The Uses of Enchantment

I just visited a place called the Enchanted Valley, in the Olympic National Park. Although I was skeptical of the enthusiastic name, the place was worthy. The long route to the valley was through a forest with gigantic old growth hemlock, Doug fir and cedar and spruce trees. Familiar with the history of rapacious logging in the Northwest, I am reverent of any and all trees wider than my outstretched arms and this forest was full of big ones. An old growth forest has just as many downed trees as standing ones and it was beautiful to see how a carpet of moss, oxalis and fern blanketed the fallen old ones like they had been gently put to bed.

We had three perfect days of sun and the vegetation was exhaling oxygen and moisture in clouds that made sweat run down our faces as we hiked. With an average of twelve feet of rain per year, the forest had plenty of water to transpire and we had to join in the water cycle. The park requires permits for backpacking and we declared that we would hike nine miles the first day and camp at Pyrites Creek. Because black bears are common, we felt we had to make it that far because the camping area had a bear wire to hang our food above the reach of the animals. Even though the elevation gain was not severe, we were very tired when we stumbled into camp at six in the evening. We were surprised and happy to see no one else was there.

We set up our tent on the gravel bar above the Quinault river. This river keeps a furious pace for sixty-five miles from the top of the snowfields, to Lake Quinault, where it empties and then on to the ocean. It is green and full of grey rocks and silt and whole trees that have toppled from the banks and propelled down the valley. The sounds of rushing water filled our ears and made it easy to sleep, even though the sky was light from the almost full moon.

The next day we had our coffee and granola and discovered that while hanging our food kept the bears away, it was an open invitation for mice. I can imagine their delight to scamper up the tree, across the wire and shimmy down to our bag full of goodies. Luckily they appeared to be satisfied with the granola and did not sample each and every ziplock bag.

After a lazy breakfast we hiked four more miles to the Enchanted Valley itself, eating lunch at the two story chalet, originally built as a lodge for hikers, now refurbished for use by summer rangers. Two men were winching a log slowly across the meadow in order to square it off for use as a beam for reconstruction. It looked like a fun job.

The valley has steep sides in a classic U-shape of retreating glaciers. There were many waterfalls, cascading hundreds of feet, fed by the snowfields on top. The floor of the valley was an open grassland, which made it easy to sit and and stare at the views. Although we went a mile or two beyond the lodge, we didn’t get close to the pass at the end of the valley, which would have given us vistas of the mountains all around.

Coming back to our campsite, we found other people camping close by. But we were tucked away enough that we only saw them down at the river, where we were all trying to dip into the cold water and wash away the sweat, without actually submersing. Although I generally like to talk to strangers when I travel, somehow the long hike to get here made me want to safeguard the distance I had put between me and the rest of humanity. Robert said the pleasantries as he hung our food, but I stayed with the tent.

The next day was a trek back the way we came, but our packs were lighter and we made it to the car by four in the afternoon. Although others told us about their sightings, we didn’t see any bears. And although elk trails intersected the hiking trail at numerous points, we didn’t see them either. But we did discover that the Olympics are very different from Oregon mountains, and a study of the map shows that the trail system could send us up and over many passes and into many valleys if we allowed the time.

I am always impressed by how different the day is, as soon as you leave the pavement and vehicles behind. Each lurch of elevation must be absorbed in the knees, but every turn reveals a view that is a reward. Contrast the almost effortless driving we do around the city, that only seems to produce boredom and frustration. Could it be that we need to work at getting there, to really appreciate the places we go to?