Backpacking the Enchanted Valley
(Photos below)
October 22 - 23, 2005
By Eric
I left Seattle early on Saturday morning while it was still dark and all through the drive to Lake Quinault I watched the weather change back and forth from damp and foggy to clear and sunny. But by the time I arrived at Quinault it was clear I was in for fantastic weather. On the rainy side of the Olympic Peninsula, even the least bit of sunshine is cause for celebration. My good friend Hannah had been warning me that I was going to be devoured in the backcountry--perhaps by ghouls or spirits in the valley--so it was of some significance to me that the trailhead is at Graves Creek.
I arrived at the trailhead a little after 10:00 and was moving by around 10:30. The early miles of the trail make for great walking--the tread is smooth, the grade is easy, and the forest is nothing short of jaw-dropping. It's a real honest-to-goodness old growth rainforest. After Pony Bridge at 2.5 miles the trail gets a little more trail-like and undulates beside the river for the next 8 miles or so.
At around 4.5 miles I finally caught the occupants of the only other car at the trailhead, a couple who were psychotically planning to day hike into the Enchanted Valley. That's 26 miles. After I passed them I started calculating their time and realized that if they made it they would certainly be walking out well after dark. I ate lunch a little ways past O'Neil Camp, the halfway mark, where they passed me and again eyed me like I was some sort of axe-wielding maniac. I passed them a mile or two later at No Name Creek, about 8 miles in, where they announced that they were abandoning their plans and turning back. That was the last I saw of anybody until I was back to Pony Bridge on Sunday.
The scenery is wild: gigantic trees, the swift river, dense forest. But as the trail proceeds, the scenery begins to mellow and become more welcoming. You pass through grassy glades of big-leaf maples and alder, tended by browsing elk. These places are so captivating that you can't help but imagine the Lord of the Rings or druidic ceremonies. The moss-draped big-leaf maples look exactly like you've always imagined Tolkien's ents, their thick limbs paralyzed in hideous postures. In many places, the trail and grassy lawns were completely blanketed by green alder leaves or red-orange maple leaves. In the bright autumn sunshine it all felt very autumnal and Halloween-ish.
Finally, at nearly 13 miles, the trail re-crosses the river on a well-built but oddly vertigo-inducing bridge and you're into the valley proper. The storms of 2003 washed out the trail, which is now re-routed over the gravel bars by surveyor's flagging. Arriving at the historic chalet, almost precisely 5 hours from the trailhead, I poked around for a bit and contemplated staying in the emergency shelter there, but then decided against it. Hannah, after all, had warned me that I would become "ghoul food" if I slept in it.
In any case, the valley is so well-developed--designated campsites, enclosed privies, bear wires, and fire rings--that it actually felt more like camping in a deserted state park than in wilderness backcountry. But I didn't mind: I found a wonderful soft grassy site for the tent where I spent the remains of the afternoon drinking wine and reading. It was darn pleasant there.
It's funny. Often in the backcountry I've wondered whether or not I'm alone. But this time--as the other times that I've really been well and truly alone--there was no question about it at all. It was simply obvious--you could feel it--that I was the only person for miles and miles in any direction. A little spooky, I admit, but wonderful too. It got me thinking about how completely unusual that is. Most people have never been alone. Alone in a room sure. Maybe even alone on a walk outdoors. But not really alone. Not miles from the nearest person alone. I don't pretend to know whether it matters or not, but the feeling of solitude (and loneliness?) definitely does something to one's psyche.
As the afternoon wore on, the clouds began to roll in. No big surprise. I cooked a quick dinner before it got dark and then, when the light grew too dim to read, I attempted a riverside fire. Even aided by most of a Seattle Weekly, it was damnably difficult to tend a fire of wet alder branches. So my smoky little stick fire sputtered on for an hour or so and when the clouds began to sprinkle I decided to call it a night. It was 8:00 p.m. and it was completely dark.
I slept until midnight, when I awoke to the larger-than-life night sounds, including the rain pattering down on the tent, tree branches moving, and the eerie sound of elk bugling. My throat was sore, I felt hot, and my muscles ached--from sickness not exertion. I could feel a cold or flu coming on and, I have to admit, I felt a little sorry for myself--alone in the dark and wet with a long wet walk in the morning. But what a stupid feeling that was--how lucky I was to be there.
Finally, at 7:00 I got up and it was still not quite light out. The morning was made even dimmer by the heavy clouds and rain. Mildly grumpy, I stuffed everything into my backpack inside the tent and then jogged it over to the chalet's covered porch. In this light, at this hour, the valley had been transformed from inviting to downright spooky. The trees looked dark and menacing and the whole place seemed filled with some presence.
It was then I realized that there were elk. Everywhere. At first I saw 10 or so near the chalet. Then another 10 under the alders on the gravel bar. Then more--a dozen more?--across the river. They were bugling and eyeing me, big majestic creatures of the Northwest in the dim gray light, in the rain, far from humans. Among them were several big bulls with huge racks of 6, 7, maybe 8 points on a side. But they're skittish creatures, despite their imposing bulk, and they clustered away from me. Later when I approached them from a distance, they ran, splashing through the young river. It filled up my heart in a way that I can't explain.
I didn't push the pace that day, until near the end, but just kept walking steadily, pausing only occasionally to take pictures. Along the way I startled a solitary elk and then a herd of perhaps 10, most of whom went skittering and splashing across the river. Beyond Pony Bridge I encountered a number of day hikers, all of whom eyed me--the lone backpacker, somewhat wet and dirty--with something akin to suspicion. What's wrong with you? What were you doing out there?
I made it to the car 4.5 hours after starting. Not too much later I was seated at a window table at the Lake Quinault Lodge sipping a pale ale and munching on a smoked salmon club sandwich. That's the way to end a trip.
The early miles of the trail.
Pony Bridge, 2.5 miles from the trailhead, which spans the river as it passes through a narrow gorge.
One of the many signs marking the creeks that the trail crosses.
A big hemlock rises up beside the trail. This was actually a fairly typical tree in size.
East Fork Quinault River.
Mushrooms on a downed log beside the trail.
The later miles of the trail pass through numerous openings in the forest canopy such as this alder glade.
Maple leaves carpet the trail
My first view of the waterfalls that cascade down into the Enchanted Valley.
Anderson Glacier at the head of the valley.
The historic chalet, which now sits very near the edge of the East Fork.
The chalet, boarded up for winter. A small portion of the chalet is open as an emergency shelter and if I had slept there I would have been a much drier camper. That is, if I didn't become "ghoul food" as Hannah warned me.
The Enchanted Valley.
My pleasant little campsite.
And me showing it off.
In the morning in the fog and early half-light, the valley wasn't quite as plesant and welcoming as it had been the afternoon before.
A few of the herd of roughly 30 elk that had serenaded me during the night with their bugling and then in the morning completely eluded my attempts to get a decent photograph of them. (I took this wildly underexposed photo with the flash on and then lightened it on the computer.)
Leaves from a big leaf maple plastered on a rock.
The multi-story canopy of a true old-growth forest.
One of many inviting clear blue river pools in the East Fork Quinault.
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