August 26, 2018. Stealth camp before cedar Creek to stealth camp before Yellow Bank.
I got up early because low tide was around 7:30. The first part of my morning was easy hiking on firm sand. It was overcast with de minimis drizzle.
After the easy hiking, I rounded one headland and fortunately hit another lengthy sand beach leading up to the Norwegian Memorial and the adjacent campsite. The Prince Arthur of Norway crashed on the rocks nearby in 1903 and a monument was erected in honor. There were some appropriate mementos at the base of the memorial (flags for the US and Norway) and inappropriate (a shoe insert).
I could’ve stayed at this campsite, but it was still morning and high tide would not happen until after 1:00. However, designated campsites after Norwegian required a reservation. I opted to get close to the first restricted site (Yellow Banks), leaving just six miles of beach before reaching the trail’s end at Cape Alava tomorrow.
Based on this decision, I had to do some rock scrambling. Along the way I found an amazing variety and volume of waste on the beach. Fishing nets, flotation devices, cable protectors, rusty barrels. The most depressing was the sheer volume of plastic water bottles. Worse, so many of them were half full. Terrible.
Fortunately, no head was attached.I was shocked by the large amount of netting that had washed up.Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with an explanation.OK. So just once in college I did experiment with Happy Time Assortment.No comment.This headless skeleton appeared to from a sea lion.
I found a cove that seemed very remote based on the amount of material washed up. It had little beach and a lot of driftwood. Since high tide would be in soon, I opted to get up high and wait for the tide to recede. I found a good spot and even managed a short nap.
Moving again, I soon approached Yellow Banks. Before it, there was a well-used campsite that I grabbed. I had a late dinner and watched the horizon, hoping for a repeat of last night’s show. Unfortunately, the sky remained gray. As this was my last night, I reflected a bit but did not get sentimental. It was time to finish.
This decoration marked the entrance to my camping spot.Looking up the cove, I could barely see the Yellow Banks.
August 25, 2018. From Forks to a stealth camp between the Chilean Memorial and Cedar Creek campsites.
I enjoyed my last shower and went to the transit station. I was going to take a local bus over a 6 mile stretch of highway with non-existent shoulders. It would drop me off at a corner gas station from which I would walk five plus miles to ONP and Rialto Beach.
The skies were gray and damp, promising rain. The bus stop at the corner station served breakfast. I couldn’t refuse. The only choice was a breakfast burrito. I grabbed my coffee and sat down to wait while they cooked it.
While checking my maps and tide tables, a backpacker came in and asked if I was doing the PNT. He was doing a short coast hike, but recognized the PNT maps from a few years back. His trail name was Tiger Lily.
The breakfast burrito was simply a frozen one they microwaved. Alas, beggars can’t be choosers, so I ate with gusto. And a hell of a lot of salsa.
I refilled my coffee and wandered out to begin hiking down Mora Road. Almost immediately it started drizzling. I got out my umbrella. I must’ve looked like a sissy backpacker with my umbrella in one hand and my coffee in the other.
Not caring what I looked like, I made steady progress west. At times there was no shoulder. Almost always cars gave me ample room. If I could hear a car approaching from behind and see one coming I just stepped off into the bushes. When I reached the ONP boundary, the speed limit mercifully dropped to 25 mph.
I arrived at Rialto Beach. Despite the drizzle and cold, the parking lot was full. I used the faucet to fill up on fresh water. Like most tourist locations, about 70% of the people stayed within 500 feet of their car, so very quickly I was on uncrowded beach.
This beach was mostly sand with driftwood stacked up past the high tide line. The tide was coming in, so I found a sheltered spot, got out rain gear, and with my umbrella made a dry spot where I tried to nap with limited success.
As the tide turned, I packed up and went north towards Hole-in-the-wall. If you’ve never backpacked on a sandy beach, it primarily consists of trying to find the firmest sand. Soft sand saps energy. On rocks, the name of the game is not putting all your weight on the slippery rocks and plants. Plus, have trekking poles or a stick to help with balance. I didn’t want to break my expensive trekking poles on the last couple days so I just found a sturdy stick.
I cleared Hole-in-the-wall easily. I loosely joined three guys hiking north to their campsite, the Chilean Memorial so named for a monument honoring the sailors from a Chilean ship that wrecked off the coast in the 1900s. The guys were from the Seattle area and doing an out-and-back.We navigated some slippery rocks.
At Chilean Memorial there was a dense tent-city. I was glad I wasn’t camping there. Instead, I was aiming for a stream about three miles north.
Coincidentally, I ran in to Tiger Lilly. We talked for about an hour to let the tide drop further to ease hiking around Cape Johnson. He was a Park Ranger, off duty, and had extensive hiking experience.
I crossed one headland using the ropes, but most I went around. As the afternoon ground towards evening, the drizzle ended and the sun even poked out. This was especially nice to highlight the various islands near the shore.
Around 7:30 I found a great campsite. It was about 60 feet up a bluff, under a large pine. It even had a fire circle which would’ve been nice.
I enjoyed my next to last dinner watching the tide recede towards the setting sun. To my delight, the sun actually pierced the clouds on the horizon giving me a light show before bed.
I put my bear canister in the bushes a distance away. They say it is not bears so much as raccoons that necessitate the canister precautions. It turned out to be a great day.
August 23, 2018. Deer Lake to Bogachiel Campground
Since I camped in a meadow near a lake, it was inevitable my tent was covered with condensation. It was just a little brisk as I gathered the bear canister and packed.
I went out past the toilet. Given the soil composition and number of visitors, the human waste goes into what can only be described as modified coolers. When necessary, a batch of full ones is swapped (via helicopter I presume) with empty ones. The main takeaway for me was to never, ever buy a used cooler.
I started climbing up from Deer Lake via a different trail. It was 6:30, but once I got past the two main camping areas I was pretty assertive with the “Hey bear” mantra. I didn’t want to startle a black bear sleeping on the trail with a huckleberry hangover.
Although the trail was climbing out of the Deer Lake basin, it did so in a gradual manner through pretty country. At the peak, I started walking along a tree covered ridge. It was perfect as far as I was concerned: up high on smooth trail with cool air.
After a few miles, I reached a break in the trees. I was surprised to see that upper level winds had blown away the smoke from some mountain tops given gorgeous views.
Soon after, the honeymoon was over as the trail descended. The trail turned into a rocky dry creek bed with blow downs. Although the forest was pretty, the condition of the trail detracted from the enjoyment.
Along this portion of trail, some emergency shelters had been constructed many years ago. I am speculating, but I think they were meant for people unprepared for a snow storm. Essentially, they were three sided lean-tos.
The trail followed the Bogachiel River as it grew in size during its descent. Once the trail and river leveled, portions of the trail were overgrown with plants up to my chest and head. What made it treacherous was the occasional hole dug by a badger (or similar sized creature) that could easily swallow a foot and really mess up an ankle.
I pushed to reach a camp on the map called Bogachiel Camp and Ranger Station. It was a challenge, but I got there. Unfortunately, it was missing just two things: a camp and a ranger station. I walked the area three times and found nothing. Instead, I shoehorned myself into a cramped spot in the dark. It was not ideal, but it was my home for the night.
August 21, 2018 Roaring Winds campsite to Boulder Creek Campground
I woke up early knowing this was going to be a tough 27 mile day. I would start above treeline and end up in semi-rainforest. A gross drop in elevation from 6,700 feet above sea level to 360 feet above sea level. I took a moment to thank my knee cartilage for years of dedicated service and bid a fond farewell.
It was smoky still. The sun crept higher looking like a shaded spotlight.
My mandated bear canister took up the top third of my pack.
I was well above tree line for most of the morning, but the tough, beautiful, sparse plants provided plenty of interest.
I could not tell whether this was two plants ( orange pine in a white cushion) or one plantAgain, I could not tell if these were two different plants or one.
These toughies appeared to be growing only in rock and crushed rock.
I was also graced with the presence of birds.
Have I ever mentioned marmots? My morning was marmot heavy.
This lone marmot appeared to be by himself. He called out a warning, but I saw no others.
A bit before noon, I reached the Hurricane Hill Visitors Center.
I feared it would be a tourist zoo as this is the primary driving destination in the park, normally offering gorgeous views after an easy drive. Perversely, the smoke worked in my favor as the huge parking was only 10% full.
When I went inside to the top of two layers, I was immediately able to complete some backpacker chores: find electrical outlet, water, and properly dispose of garbage. While charging, I casually reviewed some exhibits.
Then, I moved over to what seemed the nerve center of the building: Information. When I got to the counter, a gray-haired, uniformed park ranger asked how she could help. I asked “Are there any closures?” (My permit was issued over a week prior and between construction, fires, and, I’m not making this up, Goat Relocation, I knew there was a possibility a portion of my permitted route might be closed.) The blank look in her eyes made it clear I was in for some fun.
“What closures?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I am backpacking and just wanted to see if there are any road or trail closures I should know about.”
“Oh. If you’re backpacking you need to get a permit. They will know about any closures. ”
“Sorry, I already have a permit issued several days ago, but I just wanted to see if anything has closed recently.”
“You’ll have to talk to the permit people downstairs. We have no information on closures.”
Involuntarily, I stepped back and looked at the sign to make sure it hadn’t said “No Information. ”
Honestly, I tried very hard to ask politely “What information do you have.”
She curtly replied that they help visitors learn about park programs and nearby day hikes they could take. About to ask her what she would do if a day hike route were closed, I thought better of it and left, thanking her for time. I felt empty, without closure.
The best part, though, was when I went downstairs, to the holy land of closure information. It was a gift shop and snack bar! Torn, I couldn’t guess whether trail closure information would most likely come from the fry cook or the lady selling stuffed animals.
I chose the snack booth. I ordered the fish and chips: three pieces of fish and fries for $13. When I got the order, it was two pieces of fish. I asked the person if they were having a two-for-three special. She said “No, its regular price.”
After about a half hour, I had enough and got going. I had a fairly steep downhill, but first I had to go up the popular Hurricane Hill trail. There were many helpful signs explaining the two different trail closures coming up in the next few days.
It was hazy and hot on the open hillside. I opened up my umbrella to create shade. I got a few smirks, but it kept the sun off and let the small breeze through.
A faint trail leads over the smoky edge.
Eventually, I began my descent. Over the next several hours I walked down from above tree-line to subalpine to grassland, dry ponderosa to rainforest. Early on, it was incredibly steep and I nearly wiped out as I tripped and my top-heavy pack wanted to carry me down.
A
No, I do not have tiny hands! The most covering this tree was deep, reminiscent of a shag carpet from the 70s.
Around 5:00 I reached the bottom. The ONP was in the midst of major renovations, having removed a hydroelectric dam and replacing the roofing on the nearby ranger station. As a result, a major roadway was closed to vehicle traffic. After so many perilous hours on narrow shoulders of busy highways, strolling along a wide paved Avenue through the trees was a beautiful change.
I passed two couples. One was on bike and the others hiked. Both couples were returning from the Olympic Hot Springs.
I had a gradual nine mile, 1800 foot elevation gain ahead of me. My knees were sore, but it was simply a matter of grinding out the miles. I did stop to look at the remnants of the dam.
The concrete on the left was part of the removed dam.
I ate dinner as I walked. Finally, about two miles before the hot springs / campsite, the paved road ended and turned to trail. It was close to dark so I got water and took out my headlamp. I’m not a fan of night hiking, so I was walking as fast as I could. Just as it was getting to the point where I couldn’t see 10 feet in front of me, I reached the campground. It was huge. A few years back, vehicles could drive all the way to the hot springs and thus the campground was large.
I hung my food, pitched my tent, and put my creaky bones and sore muscles down to sleep. Just as I was dozing off, a group of female hikers walked past with their headlamps blazing, returning from the springs to their campsite. Finally, after they got their food hung, the campsite was dead still and quiet. At last, my eyes found closure.
August 20, 2018. From Deer Creek Trail Head to Roaring Winds.
I woke up a little groggy. The smoke from the Canadian fires came in strong overnight. A couple times during the night I woke up because of the smell of smoke. You would think my sense of smell would be used to smoke by now.
There was a curious little tree peeper that watched me pack. He was so small I might’ve stepped on him if not for the bright color.
This guy was so tiny.
After packing, I started up the Deer Ridge Trail. At first, it was a nice steady climb. While I was messing around with a very weak cell signal, a day hiker came along. His name was Dave and he was a peak bagger. A peak bagger is somebody who sets goals of certain mountain peaks they want to climb. Typically, they try to hike up without the special gear that moutain climbers use. One of the best example is Coloradans striving to climb all peaks in their state 14,000 feet or more above sea level, called 14ers for short.
The sun struggles to shine through the morning smoke.
As the trail steepened and Dave conversed easily while I huffed and puffed, it was clear this 67 year old was in great shape. He was very knowledgeable about almost every Washington mountain I had seen. He lived nearby and even offered a place to stay on my way home if needed. I would consider myself lucky to be like him.
We parted company at the first camp inside ONP, Deer Park. My first and foremost job was to find water. I went to the ranger station to ask, but a sign said “On Patrol”, which I cynically took to mean napping.
I did find beautiful water right at the trailhead. My trail and campsite were all high and dry, so I tanked enough for the rest of the day and tomorrow morning. After filtering, I made a rookie backpacking mistake. Lost in thought, I took some big swigs out of the bottle in my hand. Looking down, I realized I had been drinking out of my “dirty” water bottle which is used to push water through my filter. I hoped I was so high and close to the water source it was safe from giardia and cryptosporidium. Well, I would definitely be the first to know.
As I started on the trail, I noticed some excellent trail work. In particular, the drainage was being done beautifully. In a mile, o met the two gentlemen responsible for the good work. They both were volunteers. I complimented and thanked them.
The hike was high and gorgeous even though the valleys were smoke filled. I passed about a dozen hikers, half of them day hikers.
Hazy views
Midafternoon I reached my assigned campsite called Roaring Winds. It was on a saddle between peaks and had a reputation of living up to its name. Nobody was there, so I snapped up the most protected of the four sparse sites.
The Roaring Winds messed up my fancy hair.I wasn’t sure whether this butterfly was attracted to the yellow color or wanting to send an SOS.
Wouldn’t you know it, the wind ceased around 5:00. Above, there was a predictable roar of navy jet engines returning to base every 15 minutes. Such a juxtaposition: a quiet, still national park interrupted by the scream of fighter jet engines.
Nobody else showed up at any of the other three sites.
As the sun set over the flank of Obstruction Point, I grabbed a few photos before calling it an early night.
Last night an expletive-filled domestic dispute. Tonight, not even a breeze, let alone a Roaring Wind, to make a sound.
August 19, 2018. Cat Creek Loop to Dear Creek Trail Head
I was slow to get up. The soft mulchy forest floor turned out to be a haven for critters. First, a mouse scratched at the side of my tent around 11:00. I smacked the area where the sound was coming from and apparently delivered a direct hit. However, a couple carpenter ants persistently tried to get in, with one actually succeeding. The forest was truly so quiet I could hear the ants crawling on my tent.
I knew I would have a short day. Instead of entering ONP and camping illegally, I would just take a short hike this day and camp just outside the park.
More Forest Service roads were the order of the day. Mostly I was going up. I saw very little traffic. However, I did come to realize this area is very popular with people who shoot.
My first two shooting areas were large turnouts. It looked like folks just took any old thing out there (a dryer, a old television, etc.) and blasted away. My third and final site was a large abandoned gravel pit. The ground by the road was almost completely covered with shell casings, mostly shotgun. I did not go in to the target area, but could see appliances, printed targets, and even what looked like a propane tank.
Up one forest road, somebody had burned and abandoned a vehicle. I found no bodies. Hopefully the insurance proceeds went to a good use.
By noon, I had reached my destination, the parking lot of the Trail Head for Deer Creek. My heart sunk a bit as I saw about ten cars. There was a lady who had built a fire on the gravel in the middle of the parking lot. Part of me wanted to go remind her there was a ban on campfires (as it clearly stated on the bulletin posted), but then part of me said to let it go. I went past her and towards the creek. Much to my surprise and delight, there were four good campsite and all were empty.
I chose the nicest one. It was nice because of the terrain, the 100 yard distance from the parking area, and because it was near the creek.
The creek had a curious creature in it. It was dark and shaped like a tadpole. However, it clung to rocks in fast moving water.
Diligent readers may recall that one of my rules is to avoid camping near a road or trail head, doubly so if it a weekend. The rationale is that some people like to party at these locations and make noise and, if the mood is right, fire weapons or throw beer bottles.
As the afternoon wore on, people gradually came off the trail and got in cars. Even Mrs. Pyromaniac’s partner came down. I washed some sweaty hiking gear and studied my maps.
As the sun was setting, all the cars had cleared out. However, a van pulled in to the parking lot. I heard a few doors slam. After about five minutes I heard somebody rustling in the bushes near my camp. I called out “Hello” and two people ran back through the bushes to the van and it took off. I must’ve scared the hell out of them.
I fell asleep but was awakened around 11:30 by a car screeching to a halt on the gravel. It stopped and nothing happened. However, after about 15 minutes, a car door opened and I was forced to listen to snippets of a very heated domestic argument. This went on for 20 minutes. Finally, the car door closed and the car sped off. Silence.
(Recap on permits and national parks: To manage the flow of people in the backcountry of National Parks, the National Park Service has a permit system. In the case of Olympic National Park (“ONP”) the system has some loose rules and strict rules depending upon areas. As you might imagine, the more restrictive rules apply to popular and sensitive areas. The less restrictive are more broadly designed to monitor the general direction and volume of hikers. Thankfully, PNT hikers can call and get permits over the phone. I did, but without the benefit of detailed maps in front of me.)
I was ready to go about an hour ahead of schedule. I wandered over to the local bus transit center and got on the 8:00 am #8 bus. It was early, but I was happy to just be on board. It started going the exact opposite direction I expected. I panicked as this was a Saturday and there was only a morning and evening run on the route I wanted from Port Townsend to Discovery Bay. If I was on the wrong bus, it would be a dangerous walk, a sketchy hitch, or a seven hour wait. Fortunately, the driver was just doing a loop through Port Townsend and then came back to the exact place I boarded. From there, we got going.
There was a regional Nash Metropolitan car club meeting at my motel. I’m not a car guy, but these were pretty cool. Definitely a cozy fit.
I exited the bus at Discovery Bay. Not knowing the history, I had to guess that somebody came here and discovered there was nothing. Technically, there was a bar and a marijuana dispensary, but that was it.
West Uncas Road was my route. I shouldered my 7 days of food and started walking up. Immediately, I was hit with a “Road Closed Ahead” sign. Undaunted, I trudged on admiring the farmland that had been carved out of the lush forest. The next road sign said the road was closed at Salmon Creek, which was what I had to cross in order to get to the trail head. I thought this was not good, but what choice did I have?
I got to the road closure, and it was simply a bridge being replaced over a (now) small stream. Easily, I walked down the bank, hopped over the trickle, and climbed the other bank: problem solved.
My next challenge was finding the trailhead. The app on my phone said I had passed it. I went back to the driveway of a house and noticed a “PNT Trail” sign attached to their mailbox. However, there were also signs on the driveway saying it was private property and there was “no through traffic.” I walked up the driveway and saw a younger man on the porch. I asked him if this was the way to the PNT. He said he did not know. I asked if it was OK for me to cross the property. He said he wasn’t sure. I was not sure whether he was being difficult or sincere.
I walked further up the driveway and a man yelled out of a second story window “Are you a hiker? I’ll be right down.”
This could be real bad (Hiker Hater) or good (“I love PNT hikers”). It turned out to be good. The man was named Greg and he owned the land, the 120 year old family house having been converted to a rental (i.e., airBandB), thus explaining the guest’s unfamiliarity with the PNT. He was excited about the PNT, explaining the route through his property, his trail angel activities, and an invitation to look at the “cabin” he was building for PNT hikers. He also told me to pick any fruit I wanted off the trees I would pass. He was an interesting and enthusiastic guy and I was very glad I met him.
After crossing his property and the adjoining one, I was on Forest Service land. I was going uphill, but I was not in a hurry. My permit did not have me entering the park until tomorrow, and even then it was a crazy location. As a result, today I just wanted to get close to the park, then tomorrow get right to the edge of the park. The third day, Monday, I would enter the park and stay at my first restricted / reserved campsite per my permit.
Mostly the morning was spent on forest roads. At one point, I walked past a small trail opening, assuming my next turn would be another forest road. After 20 minutes, I checked my phone app and saw I was off course. As I turned around and went back down hill, a guy with a backpack riding a 10 speed road bike passed me, and we said Hi.
Sure enough, the miniature trail opening was in fact the abandoned road I should’ve taken. The bike rider was there too. I shared my map, but he said it didn’t look like the route he was following. However, about 20 minutes later he came up behind me, having decided this was also his route.
We talked for a bit. He lived nearby, wanted to go camping and did not own a car. So, he was riding Forest Service roads to find a campsite. Once we got to a more established road, I urged him to take off and not keep walking. He said his name was Jerome and we wished each other safe travels.
I finally reached a Forest Service campground which I had as a possible stopping point. I walked through the campsite, saw there was no opening, and resigned myself to eating a quick lunch there, getting some water, and moving on. Ironically, with all the smoke in the air and the warm temperatures and fire bans, some people still had some fires burning in their campsites.
As I was packing up, two bicyclists came by and asked me about backpacking. One of them knew a bit about gear and they had several questions including where I was camping that night. I honestly didn’t know and told them.
In the afternoon, I narrowed my camping options down. I decided to go down Gray Wolf trail. This was the old “official” PNT route, but a bridge washout several years ago that had not and would not be repaired resulted in the “official” route changing. More importantly to me, it had water and, from the topographical map, potential flat camping spots. I was surprised at the number of cars at the trail head since this trail ostensibly went about 5 miles, hit an impasse and returned. Oddly, I ran in to the two biking guys. They had some backpacking questions and again asked where I was camping that night. I thought that was kinda weird, so I gave a vague answer. They didn’t look very dangerous, but I never give out specifics to strangers.
The topographical maps were accurate, but the forest was so dense that even flat land was covered with thick foliage. I found a loop trail for Cat Creek and decided to explore that. At a minimum, it would put me closer to water. After a futile half hour, I eventually found a tiny spot where my tent would just fit. It was lumpy, but at this hour, it would have to do. I set up camp and went up the loop trail to get water. Of course, just at the end, there was a perfect, moss moss covered campsite.
I ate my rehydrated meal and marveled at the mossy surrounding, the ground generally three inches deep with living and dead plant matter. Now that I am on the Olympic peninsula, I expected to see more lush forests. My seven day food supply did not all fit in the bear canister. So I hung some and left the rest, especially the more fragrant foods, in the cannister. I did however, find the best use for a bear cannister: as a camp stool.
I have never seen butterfly Bush growing in the wild. This was a clearcutting of forest land and there were several growing.Did I stop to smell it? Yes. Was it amazing? Absolutely.Looking down at the top of an unusual spindly plant.This boulder was probably four feet wide and two feet tall. How it ended up on the stump of a tree long ago is a mystery. I thought it might be like excalibur from King Arthur, but I couldn’t move it….
I was getting a big resupply here, including a bear canister. I’ve never used one before, but they are required in some part of the Olympic National Park, notably the coast. The savage beast causing the requirement for bear canisters? raccoons. In case you don’t know, a bear canister is a round plastic jar with a screw on lid. It is too big for a bear to get its jaws around and the roundness prevents their claws from digging in. Also, it supposedly seals in odors. Who knew, it is effective against raccoons, too.
Backpackers hate canisters. They are heavy and take up a fixed volume. Instead, food bags that are light, roll up, and can be hung are preferred.
I tried to do my usual of museum-then-library. However, I soon realized this is a major tourist town. First, cafes and bistros were not going to open until 10 am. The museum would not open until 11:00. So, I got a good walking tour in and went to the library. It was one of the Carnegie-funded libraries, busy, and beautiful.
Port Townsend started out life in a very promising manner. In a nutshell, it was to be the primary port in Washington. The initial wealth resulted in beautiful homes and buildings being built in the late 19th century. Subsequent hard times (i.e., depression and Seattle’s rise as a commercial center) caused a big outflow of people. However, once the Coast Guard established a base nearby, the population stabilized. As the museum docent described it, “hippies” discovered the place and saved it in a certain sense. The town never went through the phase where the old houses and buildings were torn down. So, when yuppies found beautiful Victorian homes and charming old buildings, the place took off. It is touristy (I paid $14 for a simple Reuben sandwich) but it is worth it. I must say I thought the museum charged way too much for such a small display, but the old jail was interesting.
The historical fire bell
I loved the whitened teeth on this architectural detail.
I did see a clutch of PNT hikers outside the Safeway store. They had some plan to rent a taxi and get near the trail. Only one of them offered a name (Nick Berg) and one of them was from Staples MN. It was nice to see their enthusiasm for the finish. Not Guilty was the last to join the group and he was also heading out that night.
Lastly, a steady ocean breeze from the west was clearing up the air. I could see across the water to other land forms and the sunsets and sunrises were blander with less red / orange coloring. My motel looked at the harbor and I could see the fishing boats come in and unload their catch.
Note: both of my loyal blog readers know I love signs. I was ecstatic to find this one. In the old days there used to be something called common sense. Further, a detailed asterisk was not needed.
I always carry a little extra duct tape in the summer.
I also got a glimpse of future me. He went through a 10 minute battle royale bobbing in and out, but sleep won.
Another motel continental breakfast got a bit of food and coffee in my system. I left the motel and found a route that would intercept the official PNT right near the coast. I perhaps owe an explanation. There was a state park where I could’ve camped in my tent. It was about another 6 miles. However, with a perfectly good town nearby, I grabbed a motel and a cooked meal.
The route I chose did walk me through this military-based town. I went by huge walls of blackberry plants and finally encountered people harvesting these beauties. Back home, I would probably pay $5 for a pint, but out here the plant is a nuisance and it is amazing to see so much ripe fruit just waste away on the vine.
When I reached the beach, the tide was high so I walked the nearby road. It was fairly boring. In another unique PNT moment I was walking along and a car came towards me, looked at me, and slowed down. In about a minute it had turned around and crept up beside me and the lady inside asked if I was a PNT hiker. She was the local trail angel and she and her husband hosted hikers, including the Brits currently.
She offered a lift and encouraged me to stop by. I stuck to the road walking and reflected how nice it is that people are actually keeping an eye out for hikers.
Once again I found myself near the dreaded Highway 20. Fortunately, there was a nice bike path that was parallel and I took that until I could cut over on farm roads towards the ferry. I was walking down a quiet Engle Road and was about two miles from the ferry terminal when a small local transit bus went flying by. It braked hard. It started backing up. I shook my head, indicating I was not looking for the bus, but still it backed-up the road. The driver asked if I was going to the ferry, I said yes and before I could explain that I wanted to walk, he got urgent and said we could just make the next one but I had to hurry. There was another, older couple on the bus. The driver was a little edgy, like he had downed a lot of coffee, but he got us to the terminal just in time.
I kind of like ferry rides. Even though this one is short and despite the smoke in the air, you could still see the outlines of islands. Port Townsend appeared as we docked and I was close to a motel and a zero day.
I did leave early, but somehow I managed to wake up Not Guilty. I said good-bye and we thought we’d meet in the next town (7 miles) for breakfast.
There was a timber harvest going on so there were some temporary trail closures that got me confused at times. Still, I made good time while the sun rose through the smoke filled air.
How would you like to wake up to this crawling across you?I loved how the most covered the dead branches.This boulder, I believe it might be classified as an erratic, was huge.
I got my first glimpse of Puget Sound, but a glimpse was all given the haze. This would be a spectacular trail on a clear day. At the bottom of the trail, there was a carved stone marker related to the PNT. All the words were spelled correctly. However, the math did catch my eye, not adding up to even 1,100 miles when the trail today is over 1,200 miles. Must be reroutes and other changes.
When this monument was made. The trail only covered 1 106 miles.
I finished walking down the mountain on Highway 11. A bizarre event happened when a shiny new black pickup pulled up next to me and asked me oif I had camped up on the mountain. The driver looked like a cop. I said yes. He asked if I had seen anybody else. I explained Not Guilty was on his way down, but otherwise no. He revealed he was with the railroad police and was looking in to somebody shining a green laser into a train engine last night.
Once the road flattened on the coastal plain, I started seeing a lot of bicyclists. It was flat, open farm country that backed up to the Chuckanut range. When I reached the small town of Edison, there were two cafes right there. Both, unfortunately, were closed. I went up to see the hours, but was disheartened to see they were both closed on Monday and Tuesday. Yup, I was in a tourist area.
While I was on the porch, a lady in a Subaru rolled down her window and asked “Can I help you?” which I interpreted as “what the hell are you doing peering in the window, bum?” When I explained I was looking to see when it would open, she said everything was pretty much closed, but down the road about a mile there was a bakery open. She then offered a ride, which I declined. I clearly had misinterpreted her.
When I got to the bakery, the same lady was out front, caring for the decorative flowers in front. I said hi and thanked her again for her help. We chatted for a bit. Under the heading “Small World” she was from Wayzata, Minnesota which is the town adjacent to where I live.
I ordered some delicious looking baked goods at the bakery (called ‘Breadfarm”). She came in, gave me a bunch of organic carrots she grew herself and paid for my food. I thanked her profusely and then decided to pay it forward.
I told the lady at the counter that a backpacker named Not Guilty would probably come in. Last night he had told me how much he loved good focaccia bread. So I prepaid for a small loaf and described him. I hope it worked out.
The rest of the day was a long but pleasant roadwalk near the coast. That is, until I reached Highway 20. I pulled the ultimate bonehead hiker move. There was a gas station where the trail put me on Highway 20. I got water and a coffee and put my feet up. Then, I started walking along Highway 20. About a mile later I saw some road signs that did not make sense. I then checked my phone app and discovered I had walked a mile the wrong direction. Fortunately, I was near an intersection and able to safely cross the highway.
Just as a I was heading back, a Mercedes van pulled over in front of me. The driver popped out heading towards me. He didn’t look like a nut job so I wasn’t too nervous. Turns out he was a PCT veteran heading to PCT days and thought I looked like a PNT hiker. I confessed I was, declined hi generous offer of a ride and learned his trail name was “Meander”. Neither he nor I mentioned I was about a mile off course. There is honor among backapckers.
The next few miles were simultaneously boring and life threatening as I followed Highway 20 in the right direction. Along the way I was amazed to see how many birds are killed by cars. I also found some dude’s paycheck. I took it into town and would mail it to his employer. Lastly, I went over this huge bridge that thankfully had a separate passenger path.
Rather than take in the whole scenic walk around an entire oil refinery, I took a minor short cut. Then the trail goes over Fidalgo Bay for almost a half mile on a hike/bike trail. The tide was coming in and there were harbor seals and an otter feeding just off the bridge. It was fun to watch.
My last unusual human interaction happened when I finally made it to Anacortes proper. A bicyclist pulled up and asked me if I had been much further up the coast earlier in the day. I said yes. He said he had seem me walk by his office and recognized me just as he was getting home. Nice guy and he gave me a solid restaurant recommendation.
The restaurant was great (Naung Mai Thai Kitchen). Stuffed, I tried to go to sleep early, with some success.
backpacking over the hill 