Explore one of the most remote regions in the continental US
AS I SIT gazing at a million stars against a pitch-black sky at the edge of a thousandyear-old forest, listening to the pounding waves of the North Pacific, a remarkable feeling of insignificance washes over me. Huddled under a heavy blanket against a howling wind on this cold April night, I experience a feeling of powerlessness that is strangely comforting.
The same thought occurred to me a few days earlier, during an early-morning stroll through the chilly mist that hung over a mountain resort in the foothills of Olympic National Park in Washington. As blue jays flitted between giant cedars, I took a seat on a rock, watching four deer grazing unhurriedly between cabins. One of the animals ambled to the edge of a narrow service road that separated us, stopping no more than 10 feet from me. As it ate, it was no more perturbed by my presence than by the sudden appearance of a robin alighting on a nearby rock.
Over the course of five days hiking through the myriad landscapes of the state’s verdant and wild Olympic Peninsula, it seemed as if nature was intent on sending me a message: I was here only temporarily; this environment, full of giant evergreens bordering a raging ocean, would be here for eons to come. In the midst of a break from the constant deadlines of my everyday life as a reporter, that message served as an important reminder of the joy and pleasure of losing myself in a place that could hardly care less about that.
I grew up in Washington state, and my occasional childhood forays into Olympic National Park stand out for the untouched beauty of the landscape. Now, returning with my wife for the first time in two decades, I ventured farther into the park than I ever had before, to a mountain hot spring and an oceanside lodge, base camps we would use to explore one of the most remote regions left in the continental United States. Cellphone service was spotty on occasion, and non-existent most of the time.
Our trip began with a threehour drive from Sea-Tac Airport, south into Tacoma and across Puget Sound and Hood Canal, through logging towns, past the US Navy’s submarine base at Bangor and east onto Highway 101. The traffic jams of the Seattle area slowly gave way to a two-lane highway, the chaos of civilisation gradually bleeding away into signs that warned of few services in the coming 10 miles, 20 miles or 30 miles.
We paused for dinner in Port Angeles, a small city of massive ships that the railroads long ago bypassed. The lights of Vancouver Island were visible in the distance across the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
As the night darkened, we continued west, past Lake Crescent, then south up a winding mountain road to Sol Duc Hot Springs. The resort was first founded in the early 20th century for wealthy Washingtonians looking to take the supposedly rejuvenating waters of what, for centuries, had been a Native American redoubt.
Rebuilt after a fire 50 years ago, the resort today is rustic, a collection of 30 or so onebedroom wooden cabins situated in a glen along the Sol Duc River in the shadow of the Olympic mountain range. The cabins have no phones, no televisions. The resort makes clear that it does not provide WiFi. As I watch the sun’s rays slowly illuminate the mountain that looms over me, the mist clears, and my lack of connection to the outside world becomes a benefit, not a drawback.
We spend our first day hiking the Sol Duc River, reminded at every turn that there are elements of nature more powerful than we. On its face, the only rain forest in the continental United States is a peaceful and serene place. But underneath the canopy are constant reminders of the violence necessary to sustain this forest. Two-hundred-foot nurse logs, the remnants of massive trees felled by storms, provide nutrients for the next generation of giants.
The Sol Duc waterfall, transfixing from a bridge that puts a hiker just feet away from the top of the cascading tumult, has chipped away at the bedrock for millennia.
Speaking of violence, my wife reminds me of the protocol for dealing with bears that roam the woods: Grizzlies will be surprised at your presence, so do not make eye contact and back away slowly. Black bears are much more likely to have spotted you first, so stand tall, wave your arms and make loud noises to scare them away.
My heart skips a beat moments later when I see a head of black hair through the trees; fortunately, the owner of that black hair turned out to be a fellow hiker, wearing a bright yellow raincoat that had been obscured by some branches.
Back at the resort, the smells of wood smoke, sulfur from the baths and a particularly clean scent I associate with the freezing glacier water that flows into the river relaxes me. So does a soak in one of the four pools, where I hear an eclectic collection of languages from my fellow bathers. Perhaps because soaking in hot springs is more common outside the United States, most guests are from elsewhere: Some speak French, some Korean, some Russian and another Slavic language I can’t identify.
The 107-degree pool is a bit too hot; the 55-degree, naturally heated swimming pool is decidedly too cold. The 103degree intermediate pool is just right. — WP-Bloomberg