark I move down the Hoh river trail feeling a relief to be back on easier trail. Easier terrain. Easier route finding. Weariness takes over. I only make it to the Hoh Bridge before another 15 minute nap is needed. I set the timer and lay down with the roar of the river below me. I wake up before the alarm, something startling me into consciousness, and keep moving. 

I turn right on to the Hoh Lake Trail and start my long climb back to Seven Lakes Basin. I make it a mile before my drunken stumbling and head spinning bring me to the ground for another dirt nap. I take a few more during the climb, each nap limited by getting so cold I would wake up. The climb is relentless. The longest climb of my life, 4000 feet up from Hoh River to Hoh Lake. A spiral staircase of switchbacks that make me dizzy, coercing me to another nap. I’m finally at the top. A pleasant summer wind blows as I follow the dark trail home. I make an attempt to search for mountain blueberries, but the search is further exhausting me and I only nab a few. I pass lupines and open meadows, painted in darkness, sleepy and covered in dew. The last few miles is a hobble. I stub my toe, but it feels like my whole foot, over and over. Weary legs barely able to pick up my feet which have turned to lead. More switchbacks. More rocks. Through the forest, a gentle gray light blooms slowly. I hear the roar of the Sol Duc Falls. More switch backs. Will those damn falls ever appear? There they are! Roaring and misty. Over the bridge. Clank clank the ice ax bounces again. The trail smoother now from the many day hikers that eye-ball and paparazzi the misty falls. Another root to the toe and another rock. And the finality. One dedicated loop around the parking lot to make it 60 miles even. A drink to relax the mind, but it doesn't put a dent in my mind, blown. Just to take that edge off a little. Nostalgia already growing. I knew that this was a very good day.

https://www.strava.com/activities/1143073178