Deer Park Doorstep Return

The Deer Park Road with skis and bike

Heavy Pedaling

The faded pink nylon strap looped around the bike frame, just below the handlebars, behind the fork. The tips of my telemark skis and ski pole handles went through here. The panniers on the rack clipped over the skis’ midpoint and then the last couple feet hung off the rear of the bike like a pheasant’s tail.

Hold together.

I gave it all a big shake to see if anything wanted to come loose, but nothing budged. Ready for this?

It shouldn’t be that hard, the overnight trip. 

Yet, I shuttled back and forth between my room and the front yard for the umpteenth time like a compulsive. I was falling behind schedule again. I’d decided to play music the night before rather than finish packing, and now I was paying for it.

Parameters are always tighter than you think they’re going to be. If you spend too much time screwing around in the morning, where will you be at sunset? Cooking dinner by the fire at Deer Park Campground? Pedaling up the switchbacks praying that you put the headlamp in your jacket pocket? Lying in your room reading about someone else’s adventure because you were too lazy, you didn’t have it together and you blew it again?

I want these adventures to be fun, but it’s the hard work and suffering that ultimately make them worthy.

In this case, I could have saved hours and a couple thousand calories by just loading skis in my car and driving up the Hurricane Ridge Road to snow line. But knowledge is dangerous. I know my car is an emissions machine that turns beloved snow into runoff. I also know I can get to the snow under my own power. Better to save the carbon and mortify the flesh.

Clouds had opened to reveal the gleaming slopes of Klahhane Ridge above Port Angeles, a chill in the air that was crisp, not the soggy numbness of the earlier gray weeks. The sun was high enough so I could feel warmth on my shoulders. Hallelujah sun! Alas for late beginnings. 

It’s 9:30, you slacker! Move!

My first pedal strokes lurched. The skis on the side of the bike frame forced me to adopt a slightly bowlegged posture. It was a compromise, but I wouldn’t have traded it for the shaky A-frame rig I’d used with skis earlier. My back was also far happier than it was last year when I’d loaded everything onto my spine. 

The rigging got its first real test when I turned onto Peabody Street for a big descent through city traffic.

The brakes shuddered, and the extra weight meant more time needed to kick off once traffic lights turned green. It all felt stable though, and fairly safe. As usual, I noticed people giving me  second glances as I went past. I’m sure they thought I was unhinged. Who is this man with the enormous backpack biking through town with skis on his bike?

Pedaling through an urban space with my hardcore (or hobo-core) outdoor gear may seem dissonant, yet, I partly enjoy the out of place-ness. Even an asphalt street can be part of a narrative that climbs to jagged peaks.

Or at least finds an asphalt bike-path. The Discovery Trail, along the Salish Sea, was a nice improvement from city riding.

I got to enjoy a couple of miles of flats with the best scenery you could ask for. Mount Baker loomed above the San Juan Islands. The peak was 80 miles off, but hyper-visible in the cool, dry air. Further flung Canadian peaks glittered in the distance.

Eventually, the trail cut into the woods, across the old rail trestle above Morse Creek. Tiny green leaves sprouted out of branches — a disturbing development for early February. The forces of warming hard at work on Highway 101, which was glutted with weekend drivers headed for Port Angeles. The dip beneath the overpass would be my last downhill for a while.

Then, I’d be looking at nine miles of climbing to where the pavement ended at the beginning of Olympic National Park, seven more miles of climbing to the Deer Park Campground at 5,000 feet. Somewhere in there, I’d encounter snow, but I didn’t know when or if it would become skiable in this powder-lean year.

The first snow sign was the pine tree frosting at the top of the foothills, though I doubted it indicated anything deep enough to ski in. I took a short break to eat and drink, then started pedaling for the highlands. 

It took about an hour of climbing the pavement before I started seeing little traces of white in the shadows of a clear cut. Another mile later, I saw the gate for Olympic National Park. A few cars were parked there with people milling about. Some of them, I found out, hadn’t realized that the road would be closed here. Not closed to me though. I had miles to go, onward and — uhhh… why was the bike getting so hard to pedal? 

A tanker ship moves in front of Mount Baker as I pedal out of Port Angeles

Deflated expectations

I looked down to find the rear tire smushed flat against the pavement. 

Here it was, just as I’d feared: the snafu of the day.

I have switched out road bike tires without the aid of levers, and someone had told me that mountain bike tires are usually easier. Hence, I had not bothered bringing any levers with me.

As I struggled to get the bead of the tire off the wheel with my cold fingers, I realized that some nice firm levers (ounces of weight added to my load) would have pretty nice right then.

In some ways it would be better to have broken down in the remote mountains, more helpless, but without anybody to feel like an idiot in front of. A gray-haired couple ambled over to render assistance.

They didn’t have any levers, but they did have a pair of pliers with an end that I could jimmy beneath the tire bead.

 I combined these with my own allen wrenches (not good for the rim, but you gotta do what you gotta do). After I got the tire off, I put my replacement tube in and pumped it up. I gave the pliers back with a thank you and my benefactors who were heading back down the road.

As soon as they left, a new visitor arrived.

I had a new visitor who was a mill worker, just moved to the peninsula from Spokane to find a work and to try to get over alcoholism. He helped me push the tire back on, expostulating about how it was impossible to look at the beauty in the mountains around us without believing in God. I tried to explain, politely, that as an non-believer, I still found a deep measure of solace and wonderment in the mountains. There was a helpline for atheists at Alcoholics Anonymous now he said, but added (with satisfaction?) that a woman in his group had tried calling and found no one to talk to.

I reckoned that I probably disagreed with my new helper over a thing or two, but the rim of the tire was an almighty beast to get back on and the second set of hands made the job go much more easily. I mm-hmmed in the right places and started pumping up both tires extra full.

It was 3p.m.. I’d lost an hour. Hopefully nothing else blew, because I didn’t have another spare tube nor a patch kit.

I thanked the man, who got back into his truck to head back down to the coast, where the sun still shone brightly. The mountains above brooded in unwelcoming purple gray clouds. That was where the cellphone coverage ended and real hardship began.

If I turned back from the challenge, it would only be a half hour downhill riding to get back in the warmth. I’d get back home just before dark. Easy. Then I would have to pretend that I never bothered with this crazy trip.

Otherwise, it would mean that I’d truly softened up, that perhaps it was time to put away my self-image as an adventurer or as someone who pushes himself.

These thoughts swirled around as a group of armed men began shuffling past me toward the unofficial gun range next to the road — the place where I’d camped last summer.

They set up and commenced to engage the enemy with a fusillade of black powder and semiautomatic firepower.

I exited the perimeter via the Deer Park Road gate, onto the road where no trucks would pass. It felt like I was escaping the third world war. Up the switchbacks I went toward the clouds, into the snow. Blam! Blam! Blam!

I pedaled until I was warm again and had to peel. Snow was now dusted on the salal leaves and hemlock boughs. Snow on was starting to gather on the road surface as well. This was still too shallow for skiing, but it was just deep enough to make extra work for my bicycle.

The effort of pedaling kept me warm in the way that you feel when you know that you can go to freezing cold in an instant. I was nervous I would end up setting up shivering while trying to set up camp.

Circumstances had been similar for the suffering-rich night I’d spent in the outhouse at the Heart Lake Campground, an ordeal that had also stated when I started pushing the clock going uphill in cold weather.

At least if I made it to the Deer Park Campground, there would be larger, handicap style outhouses — a Ritz Carlton for the dirtbag camper. The sound of strong winds rustling the trees above gave me second thoughts though. It was 4:15 and I was still far from such sumptuous accommodations. The higher I climbed, the more exposed I’d be. If not the outhouse, I would need the tarp and I’d need time to set it up with everything else..

Camping along the roadside was its own challenge. Other than the road itself, the land was tilted steeply. Also, I had neglected to refill my water at the last stream, and now there was nothing nearby. Here in the rain shadow of the Olympic Mountains, there were very few options to refill my water supply. Promising gullies that would gushed with water in Port Angeles were bone dry. The best water source was the thin dusting of snow on the ground.

I found myself climbing up an embankment so that I could find flattish place to camp on the ridge line. I pitched tarp over some dry moss on a moderate slope between some narrow spruce trees. I walked among pines, knocking snow off of the boughs into my bear can, scooping more of it off the salal.

The heavy fuel canister that I’d had in my closet had been a reluctant add-on to my burgeoning gear collection leading up to the trip. It turned out that this was exactly what I needed that evening: abundant fuel that I used to melt down the powder. The bits of bark and goatsbeard lichen that I’d dislodged garnished the pea soup I boiled for myself. I nestled up into my sleeping bag and went to sleep on the tilted ground.

Tarp tent camp

A shot at Blue Mountain

The morning after, it was the usual sluggishness, reluctance to leave sleepy warmth for cold elements. I spooned breakfast of lichen-enriched oatmeal, then proceeded to march all my gear back down to the bike. 

I pedaled hard for a couple miles uphill with the weight of skis and gear through the shallow snow. A pall of frozen mist ghosted through the trees. Here and there I had to get off my bike to push it up a deeper section of snow. Though it was tempting to just ditch the bike and start skiing, there would inevitably be another section of road up ahead where the wind had blown the snow away to bare gravel.

Then it was back into the deeps. I gritted my teeth and aimed for a brown plastic marker staked into the road, I was going to make it there, dammit. Tires slowed; neck veins popped out.

“C’mon! C’mon!” 

The pedals stopped and the bike toppled. I fell off the seat and over the snowy embankment. My slide stopped ingloriously with my feet above my head and bare belly resting on the snow. The hill sloped down steeply, so it was tough work squirming my legs back under me to regain my feet.

I got back to the bike, reset the twisted bike-rack and started pushing through the powder.

Five minutes later, the snow was just as deep. I was ready for a break.

I threw on the layers, sucked down water, and started gathering snow to melt. 

The stove gave me a reviving warm pasta meal.

Suddenly, the cold gray miasma broke open. There was blue sky. Just 50 feet above, the mountain slope burst into brilliant color — warm light on the snow, diamonds on the branches.

The sun shone on the road just a hundred feet up. It was time to move.

I took the skis off the bike, put my telemark boots on, clipped in and started shuffling up the road. I was climbing without skins, favoring kick wax smeared on the ski bottoms. This gave me enough grip to take on the moderate slope angle, and gave me better speed than skins would have.

Skinny nordic skis would have carried me even faster, but I would have maxed out their capabilities with the steep icy turns waiting when I went back downhill..

Ice clouds drifted in and out, half veiling the light. Even the compromised sunshine was spiritual balm. I remembered what a joy it was to be in bright light over white snow, took pleasure in the way my surroundings popped in the crisp illumination. I thought of other smiling days I’d spent on mountains in Wyoming or Colorado, or in the Whites back east.

The warm rays also brought my core temperature up again. I was beginning to roast in my many layers, but rather than peel, I just skied slower. I was sure the cold would come back soon enough. A dark cloud mass was bearing down out of the west trailing gauzy curtains of white flakes. The trees were thinning now. Whatever was coming, I would get it full strength.

The sun opens over the valley below Deer Park Road

The wind-scoured zones above the road

Clear skis and cleared out slopes — Watch what happens in 15 minutes though

And the snow came in

I finally skied into Deer Park Campground, pumping my fist in victory. This had been the furthest point I had skied to last year. Now, there was less than a mile to go until I hit the summit of Blue Mountain. I was gliding along nicely on the skis, making good time. Yet the clouds were closer now.

The road climbed into an alpine steppe, with shrubs blasted free of snow. Only the gravel road held onto a residue of white — barely enough to ski over. I had to shuffle so I wouldn’t scrape up the bottoms. 

A blast of wind nailed me and whipped flakes into my face.

Visibility dropped to perhaps a hundred yards. The road was difficult to distinguish from anything. I started worrying about about how I would retrace my steps if the weather deteriorated more. I shuffled on anyway, into a cluster of pines where  snow was deeper and I had a short respite. The wind showed no sign of calming, though. Soon I was out of the trees again, in the teeth of the storm. The view to the west was endless gray.

Now there was a turn in the road.

Wait? Was that the road over there? Or was that it to the right? The washed out snowscape offered few clues. There was a notch in the hillside above me that looked road like, so I started side climbing towards it. The snow was ice hard. I squinted from my new vantage point; it looked like a road, yes, but maybe I was wishful thinking. One thing I knew: finding my way back down in the current visibility would be tough. Meanwhile, my watch said it was 1:50 — ten minutes before my designated turnaround time. How much further up was the mountaintop? 200 feet above? It had to be close. The western view was only more flakes and darkness.

I decided to call it.

Descent and the validation of the doorstepper 

I cut my way down the crust face on my metal edges, then it was a fun glide over the road. I ski-walked delicately on the shallow snow, then regained my speed at the Deer Park Campground. 

A blurred group of forms stood in the road. I approached, realized that they were a group men and woman on a ski trip.

They were as surprised to see me as I them. 

“Say, how much further can you ski down this road?” one of the men asked.

“What, didn’t you see my bike? I asked.”

It turned out that they hadn’t seen my bike because they were coming from the other direction, via the  They had skied from the Hurricane Ridge Road, and over Obstruction Point Ridge, where they had camped the night before.

I broke the news that they wouldn’t get to ski much longer. Beyond my bike, they probably had about a five-mile walk back to the park entrance where their vehicle was waiting.

They had enjoyed an enviable blue bird day up on the Obstruction Point the day before, but I didn’t envy the long walk they had ahead of them, fully loaded with skis and boots. They’d be huffing for hours under the load, while I cruised out of there on wheels.

They seemed like fine people, but I’ll admit it; I felt a little smug. 

They burned the gas driving from Seattle. They had driven to the top of Hurricane Ridge and back up the Deer Park Road to the gate. They’d had their fun skiing, but now they got to pay the piper, while the doorstep adventurer sat pretty.

Before I left, a woman asked if there was a good spot to get food and beer in Port Angeles. I knew a few places.

“We’re going to need it after this.”

I skied down ahead of them, but they passed me as I loaded the skis on my bike. I heard the collective groan go up when they found out where the snow ended. I turned the bike around and started pedaling. It was sketchy going in the deeper snow, but I could stabilize myself by putting a foot out outrigger style. I also had to watch out for the occasional ice patch where I’d avoid turning or braking hard.

Within five minutes, I re-encountered the skiers, who were trudging down the road under heavy packs. I cruised by.

It felt awesome, honestly. 

“There’s a smart idea!” Someone called. “I like your rig.” 

“Thanks,” I said. “But, to be fair, it was a real bear getting it up this far.”

Another humbling reality was that I was only one flat tire away from having the worst slog out of everyone. I really hoped I didn’t blow a flat.

Going down the mountain road made for fun riding. The snow smoothed out a lot of the teeth-chattering bumps I had weathered last summer. Another improvement: I didn’t have to worry about cars bearing down on me and could cruise where I pleased. It was a nice payoff for the hard work needed to get up the hill.

I was cruising down into a corridor of salal, highlighted nicely by the snow on the green leaves.  The flakes had stopped at this point.

I passed the park gate and back onto the paved road, where I had a prime view of the sunlit strait, still far below.

I just needed gravity to take me there. The struggles of the past hours faded as I gave myself to the exultation of the ride.

Sure, I hadn’t quite made the Blue Mountain summit, but I blamed it more on circumstances than a failure of will. It would have been different if I’d turned around the day before. I’d made it further up the road than I had last winter, so that was something.

I rolled down into rural suburbia, where the snow ended, the sun was shining and most people were dressed casually. The mountain chill was still with me and my parka and ski goggles stayed in place.

Finally, I got to the shoreline, where I parked my bike to go touch the water. Little wavelets were coming in golden on the afternoon sun — above them the luminous slopes of Baker. A stipe of bull kelp startled me when it popped beneath my ski boot. Funny that not long ago I had been at almost 6,000 feet in the snow world. Tragically, the view to the top of Blue Mountain was clear as crystal.

I sighed. Maybe next time.

I got a second glance when a passing biker saw me, still in a parka, still in ski goggles.

“Hey!” I almost shouted. “I know I this looks crazy, but I was really using this stuff! I was skiing two hours ago.” 

I saved my breath. She probably would have thought I was crazy anyway.

Back at sea level