When I was young, my sister and father and I went on a hike on Washington’s coast.
It was pretty great – the first day was sunshine, and the next two or three were miserable rain. Other than packs and boots, we had no gear to speak of – just some vaguely rain-proof jackets from Goodwill, and jeans. (“Now girls, you might want some waterproof pants, too.” “Those look dumb! It’s not going to rain! Jeans are great for hiking!”) We resorted to wearing ziplock bags around our multi-socked feet, and didn’t get warm or dry for the whole trip.
Between the physical discomfort of hiking oh-so-immense distances (say, three miles) and the subversive thrill of eating meals out of pots and mugs, it was the Best Hike Ever.
We went on to repeat this for at least two more summers – though we eventually got some rain proof fpants. (Luckily, as one trip it rained for five straight days.)
This series of miserable, fantastic hikes has acquired a certain hard-core nostalgia for my sister and I.
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After my classes were done this summer, and before my sister left for her first year at college, we decided to do it again – but this time, a longer distance at a faster pace. Our mother was quite concerned that we wouldn’t be able to do it, and insisted we build in an extra day, and bring an extra day’s food, in addition to our regular emergency supply.
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Unfortunately, the tides during our chosen dates were very unfavorable: high tide was at mid-day. Our plan was to get up early, hike until lunch, have a seista, and then get started again.
As will be seen, the best laid plans of mice and young women hiking oft go astray.
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The first day, we drove out, passing Lake Crescent. This is a gorgeous glacier carved lake, as you can see from the U-shape of this valley. There were packs of cyclists on the roads, and the lake looked perfect for kayaking. We really wanted to stop, but we were already late getting underway.
When we picked up our permit at the NPS office, the vaguely good-lookin’ fellow behind the counter felt obligated to consult with us about the tides.
NPS Fellow: “Counter-intuitively, the empty moon means a full moon, but a filled in moon means a new moon.”
Me (in an attempt to be amusing): “And next Edward Cullen is going to show up.”
(The NPS fellow got this strained look on his face.)
Sister: “Who?”
Me: “You know, that dude from the Twilight books… the second one’s called New Moon… Ha ha?”
(The NPS fellow still looked pained, and finished with us quickly.)
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We drove out to the trailhead, and along the way, were confused to see a bunch of signs saying things like “Hungry? Stop in for a Bite!”, “Bella eats here!”, and “Treaty Line!”
Turns out “Twilight” was shot over near Forks, WA, and the nearby areas have been simply mobbed with fans. Which would explain why the NPS fellow looked so horrified at a pair of young women talking about Edward Cullen.
Both my sister and I think “Twilight” is an abomination, so the Pacific Northwest was safe from any more fan-girl drool.
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As we got older, we started accumulating hiking stuff: fancy sleeping bags and thermal long-johns and whatnot. At the trailhead, we were confronted with the challenge of forcing all this gear AND the bear cans filled with food fit in our packs.
Huh.
At least we didn’t have any plates.
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Eventually we managed to fit (most) everything – though it bears note that my sister’s pack was much larger than mine. All throughout the hike, she was pulling out clean tee-shirts and extra, unneeded layers, whereas I only had one of everything.
I made up for this by making her carry the tent and the stove.
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The first day was one of the best. There was some great geology to be seen – awesome wind-carved sandstones, vertical layers of what appeared to be mudstones, and huge conglomerates. It was one of the cooler areas of sedimentary geology that I’ve seen. Unfortunately, being late and low on camera batteries, we didn’t take pictures.
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All of which were unfortunately taken.
My sister and I ended up camping in the following spot:
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Luckily we woke up before the tide started creeping into our tent.
But it wasn’t exactly pleasant to wake up at 2am, argue about which rocky bit to move the tent to, move the tent over the log, fight off the sand-fleas and moths drawn to the headlamps, and then crawl back into said tent. Where we then had to try get cozy on the rocks and fall asleep, all the while wondering if the tide was going to come into our new campsite.
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The next morning we awoke slightly sore and grumpy, and left camp a few hours later than anticipated. After rounding Cape Johnston, maybe a mile from camp, it was time to wait out the high tide.
We climbed up on some rocks on the point of a little headland, made a little food, napped a bit, I read “Notes from Underground”, my sister played sodoku.
(Like I said, we’re not big fans of Twilight.)
After the tide had lowered a bit, we set out to finish the day’s 4.7 miles.
We were rounding a small headland (marked with a red dot on the map,) the last before the next camp’s beach, when calamity struck again.
It was getting dark, and the next high tide was threatening to arrive. My sister (in much better shape than I) was leading at a brisk pace over some large, slimy, algae covered rocks.
I stepped off a rock, and my right foot lost its footing. My top-heavy pack began to pull me backward. I fumbled with my right foot, trying to gain traction, turning myself in a 180 degree turn before my pack pushed me over and I started to fall, face forward, toward the pointy tip of a rock.
As my chest rushed toward the ground, the only thought going through my head was “I am going to die. The force of this blow will stop my heart, and I will die. This is it.”
Luckily, when I hit the rock, only the wind was knocked out of me, not my life.
After I had recovered said breath, I lay there, pinned by my pack, in a lot of pain, and yelled (probably more like squealed, to be honest) for my sister.
She helped me up, and we surveyed the damage. No broken ribs, but some nasty bleeding contusions on my knees. We decided to finish getting around the headland, and then deal with the damage.
As we walked away, going much more slowly, I asked her: “So, when I fell, did I flail around? Or was I more like a sack of potatoes?”
“Well, kinda both. With a little twirl.”
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I had bruises for a few weeks, and, several months later, still have scars on my knees. My sternum (where I hit the rock) never really bruised up, but it hurt to breathe for several weeks. It kinda sucked.
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We were so excited to have hiked our day’s allotment before lunch that we decided to just hike out that night. We were pretty impressed with ourselves.
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