A Beginner Backpacker Tests Her Limits in Olympic National Park
We turned slowly off the main road toward the sign indicating the Graves Creek Trailhead. My stomach lurched. This was really happening. Why did I think this was a good idea? My boyfriend Brian drove slowly up the gravel road in our rented car, a silver Toyota sedan. I gripped the door handle for support, but also to ground my nervous energy. Brian and I had only been dating for 9 months. I couldn’t admit to how unprepared I felt about what lay ahead.
Brian was the one who first suggested the adventure: a 26-mile backpacking trip spanning 5 days. Our destination was Enchanted Valley, a large campground in the heart of Olympic National Park in Washington state. The hike promised to take us through old-growth rainforest with views of waterfalls, mountain peaks and wildlife. It sounded idyllic.
Brian was comfortable and capable in the outdoors. He had spent the summers of his childhood at wilderness camp. He lived in a hammock for weeks while doing field work for his doctorate in South America. He camped and hiked for fun and tolerated physical discomfort without complaint.
And me? I had idealized the notion of camping though I’d only slept in a tent once. When I felt uncomfortable I complained quite a bit. I rarely enjoyed physical challenges until they were well over.
I was jolted back to reality when I saw we had reached the trailhead. We parked and got out of the car. Brian opened the trunk. I reached for my pack, hoisted it onto my shoulders and almost cried.
Regrets, I’ve Got A Few
It was unbearably heavy. I had thought I was being smart by rationing how many extra socks I brought. I discovered too late that packing light means something different when you will be hauling every ounce on your back. I wasn’t sure I would be able to make it out of the parking lot. My mind froze in panic, but my body plodded forward, one foot in front of the other.
I had made a huge mistake in agreeing to do this. There was simply no way I could hike 26 miles with this pack. I walked silently. I ruminated on my impending defeat, embarrassed and miserable.
We hiked the trail in early spring, when the park was just waking up from its winter slumber. The air was cool and rich with the earthy smell of damp soil and cedar. The rivers and streams flowed steadily in the valleys. The cold, clear water rushed over blue-gray rocks and fallen trees. It was lovely to look at, but a challenge to scramble across with heavy packs making us unsteady.
The path was soft underfoot, a carpet of decomposing evergreen leaves. The trunks of towering spruce, fir and hemlock trees formed a dense tunnel on either side. The pungent scent of the large conifers began to pull me out of my negativity spiral. I took a deep breath. I looked around and took it in. It was beautiful. It was incredible. It was only the first mile.
Trees that had fallen over the winter regularly blocked the trail. Most of the time the only way to continue on was to climb over the prone trunk. At well over 7 feet in diameter, hauling myself and my pack over each one was a struggle.
The Path to Enchantment
Shortly after one of these awkward attempts I heard a rustle in the underbrush. Our noisy efforts had stirred up a female elk. I watched in awe as she bounded away, leaping over the fallen trees with graceful ease. She was made for this place. I was not.
Hours later, we rounded a bend and came upon a Ruffed Grouse performing its mating display, only a few feet away. I froze, holding my breath. A reclusive animal, these birds are roughly the size of a chicken, with dappled feathers of brown and gray. To attract a mate, the males rotate their wings back and forth rapidly, the displaced air making a sound like lawnmower being started. I stood impossibly still, filled with awe. I knew I was witnessing a rarity. After all those grueling miles, I had earned it.
Our campsite in Enchanted Valley was breathtaking. The valley was surrounded by snow capped mountain peaks in every direction. The melting snow created waterfalls along the distant rock faces. Herds of elk roamed between the waterfalls. No less than 8 black bears passed through the campsite, looking for hikers who had forgotten to secure their provisions in bear canisters.
We spent two nights in Enchanted Valley, which meant one day where we could hike without our packs. I was elated. Hiking suddenly felt so easy. Unfortunately in my excitement I overdid it and injured my knee.
The Long Way Back
In constant pain, moving slowly and worn out from the hike in, the return 13 mile hike nearly beat me. Each step forward was a internal struggle. I fought to trust my body and to quiet my mind. I sang the “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” on repeat until I could think of nothing else but walking and singing.
Through it all, Brian was there. He searched the forest for walking sticks to take some pressure off of my knee. He carried more of the weight from our camping gear so I could lighten my load. He gave me water and energy gel when I was too exhausted to move. He was kind, patient and supportive. Over the course of 5 very long days our relationship had deepened. Whatever we faced, we did it together.
Our last night in the park I sat alone in the tent, while Brian hung our food in a nearby tree. Awash with fatigue and gratitude for this adventure, I was struck with a thought I had never had before about anyone. I could marry Brian one day. One rainy day 4 years later, I did.
Almost Home
While I was in motion I was somewhat blind to the immense beauty that surrounded me. But when we stopped to rest I took in as much as I could. I studied the vibrant shades of green leaves, moss and ferns. I felt the absence of man-made sounds. It was not quiet there, but every noise belonged to that place.
After resting a few minutes, I closed my eyes and inhaled the deep scent of the conifers. Then I got up and hoisted my pack.
This time I didn’t panic. I knew I could make it. I just had to put one foot in front of the other.
