Bushwhacking

I used to know the woods adjacent to my childhood home like I knew the rooms in the house. My neighbor, Barbara, and I pretended we were horses and galloped through the trees. Later, when we had real horses, we rode on its trails. We made crude junior high quality maps of the network of trails with pencil and notebook paper; and even blazed a couple of new ones. That was before a good bit of the hill was clearcut; before my parents instrumentally formed the Friends of Seminary Hill Natural Area and the City bought a large chunk of the area to preserve it. It was before that group more professionally mapped the trails that they maintain, and began to lure the town-dwellers up the hill for guided nature walks. It was before a member of the Board who owns the monument company made granite trail markers so you always know where you are. Almost.

I finally got myself into the forest last week. As I looped the loops, sans map, I found myself thinking that everything connects to something else﹣and that that would make a good blog theme: “There Are No Dead-Ends.” As I took yet another fork in the trail, I did note that there was no granite marker, but the trail appeared to be maintained. And no matter if I didn’t know where I was, it will connect to something eventually.

The trail narrowed as unchecked vegetation crowded in. Hmm. But then it was fine again. Then there was a tree down; and farther on, branches across the path. Now I’m thinking, maybe this is not an official trail. I was still hopeful that it would loop back up the hill, so I bushwhacked my way on along the faint path. Until I reached the valley road. Okay, it wasn’t a recognized trail. I did search for another way back up, as I am loathe to retrace my steps. The only choices were to sacrifice the woodsy walk and hit the pavement through town and go back up a “real” trail, or turn around and go back. At least the spider webs had been cleared for the return.

Life seems like that: you think you're on the map and following the established path, and whammo, suddenly you're blazing your own trail through a wilderness. I could have grabbed one of the maps before I left the house, but sometimes bushwhacking is more fun. And it can even be enlightening and empowering to find your own way.

This weekend I continued my quest to revisit the forgotten places of my childhood. Exploring this incredibly beautiful state is such a privilege. I hope I never forget to appreciate that. I hope I never forget to get out into it as often as possible. Emma, Wynne, and I were planning to go camping in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area－a place I don't think I have ever been near Cle Elum, on the eastern side of the Cascade mountains. But a 23,000 acre fire (that is still burning) put an end to that plan, as well as interrupted a lot of lives in far more serious ways. On a recommendation, we decided on Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park.

I disembark the Seattle-Bainbridge Island ferry, after crossing Puget Sound－ a few hours ahead of the girls, who had obligations－ and drive up the hill from the harbor, and I can't help it: I shout through the open windows at the top of my lungs, "I CAN'T BELIEVE I GET TO LIVE HERE!" I continue up US 101 (the country's most beautiful highway, I opine with some authority) toward Port Angeles at the top of the Olympic Peninsula, and turn toward the ONP to Heart o' the Hills campground; my assignment: to secure an unreservable campsite for our two tents. I miss the campground sign, however, and end up driving the additional 12 snaking miles up the mountain to the Ridge.

As I approach the top, I marvel at the beauty of the Olympic mountain range. And then, at the second to last curve before the parking lot and visitor center I don't know is coming, my breath leaves my body. It's a damn good thing I am on the inside lane and not the outside next to the sheer dropoff; it's a little hard to drive when you aren't breathing. If I ever wondered where the term "breathtaking beauty" came from, I wonder no more. I am on the top of the world.

"I think I could stop here myself and do miracles"
(Walt Whitman).

I do not tarry on the top of the world, directly under the clear blue sky, where you can see with just a bit of imagination, the curve of the earth. I am shirking my responsibility to find a campsite. Later I am sorry I didn't seize more of the moment. (Is there ever a time it is not a good idea to seize the moment?) The descent back down the mountain in the outside lane is so sweaty-palms terrifying, I know I will not be able to go up again. Just please God, don't let the brakes, the clutch, the steering go out now.

I find a campsite, and it is not easy－there are not many large enough for our needs. But I only need one, and with only a few options left in the five loops A-E beginning with B, A-13 is a beauty. I set up my tent. Much of my life, as I have said many times in this blog, is off the map I thought I would be using for a lifetime. Bushwhacking has become the pretty-happy norm for me. But I am grateful for those places that have order and routine. Setting up my tent is a familiar sequence that brings peace:

1. Find spot and lay down groundcloth.
2. Unroll tent, remove poles from center.
3. Spread out tent.
4. Drive stakes through loops.
5. Put poles together and fit longer ones through tubes in top of tent.
6. Tie poles at cross-point.
7. Fit ends into corner posts at stakes.
8. Snap tent to poles.
9. Put short poles into canopy and put latter on tent.
10. Hook canopy corners to tent stakes and stake out centers.

The girls arrive and, thinking the weather might be different the next day, I urge them to put off relaxing and go to the Ridge. As I sit at the campsite under the beautiful tall trees in the lush, mossy greenness, I realize that I cannot let my fear hold me hostage. I am aware that it is my fear of the road, not the road itself, that is paralyzing me. I determine that if Emma's drive down doesn't scare her, I will go back with them the next day. She is not afraid, and we return. Saturday is overcast, and it is beautiful in another way. I'm glad I missed the turn-off on Friday and saw the view under both skies.

All too soon the weekend of exploring, playing games, cooking over the fire, swaying in the hammock comes to an end. The girls have to leave early for a babysitting gig. I enjoy the last of our morning fire in the foggy damp solitude before I take down my tent, reversing the ten steps. I stop to check out two trailheads just outside the park gate. I explore a little ways down each. 100% upshit, and too far to go to the destinations this time anyway. I will come back. I can. Because I live here.

I am not returning via ferry to Seattle, but continuing on 101 to Olympia. I stop in Sequim (the "e" is silent) to visit my bucket-listed lavender farm. The purple goodness permeates the air, and as many varieties of bees as of lavender provide sound effects.

Among the oh-so-many things I love about the OP are the place names. On this particular route I pass Jimmy-come-lately Creek, Quilcene, Dosewallips, Duckabush, Hamma Hamma, Skokomish, Lilliwaup, Potlatch, Squaxin Island, Kamilche. Somewhere in there the road crests a mountain ridge and the fog and clouds give way to blue skies as I drop down to the sparkling waters of Hood Canal.

Day by day, I am finding my way through my life. As I walked a little ways into the woods toward Lake Angeles yesterday morning, over a foot bridge across the creek that also babbled unseen below our campsite on its way to the Pacific Ocean, named Wisdom #1 (perhaps there will be more) formed in my heart: If it is your first time, even if you are following a trail others have blazed ahead you for their own use, it is bushwhacking.

(The road to Hurricane Ridge; Puget Sound in the fog at top of photo.)