NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC STORY WITH CATE IN IT
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American Wilds
The Pacific Surf-And-Turf Special
To tackle the rugged Olympic Coast, a hiker needs three things: A topo map, a tide table, and the desire to
walk on water.
By Ryron Ricks
Far offshore, seas build on the open Pacific. They speed toward the Washington coast at more than 30 knots,
carrying so much energy that every six-foot-high, 33-foot-long wave generates enough power (if only it could be
harnessed) to keep the lights burning in a thousand Seattle houses. I first notice the swells as they explode
with tons of force against the farthest sea stacks --- the first ragged teeth of the continent. Then they
surge ashore, chasing me back toward the rain forest wall.
There are few places in North America where a backpacker can reach a coast this wild, short of using a
floatplane. And probably nowhere else in the lower 48 does the sea step as far into a trecker's life. The
60-mile route generally known as the Olympic Wilderness Beach hike, is divided into two lengthy sections. The
more consistently dramatic is the 17.1-mile southern stretch, from Third Beach down to the mouth of the Hoh
River. It provides effortless strolls along the sand and a nice adventure quotient, too: huffs over headlands,
and stream crossings that can be waist deep or more. Thick weathered ropes serve as handrails for flights of
wood-and-earth stairs, and ladders dangle from cliffs. Then there are the hiking routes that disappear under a
whole lot of angry surf twice a day: The local tide table is a critical piece of gear.
This point was made clear when I called ahead for information last summer. "The tides will test your patience.
The sea demands respect," the ranger intoned, presumably after extinguishing her whale-oil lamp and setting
aside her Patrick O'Brian novel. "Otherwise," she added lightly, "if you head south, just keep the ocean on
your right."
THE LIFE LIST
Coastal routes are the ultimate low-elevation hikes, and many of them can be trekked all year. Winter on the
Olympic shore, which rarely brings subfreezing temperatures, draws devoted hikers with spectacular storms, an
absence of crowds, and unthinkable waves that carry ashore piles of six-foot-thick logs.
Afloat, the sea logs can pulp mere flesh-and-blood backpackers in a trice. Which is why the May-through-
September period is ideal. The seas calm, the storms and rains ease, and these gnarled timber giants behave
themselves, laying quietly on the cobbles, looking like the bleached bones of a leviathan.
Summer, of course, is also the best time to sample North America's other great surf-and-turf hikes. In
California, Big Sur has a bounty of routes, as does the Lost Coast - the 80-mile stretch where the state's famous
Highway 1 turns inland, leaving the beaches relatively unexplored. On the East Coast, U.S. developers forgot to
leave really long stretches for shoreline backpacking. But up in Canada's Maritimes, Newfoundland's East Coast
Trail runs for 136 miles along the cliffs. And the must-do tally for any aficionado of this kind of hiking
includes another Canadian entry, the 47-mile West Coast Trail on British Columbia's Vancouver Island; the trail
originated as a route to rescue shipwrecked mariners.
Where the Olympic coast beats the others is in its combination of wildness and accessibility. Actually, this
is the key to the whole peninsula. In a distance of 30 miles, you can go from the icy summit of Mount Olympus
down through rain forest valleys fed by an annual 150 inches of precipitation, all the way to the surf line.
It's like a microcosm of the continent-and you can drive there from the Seattle airport in half a day.
SURF SLEEPING
Photographer David Robbins and I dropped our car at the southern terminus of the hike, Oil City (where there
are a couple of houses but neither oil nor a city), and then paid $30 for a ride back north. We had to walk
a mile and half from the road, but then dense forest gave way to the crashing Pacific and the grand expanse of
Third Beach, named (with characteristic panache) by the Army during World War II.
For the next three days we meandered among sand, rock and headland forests, where we crossed creeks and passed
beneath giant spruce, the largest of which wee probably seedlings when Juan de Fuca claimed to have sailed these
shores in 1592.
Offshore, the sculpted sea stacks that distinguish the coast loomed from every vantage point. The towers of 20-
to 40-million-year-old rock stood in all stages of erosion. Some were still partially cemented to land; others
rose from the open water, perhaps capped by a few storm-wracked trees or by hordes of seabirds. During the
last ice age, some 12,000 years ago, sea levels were lower and the Washington shore lay a few dozen miles to the
west. The waves have been slowly gnawing at the coast ever since.
Olympic hikers normally camp high on the beach or a few feet into the forest. On our second night, when we
bedded down by a stream called Mosquito Creek, the breakers were already grasping at the shore within 20 yards of
camp. David slept soundly in the tent, while I chose to bivvy beneath the stars, closer to the waterline. It
was a perfect spot to fidget all night, kept awake by visions of campers flopping in the surf like beached
whales.
HIGH-TIDE BOOGIE
Our final morning's route was to take us across a 1.3-mile extreme-low-tide beach to arrive at Hoh Head. We got
a late start (due to an oatmeal disaster; why assign blame?), the probed with hiking poles and leapt from rock to
rock over deep pools filled with anemone and braids of bull kelp. Surf burst across my boots. We were too late.
In a couple of hours ten feet of surging ocean would drown the rocks - and they would be impassable long before
that.
We retreated inland to bypass the beach, spent hours stumbling over roots-then faced still more low-tide traverses
farther along the shore. We were so far behind schedule that the tide had already crested and was falling again.
It just hadn't fallen enough. We found ourselves scrambling across cliff faces and hading our packs over the
boulders to stay above the booming surf. I watched nervously as a sea star was washed clean from its suction-cup
hold.
Gradually the tide dropped, the rock slope fell away to surfside boulders, then to cobbles, and at last to sand.
Tired and a bit humbled, we finally turned inland along the swift Hoh River, stepped onto the quiet carpet of
the forest, and folded the tide table away.
THE OLYMPIC COAST
Stop off in the town of Forks, a five-hour drive from Seattle, to pick up supplies and check in at the ranger
station (360-374-7566). THE HIKE: Drop your car at the end point of the hike and arrange a ride back to the
trailhead with Windsox Service (www.windsox.us). Both the north and south routes take an average of three days
and two nights to complete. Shorter coastal options include the Lake Ozette Wilderness Destination route (nine
miles) and a scenic trek to Point of the Arches (a seven-mile round trip from the Makah Reservation). Local
Wisdom: Winds and storms can push high tides beyond the limits tables predict and can render some routes
impassable even at low tide. Bear canisters are mandatory - to protect your food from raccoons as much as from
bears. Canisters may be borrowed (for a $3 donation) from National Park headquarters in Port Angeles
(www.nps.gov/olym).
How Are A Texas Tornado And A Tennessee Divorce The Same?........Somebody's Gonna Lose A Trailer.
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