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"Follow the elk." This has become my new motto as I explore the uncharted forests of the upper Queets Valley. If an area is passable, elk go there... through woods, over hills, across sandbars, through meadows. If I reach a spot where elk tracks don't go, I must be wary. More than a few times I've gone on my own and been stuck in impassable alder thickets, scrambling over precarious logjams, or grappling up a steep gully only to find that I could have found an easier way around if I'd followed the elk trails. With no more trails to follow, I measure my progress in river-miles. Today is a short day, only 3½ miles upriver, although on-foot I'm traveling several times that... it's impossible to say exactly. These distances may be crude measures of progress, but it's the best I can use. This afternoon brings spectacular views of Kilkelly Creek, draining off the precariously steep slopes of the Valhallas (those knife-edge peaks on the south flanks of Mt. Olympus named after an assortment of ancient German gods). Tonight I camp directly under one of them, as it stands almost a vertical mile above me. It looks very stately indeed, and I smile reverently as I cook dinner and study my maps in the late-afternoon sun. |