Walk deep into the forest to hear what you can hear

The Rainforest: Where the drapes are made of moss

Hushhhhh…. Tread softly as we enter the Emerald Cathedral, otherwise known as the Hall of Mosses and the Hoh River Trail. We are in the Olympic National Park rainforest in search of silence and the “One Square Inch” proclaimed by Gordon Hempton as the quietest place on Earth.

Verdant trees are draped with moss lace; the sunlight glitters through leaves to the forest floor. We are walking into a lime-colored world inhabited by ancients.

Listen to the music of streams tumbling over stones

The logic is this: “If a loud noise, such as the passing of an aircraft, can affect many square miles, then a natural place, if maintained in a 100% noise-free condition, will likewise affect many square miles around it. Protect that single square inch of land from noise pollution, and quiet will prevail over a much larger area of the park” (from “One Square Inch of Silence, One Man’s Quest to Preserve Quiet” by Gordon Hempton).

Roosevelt Elk: King of the Forest

It is early morning. We stumble upon an elk, right in the middle of the trail, nonchalantly munching low-lying vegetation. His short, thick antlers, covered in deep velvet, are like the trees, soft looking, yet strong. They will be magnificent later in the season. We are, however, face-to-face with the beast who obviously owns the forest. He is not moving. We are reminded that we are mere visitors here and bushwhack our way through dense underbrush to find the trail on the other side.

The directions say to cross a creek, go a little farther and walk through a stilted tree (i.e., one that used to live on a nurse log, but the log has now rotted away, leaving the tree to stand on legs), immediately turn left and follow an elk trail, go around a wet spot, and look for a long mossy log near a stump.

We laugh. Anyone who hikes the Olympics knows that a creek, a tree on legs, an elk trail, a boggy spot, and mossy logs and stumps are everywhere! It is like telling a city person to look for a fast-food joint and turn left at the light.

Doorway to Silence

Then … lo and behold …. There it is: the standing tree that is the doorway to One Square Inch. Each tree has its own personality, and this one is instantly recognizable. We turn left, follow a trail that may or may not be there in the next season, carefully get our feet wet in the bog, and spot in a ray of sunshine a red rock sitting atop a log.

Symbolic of the heartbeat of silence, a gift from the Quileute

It is not any ol’ rock. This rock was personally given to Gordon Hempton by a Quileute Elder. It has traveled to Washington DC and back to speak for the protection for future generations of something louder than roaring thunder: complete quietude. This rock holds power. It is as red as the blood of the life of this existence. It is the rock of the beating heart of the plants and wildlife who have no say as to what happens to the world around them – a world in which their survival depends on the ability to hear every small noise, crack, chirp – or absence thereof – signifying the approach of predators, the hiding of prey, the nearness of a mate.

There are other rocks in nearby locations, carefully placed by those who respect the holiness of this place. We sit, breathe deeply, and listen. We are quiet, but the forest is not. The wind rises and falls as it sifts through branches of trees. The Hoh makes a soft sshhhssshhh sound in the distance. We hear a low whomp whomp whomp of a grouse. Numerous loud insects are warming up to the day. And then the grand finale: the most elegant operetta personally sung just for us by a winter wren. Such a tremendous voice from something no bigger than a walnut! We sit for awhile longer, the sun warming our faces. It is an extraordinary day. The sun creates a dappled effect, at once highlighting and shadowing everything it touches, changing with slight breezes. Simply dazzling.

If you look up, you might fall over

We have entered a cushioned world where there are no hard edges. Everything seems to live off of each other. Ferns, moss, flowers, trees – they compete, coexist, and give all at the same time. Nothing really dies; they just live on through those to whom they give life. We are surrounded by towering giants, hundreds of years old, hundreds of feet high. We are small.

Quotes from Gordon’s book:

Listen. Can you hear the silence?

“And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night?” –Chief Seattle

“See how nature—trees, flowers, grass—grows in silence; see the stars, the moon, and the sun—how they move in silence….We need silence to be able to touch souls.” –Mother Teresa

“Only in quiet waters do things mirror themselves undistorted. Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world.” –Hans Margolius.

“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything. It lives here, profoundly, at One Square Inch in the Hoh Rain Forest. It is the presence of time, undisturbed. It can be felt within the chest. Silence nurtures our nature, our human nature, and lets us know who we are….To experience the soul-swelling wonder of silence, you must hear it….Saving silence is not an inconvenient chore, but an awakening joy.”  –Gordon Hempton

One Square Inch: by protecting this small spot on the planet, in effect, we are protecting an entire ecosystem. We are protecting something precious that is getting harder and harder to find: a place where man-made noise does not interfere with the natural world – a world we have almost lost.

Everyone: Listen! The forest is shouting! Just because it is a National Park does not mean there are any guarantees to protection. If you don’t listen – and hear – and understand what you are about to lose – it will be gone forever. The forest needs our voices. Please visit One Square Inch.

Thank you for visiting One Square Inch

With some of the lowest tides of the year falling on the weekend of the first of May, we headed out to one of our favorite spots: Salt Creek / Crescent Beach / Tongue Point Recreation Area. We are so fortunate to have this jewel right in our backyard. It really is 3 places rolled into one: a huge camping area with saltwater views and other spots tucked into trees, playgrounds for kids, horseshoe pits, basketball courts, picnic areas, and trails that lead to WWII bunkers hidden in the hills; a nearby beach where you can flake out on the sand, run with your dog, surf, kayak, and watch seabirds and even an occasional whale; and a rocky area that is one of the best places I know of to go explore the world beneath the tides.

We had the grandkids with us, so we went for all of these. The wind never dropped much below 30 knots the entire weekend, but showers were scattered among sunbreaks, and with enough layers, the weather doesn’t seem to matter much. Even though it seems almost silly to go camping at a place that is only 45 minutes from home, you don’t quite experience the full impact of this place on simple day trips.

Sure, it is always fun to look for hermit crabs and make sea anemones close up around your finger in tidepools, or to holler inside a dark, concrete bunker and listen for echoes, or to slide down a spiral blue tube and land in a pile of sawdust (yes, even grandma did this!).

But it’s sitting around a campfire, telling stories about raccoons and cougars in the nearby woods, passing out from exhaustion while listening to the ocean rolling in and the wind rustling through the trees, snuggling in between grandparents when you wake up in the middle of the night because it’s a wild place out there, and then waking up in the early morning and having 3-bears’ mush and hot cocoa – oh yeah, that’s what it’s about.

Pictured here are

• Anthopleura xanthogrammica: green sea anemone (open & closed)
• Codium fragile: dark green branching algae
• Katharina tunicata: black chiton
• Mytilus californianus: huge mussels
• Pollicipes polymerus: gooseneck barnacles
• Solaster stimpsoni: seastar starfish
• Strongylocentrotus purpuratus: purple sea urchin (the underside)
• Some tube worms that look like a sponge but are not – still looking these up!
• Lots of kelp and algae and hermit crabs and more!

My favorite book for looking up sea critters is the Eugene Kozloff classic, “Seashore Life of the Northern Pacific Coast.” I have an older version, dated 1983 – but I see there are newer versions out now that cover the entire west coast of BC, WA, OR, & northern CA. Here is the link.

Absolutely amazing stuff right out our back door!

Hunter’s and Gatherer’s Paradise

How many oysters in this picture? Lots!

Minus tides were in early afternoon, which was perfect. I would hardly call this hunting – the oysters are everywhere.  In fact, it’s hard to find a spot where they aren’t! The rule is that you have to shuck the oysters on the beach so the shells can provide a substrate for the next generation. The trick, once you get your oyster knife in, is to sever the foot that attaches the animal to the shell, located on either side, kind of in the middle and slightly toward the outer edge – and the shell will open easily. The thing about shell cuts is that they get infected easily, so gloves would have been nice. So yes, there is a little work involved here. And possibly pain and suffering.

Littleneck vs. horse clams - go for the littlenecks

Clams take a little more hunting. We found several varieties: Manila and native littlenecks, butter clams, horse clams, and others. You don’t need a big shovel, which can cause a lot of damage to the intertidal communities. Just take along a small garden claw to gently rake the sand back a few inches and the littleneck clams are just below the surface. If you hit black, you’re in an anoxic zone without much oxygen. You can find them there, but they prefer the more sand and gravel mix that provides more water and air to breathe.

These snails drill into the oysters. I call them Corkscrew Killers.

The butter and horse clams, which are quite a bit larger than the littlenecks, generally live a little deeper in the sand but can be found mixed in with everything else. I have been told that because of their larger siphons & size, they are more likely to reach and accumulate toxins, but according to the Health Dept., everything was safe this weekend. Some people prefer these larger clams for chowder, but personally, I think they tend to be rather tough, they have a lot more sand in the siphons, and sometimes they have a weird gooey center – so I prefer to stick with the littlenecks.

And here’s a handy trick: bring along a bucket and a mesh bag. Put some seawater in the bucket and suspend your clams in the bag in the water. The clams will be happier, and when they settle down, will purge the sand inside them. When it’s time to eat them, you’ll get less grit.

Saturday’s rain and a short blast of hail sent a few running for cover, but most stayed to get their limits. That evening, wave after wave of hard rain drove through, which is how it can be out there in April, but Sunday, a completely different story: it was so balmy, it almost felt like summer.

Oyster-clam feast

At our campsite, we steamed our clams gently on a grill and dipped them in a little butter and lemon. I had forgotten flour or crackers, but we did have some instant mashed potatoes on hand, and even though I am generally a fresh-food person, I have to say, rolling the oysters in the powdered potatoes seasoned with a little garlic, pan-frying them, and then dipping them in our famous Hood Canal secret sauce (consisting of ketchup, horseradish, & lemon juice) was absolutely incredible! Back at home, we had a few more oysters simmered in fresh raw milk from the Dungeness Valley Creamery – added a little onion & a few of the last of our garden potatoes and a little crumbled bacon – end result: a very simple oyster stew that is incredibly tasty!

Limits are 40 clams 1.5″ and larger; 18 oysters 2.5″ or more – per person. You know, that’s a LOT of clams & oysters. So yes, such easy pickins and having such a good time doing it DOES seem almost criminal, but they’re best fresh, so invite your friends and enjoy them while you can! Seriously, it doesn’t get much better!

Important Links:

Go to the Washington Dept of Fish & Wildlife for info on where the beaches are, what you can collect, and more info on species.

Go to the Dept. of Health Hotline for closure announcements and info on biotoxins.

Check this Saltwater Tide site for dates, times, and levels of high and low tides along Hood Canal or anywhere on the Olympic Peninsula. (More low tides at the end of the month!)

I have watched the many moods of Rialto – I have stretched out on logs and basked in the sun; I have gathered multicolored stones of jasper and agate; I have guarded my campsite from marauding raccoons while watching the sun set into an orange horizon; I have watched the high tide splash between split rocks and marveled at the universe in pools on the low tide; but my favorite times to be here are during the storms of November through March, and if you catch them when they coincide with the lunar cycle, they can literally sweep you away.

And I do mean literally.

The waves pick up trees and toss them in the air like toothpicks. A sneaker wave can splash over a pile of driftwood logs and suddenly they will all be afloat. And when the tide sucks the water and gravel back into itself, preparing for its next onslaught, an unsuspecting person can easily be crushed.

This is not a beach to play on in a winter storm. It is a beach to stand back in awe of a display of unleashed power.

It is always different. I have hundreds of pictures from this beach – and every time I come, I take a hundred more. I can never quite capture the essence of this ocean – all that water, sloshing around on the planet, heaving one wave after another after another in rapid succession, thundering as it slams against the shore, raking back the gravel, spinning it around, and spitting it back out again – the way the light changes from one moment to the next, the way it can cast a silver glaze on the wave crests or glow yellow in the curl or disappear entirely – and the way the wind roars in unison. The sound is deafening.

This is a place to go to feel small — a place to put things in perspective — a place to feel the wind in your face, to listen, and to understand what is real.

On this occasion, Rialto’s moods changed from wind and rain, to a bright open sky, and then back to dark clouds that rapidly closed in to make it feel like dusk at noon. They let loose a torrent of stinging hail that sent me running back to the protection of my vehicle.

On my way back, I passed a party of 4 adults and a kid of around 8 or 10 who were hiking in to camp. They said that they had spent the previous night at Third Beach, which was “really scary.”  “It is much safer here,” they said. I looked at them. One was wearing shorts, another was barefoot, all were very wet; their gear, what there was of it, looked wet and heavy. The tide was already up to the driftwood logs and it was still coming in. They would be scrambling over logs, and I knew there were not many cleared places in the trees to camp along the way. Camping on the beach would be impossible. At the very least, they would be risking hypothermia.

People. Please. Have some common sense. This is a wild place. The tide is unrelenting. It does not care about you.

I dug my Merrell boots out of the back of the closet. It’s time to get them out, anyway – spring hiking season is here. With advanced planning, I might have greased them down with a little Nikwax or Sno Seal, but a lot of our getaways are last-minute decisions, so I just pulled them on. They seemed a little snug, but when I stood up and walked around, it was like old times. I tend to have weak ankles, so I appreciate “snug.” I love my Merrells. Seriously. Something about a comfortable old boot. The right shoes can make or break a trip. My original Merrells carried me all over the Pacific Northwest and many places in Alaska as well. We hiked 70 miles together down the Pacific Crest Trail, to many hidden lakes in the Alpine and Pasayten Wildernesses, through dry ghost towns, down muddy rainforest trails, and across frozen tundra. When the soles finally started separating away from the main part of the boot, I glued them back together and wore them some more. I was living in the back woods and literally lived in my boots. I eventually bought a new pair of Merrells and also some Merrell hiking shoes. These have cushioned my step through assorted hikes in the Olympics, where I now call home. They make a lot lighter boots now than they used to, but I’m sticking with my old ones because they just give me a secure feeling. It’s like a hug around my foot.

The Hurricane Ridge webcam must be buried in snow, which can be 20-feet deep in a wet year. It has been a complete blur. We could see clouds moving in to the Olympics from our living room window, though, so if we were going to go, best to throw a few snacks in a bag and get with the program.

Seemed sunny and dry enough as we climbed the road. We could see a few peaks here and there. However, when we got to the top, we were immediately reminded of why it is called “Hurricane.” Those snowboarders and skiers are hardy souls. The ski lift is on such an exposed face, and the wind comes whipping up the side of the mountain and just blasts them.

We knew conditions would be calmer in the protection of trees on the trail to Hurricane Hill.

The trail is easy and well-groomed. One side is for cross-country skiers, and the other for hikers and snowshoers. We’re low-key hikers. The main idea is to get out, feel the sunshine on our faces, enjoy the view, listen to the wind. We were getting a late start to go all the way to the top of the hill – so without any real destination, we just trucked along, following the trail with occasional short sidetrips. Our snowshoes are rather loud. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. We have to stop walking to listen. The wind makes a low whooshing sound that rises and falls as it swishes in and out between the trees.  We snap a few pictures and drink a little hot cocoa.

We notice the wind is picking up stronger, so we decide to head back. The weather here can change quickly. A viewpoint where we could see the San Juans just a short while earlier is now completely socked in. By the time we get back to the lodge, it is almost complete whiteout conditions. The wind is whipping up clouds of snow and swirling them about. It carves the edges of small ridges. My face is so cold, it stings. Yep, this is experiencing winter, alright.

Boots, thank you. Once again, you have carried me well. And now that we’ve done the “experiencing winter” thing, oh yeah, I’m ready for spring.

And in case you’re wondering about my original Merrells….old boots never die, they just turn into planters.

BTW – Have you ever tried using the export-import feature in WordPress? It’s Amazing! I couldn’t believe everything transferred so easily! How do people figure this stuff out?

This blog started out just sharing some fun times with family and friends on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington State. We are a blended family with 5 grown kids – and the bunch of us, along with respective spouses, partners, kids, friends, & assorted pets – all love getting out and enjoying this gorgeous place where we are so privileged to live.  I try to find time to post some of these little backyard adventures on this site. Course, “time” is the key word here – and of course, we’d rather be out kayaking, hiking, surfing, biking…whatever…than sitting in front of a computer! but if I can make a little money at this or even just receive a lot of praise , that will somehow make me feel validated!

So whether you’ve taken the link from the wordpress.com or stumbled upon us in some other way, we hope you’ll come back, and come back often. And if you’re planning a trip out this direction, perhaps these pages will give you some ideas of some fun things to do. And if you feel moved to support my little endeavor, that would be fantastic, but not required.

And last but not least, if you have any questions or if there is something you’d like to see featured here, drop us a line and let us know!

All comments (and praise) are most welcome!

Happy travels! Enjoy the day!

…blythe

And so – when we got an absolutely gorgeous day on a Saturday with a predicted fall in the barometer for Sunday – and we’re about mid-way through the lunar cycle – nothing too extreme – we wanted to try a paddle somewhere where we hadn’t been in awhile and decided on the Shine Tidelands by the Hood Canal Bridge.

It can get choppy around the bridge, depending on what the tide is doing. We timed it at the end of the ebb. We were coming from the west side. There are launch sites on both the north and south ends, but on the southwest side (toward Shine) is a small launch site and parking lot that is the least used.

The water here is very shallow, and although not a minus tide, the gulls, herons, sanderlings, and an assortment of ducks – merganzers, scoters, cormorants, and others – are obviously enjoying the sunshine and easy pickings on the beach. The mountains are out: we can see a string of the Olympics and try to identify some of the peaks.

As an aside, I am in the middle of reading “One Square Inch of Silence: One Man’s Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World” by Gordon Hempton and John Grossmann, and it has made me more keenly aware of the intrusion of man-made noise wherever you go. This is no more blatantly in-your-face as paddling beneath the Hood Canal Bridge. I have no idea what the decibles are, but it is a roar of clanking, clattering, and traffic thunder.

The new bridge is an amazing structure, built to change height with the changing tide. It is the longest bridge across saltwater; some 20,000 vehicles cross it every day. Environmental studies were conducted to ensure eelgrass and salmonids would not be deleteriously affected by its construction. It is state-of-the-art: lightweight but strong; it allows light to filter through its grates to minimize impacts. Ironically, extensive studies were also conducted to make sure the sound of driving pilings during construction would not impact the environment. They were considered minimal and temporary. True enough. But sit in a boat beneath the bridge on an average post-construction day: the sound is deafening, literally.

We do not linger under the bridge. There is much to see. On the northern  side, people are competing with seagulls for littleneck and butter clams and oysters; dogs race along the beach; scoters chatter loudly while scooting across the water, madly thumping their wings to try to get the momentum to lift off. There is a small piece of land that would be an island if not for a thin strip that connects it to the mainland. The eastern side is rocky; I see several starfish in the water. Particularly striking are the sunflower stars, aka Pycnopodia helianthoides, which, contrary to their benign beauty, are voracious predators.

We find a quiet sunny spot on the opposite side and have a picnic lunch while watching the bridge open for a passing sailboat. There is not much of a breeze, and the boat takes a long time. Traffic is backing up undoubtedly for miles, people are probably getting out of their cars to see what the hold up is, others are likely to be fuming and missing their ferry schedules. There is a noticeable lull in the traffic noise.

We are unphased by the stress overhead, but it is afternoon and time to head back. The tide is changing and is calm on both sides of the bridge. A skittish heron doesn’t take chances when we approach; a cormorant stands on a rock and airs out his wings; a large community of sanderlings peck away together at the soft shore sand; a curious seal follows us home.

My paddling partner does a couple of kayak rolls, just for practice. We take a moment to watch the sparkles on the water and just feel the warmth of the sun on our faces. It is a perfect day. Perfect timing.

From one moment to another, sometimes subtle – sometimes drastic – transforming from one season to the next.

We stand on its banks and watch all that water

Life giving; life taking

How something so fluid can make us feel so grounded.

The Hoh, Calawah, Bogachiel, Sol Duc, Elwha, Dungeness, Dosewallips – the names roll off the tongue like the sound sweeping along the banks and washing over rocks and out to sea.

And here, the last of winter.

Paddling PA Harbor is fun because it’s close to home, has several options for launch sites, there’s always something going on, and the wildlife are rather used to human activity. Today, the first thing we noticed was that the water was flat calm, although dramatic clouds overhead could soon spell otherwise. Second, we noticed lots of debris on the water — all kinds of bits and pieces of driftwood scattered across the bay, blown in by recent storms, cormorants using them as rafts. Third, it took us a moment, but we noticed something conspicuously missing: no freighters or tankers! No ferries. No tugs. Nada. Just open water.

We launched our Pygmy boats and let the saltwater rinse the dust (yikes! how could we let this happen!) off the hulls. The sun was so bright, it cast stars across the water. At times we felt we were paddling amongst clouds.

We found a lot of activity over at the fish pens. Fish were leaping several feet out of the water, but inside their netted cages, were safe from several nearby seals watching with intense interest.

The Pilot boat cast a gentle wake as it smoothly glided past us. The wind started to pick up; late afternoon already and time to get back. A great day to get back out on the water. It’s been too long.

Most people think of coming out to the Olympic Peninsula in the heat (used loosely) of summer. Most people – meaning, lots of people. Lots and lots.

If you want to really experience the solitude of the rainforest, go in winter.

This is an interesting year. We had a deep freeze and some snow in November, along with some deadly storms – but then things warmed up. A pineapple express wind blew through here the other night with gusts reported (or was that just expected?) of 115 mph up on Hurricane Ridge. We can expect that at a place called “Hurricane.” Here in the lowlands, still pretty strong. The immediate result,  compounded with recent rains, was melting snow that turned the rivers into gushing torrents of murk.

We took advantage of a window in the weather on a Sunday afternoon and decided to take the short hike up to the Olympic Hot Springs. I have not been up this way in several years, primarily because the disrespectful crowds of people in the summer make it highly unsanitary and because in the winter, we usually have so much snow, the Park closes the access road. You have to get the timing right: either before crowds/after snow or after crowds/before snow.

It’s not a difficult hike – it takes about an hour each way – a gentle incline along an old road that is undercut and washed out in several places. A few creeks to hop rocks across; others to take a makeshift log bridge. Mother Nature may eventually hide the scars of the road, but we are reminded asphalt is forever.

We timed it right: people were leaving as we were coming in. Surprisingly enough, quite a few locals were coming in as we were leaving, and whether or not they had headlamps, I don’t know, but I don’t think the log crossings would be all that easy in the dark. While we were there, though,we basically had the whole place to ourselves.

We step into the pool. We are naked in a pristine forest, where the moss drips down from the rocks and trees, a steam rises from the water with the faint smell of sulphur, trees reach overhead to inhale the vapors. It is unbelievably warm. Any annoyances of the day quickly dissipate. It is somehow ethereal, this moment in time where time stands still. I let it envelop me. We emerge relaxed but energized. On the walk out, a gentle rain begins to fall, first as a mist, then as light droplets…. it feels good. Refreshing. Clean. I am reminded why I live here.