First Best Backpacking Trip Ever

In the last week of September, in a corner of far north-western Washington, a very brave man allowed himself to be dragged into the deep woods on a three-day forced march. Backpacking is one of those beautifully masochistic sports that requires a certain amount of insanity to pursue. Why else would one load up a pack, hike away from civilization as we know it, and make even the smallest of tasks inordinately more complicated? Nathan has often posed these questions to me, seeking to understand my inexplicable desire to run away into the woods. Maybe it's the sense of self-reliance you find by making due with what you have on your back, the quiet you find miles away from the nearest road, or just the mind-blowingly beautiful places you find out there.

In September, we set off for the far reaches of Olympic National Park to explore this thing called "backpacking". We struck the karmic jackpot from the get-go because (suspend your sense of disbelief, drumroll please) it didn't rain on us. Not once. In northwestern Washington, in the end of September, the next drainage over from the Hoh Rainforest (the Sol Duc Valley receives only 90 measly inches of precipitation a year, as opposed to the 100 required for full rainforest status). Hence Nathan's broad smile at the Sol Duc trailhead.

Half a mile down the trail, through tall cathedrals of cedar trees and lush undergrowth of ferns, we found Sol Duc Falls, so of course we had to take a picture.
From there we started climbing for 5 miles, over exposed basalt rock, slippery roots, and trickling streambeds. Despite having seen no precipitation for about two weeks the forest floor was still oozing with moisture. Deer Lake was our first campsite, and the place Nathan spotted his first elk, way the heck up on the ridge. The fish were also rising like crazy and he was cursing all the gods and goddesses and various deities that he hadn't brought his fishing pole.
The next day we climbed once again, up and past the tree line to a gorgeous subalpine climate rife with sun-ripened blueberries and huckleberries. We developed a hiking rhythm: walk a hundred feet, stuff face with berries, walk another hundred feet, stuff face with more berries. Repeat as necessary.

From the high rocky ridge we took a brief detour down to Lunch Lake, part of the 7 Lakes Basin. Nathan was not excited about climbing back up approximately 328 steps.

Rar, mountains!

The glaciers of Mt. Olympus were truly breathtaking. The only thing between us and it was the Hoh River deep below. Through Nathan's binoculars we could make out all the crevasses and moraines, especially on the sweeping expanse to the left that's hidden in this picture. It looked like a giant highway or river flowing down the valley.

This hike was especially cool because every time we came around a corner on the ridge (and there were many) there was yet another amazing view. Good thing Nathan brought his snazzy little tripod.

On our way back down the ridge to the forest we passed Heart Lake. Yup, it's a heart all right. This bowl was also chock full of black bears (Nathan got the joy of hauling the bear cannister). We saw one, two, three little black dots that kept popping up closer and closer. Most of the red areas on the mountain side are blueberry bushes, so you can understand why it would be a popular spot for those voracious munchers.

Needless to say, there were other fuzzy creatures around stuffing their faces.

Our second night at Sol Duc Park we were back in the thick trees, nestled among roots by a little waterfall. On our hike out we passed through a forest that felt muted, the light reduced to shadows by the dense canopy and the sounds muffled by a soft floor of organic duff. Varied thrushes skimmed between the massive trunks and we even startled a black tail deer, but the highlight of the trip came a mile from the trailhead. Absorbed in our own thoughts we plodded along until the hikers in front of us stopped short. Freezing mid-stride, we glanced up the hill to our right and there he was, a huge bull elk, rack catching the light filtering through the branches, observing us with quiet altertness. We held our breath as he turned and made his meandering way up the slope until he faded into the greenery and disappeared. It was the perfect cap to a fantastic trip, and the best part is that Nathan's still talking to me.