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| Transitioning from skis to sneakers to cross a large bare spot |
Link to Obstruction Point Bike/Ski Video: https://vimeo.com/270742955
The Hurricane Ridge Road is the antithesis of blissful mountain solitude.
At least it’s that way when you are crawling up the mountain on a heavily-loaded bike as a never-ending stream of automobiles flies past: the cars, the motorcycles, the RV’s all blowing out exhaust. Up they went like mechanical salmon, jockeying for a patch of view to fill their screens, a moment of release from their car-clogged, screen-lit existence. The hills vibrated beneath the engines.
The sun beat down full power out of the blue sky, with few opportunities for shade. It seemed like I couldn’t stop sucking water out of the hydration tube in my backpack. I had over 5,000 feet of climbing to look forward to from my Port Angeles home before I got to camp along the Obstruction Point Road. The bike was loaded with camp gear, and a pair of telemark skis laid across the frame.
Somehow, it was going to be worth it, once I got out of the traffic onto the closed road. It would be worth it once I was laying the first tracks atop a ridge surrounded by miles of mountains, snow and stone.
First I had to pedal through several sections of construction below Heart of the Hills. I kept my eyes down so I wouldn’t fixate on the long sections of road above me.
At the park entrance, 2,000 feet above sea level, I waited in the long line of vehicles as heat shimmered off their roofs. Eventually a park ranger walked out to see who already had park passes, and I showed her the wilderness permit on my backpack.
“Have fun,” she said.
“I’ll try.”
I found myself looking up more once the Douglass fir began to close in around the road. The snows on Klahhane Ridge made me feel cooler. I looked past the stopped cars and saw Baker and Glacier Peak resplendent against the blue of the Salish Sea.
The big broad leaves on trees began to shrink back toward their twigs as I gained elevation.
The onslaught of autos continued unabated.
There were a couple of road bikers on the pavement as well. I envied how quickly they moved up the pavement. I’d see them for maybe two bends in the road, and then gone, leaving me to chug along with my payload of skis.
I kept pulling from my tube until there was nothing left and I stopped to refill the bladder at a stream coming out of the pines. I filled up an empty Arizona ice tea jug as well. That was eight more pounds to haul up the hill, but there would be no water readily available on Obstruction Point and I didn’t know how much I could count on snowmelt.
I stopped at another stream below the Switchback Trail where I didn’t fill up any water (more humans, more likely contamination.) I wanted to go soak my head, but a kid was having the time of his life throwing rocks in the water, while his parents waited in the car.
He should enjoy the freedom while it lasts, I thought.
Dad tapped the horn while the kid made like he didn’t hear, and continued his barrage.
There was a big patch of snow in the shade, and I filled my hat with it.
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| Refill spot |
I hit Obstruction Point Road at about 4:30 p.m. — five and a half hours after I started my pedal.
The view south gave me a perspective of ridge upon ridge upon ridge, decked with snow, crowned by the white throne of Olympus. After two and a half months of springtime weather in Port Angeles it was jarring to see this snow kingdom, think that it was there the whole time, right over my head. The warm existence I inhabited, amidst broadleaves and cut grass only existed on a narrow band between this mountain world and the ocean below it.
A stout metal gate ensured that the parade of motors wouldn’t get past here for now. My route would continue on the eight-mile dirt road, following the ridge-line. The winding, dirt road was the process of being plowed. Last I’d heard, the plows had made it to the PJ Lake trail, which is about halfway to the end.
I tightened my brakes and I started the descent — slowly. The load on the bike rattled along the washboard as I reluctantly checked my speed. I rolled past a couple hikers — though there were few who had abandoned their cars to explore this empty road.
The downhill was only a short respite however, and I was soon climbing again. I cruised the flats beneath the point of Steeple Rock, and the next drop over to PJ Lake.
The open road continued. Apparently, the plows had made progress in the days since I got a road status report, I observed. I wondered if they had already plowed to the end.
Now the road was cut out of huge drifts of snow. The white walls rose 10, 15, 20 feet on either side. Yet in other places, the sun had beat the snow down to nothing, and the ground was bone dry and dusty. My nose felt itchy and desiccated in the low humidity.
It was getting closer to 6 pm, and I knew I should start thinking about campsites. Still, I was halfway tempted to keep pedaling. There was a pretty big outhouse at the end of the road where it would be easy to lay a sleeping mat with minimal camp set up to worry about.
I relented from this course when I found a nice flat area in some scrub pine where the snow had melted out.
I set up a large over-tarp, and tied the corner grommets to the shrubs and to my ski boots. Now the fun part. I had brought an old Norwegian snow cutting tool that I’d inherited from my ski-guiding season in Colorado. I used the saw blade to cut blocks out of the hard firn snow nearby and built up a couple of walls to reinforce the shelter.
With that part done, I moved on to dinner.
Uh oh. Where the hell had I put my cotton balls that I used for firestarter? Oh, that’s right, I’d taken them out of the med kit two weeks ago, when I decided that I wasn’t using them for anything. Idiot.
Fortunately there was some dry grass nearby, that I could appropriate and smear with vaseline. After many, many tries I managed to ignite them and transfer the flames to the solid fuel tablets I’d brought. The flames licked up as the last beams of sun danced over the snow slopes around me. I propped my tiny stove on rocks to boil water.
The main course was a pot of rehydrated mashed potatoes mixed with rehydrated split pea soup, then garnished with some olive oil I’d brought in a tube. Bon appétit!
A second pot of the stuff, was necessary to stifle the tremendous hunger I’d built up from the day’s exertions.
I lay out on rocks with warmth in my guts as stars — dozens, hundreds, thousands — apparated onto the dark tapestry above. A meteor streaked above the mountains.
No one should live too long with their head down. Everyone should hit the refresh button now and then.
I counted a dozen satellites too. They moved so quickly! I thought about how there were still tribes of people out there who had avoided contact with the rest of the world. Yet, they too must have seen these strange little messengers, unprecedented throughout millennia of star watching, delivering news, surveying the troubled globe below. What did they make of them. They would be an indicator to them as much as they were a reminder to me.
Don’t forget what you are a part of, even if forgetting is what makes you feel free.
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| Obstruction Point Road beneath my campsite, evening |
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| Dinner rocks, looking out above the Lillian River Valley toward the Elwha |
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| Evening entertainment |
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Supper
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I was awake for much of the night wrestling with thoughts and concepts I could hardly remember in the morning. The treacherous wind picked up and worked its icy fingers through the shelter I’d built.
At breakfast, I dug out the grass I had saved in my pocket (where it would stay dry against the morning dew) and began another fire.
I moved leisurely, through breakfast, photographs, hauling gear back to the bike. Before I left camp, I emptied the Arizona jug into my hydration bladder, then filled the jug with snow and tied it to a south-facing rock where the sun would melt it. I let myself start by walking the bike, which really was not much slower than pedaling uphill and more relaxing.
The cleared road ended within a quarter mile. I took the skis off and put climbing skins on the bottom. I settled into the slide and glide shuffle through the corn mush snow. Already, it was so warm that I was down to my tank top. Resplendent views of peaks reared up in all directions.
I ended up having to take my skis off, at the top of a rise because the snow was completely gone. My telemark bindings are a complete bear to get in and out of, so I kept the boots clipped in and took my feet out and into my running shoes. Within a hundred yards of walking, I got back to a line of snow next to a tall cornice. Fracture lines ran through the snow on my left — go over there and there was a possibility that the whole thang would break away in a house-sized collapse, sending me down a couple hundred feet down with it.
I stayed well to the right, though the bare rock on the other side meant that I could only make it so far.
Beyond this little hazard zone, the snow opened up into a broader area. I met two ladies who were skiing from the other direction after a night at the end of the road.
It was an easy climb with skins from here, they reported, and I wouldn’t have to take the skis off again.
“It was windy last night,” one of them remarked.
I told them that I’d thought about going out sleeping in the outhouse at the end of the road that evening.
“You would have had to have dug the house out,” the other woman said, “It’s completely buried.”
Well, that was good to know, I said. I’d much rather spend a day like this skiing than digging.
They continued back toward the pavement, and I proceeded up the hill.
I reached the outhouse, and sure enough it was buried, almost to the roof. There’d been no morning movement yet, but if I had one, it wasn’t going to be here. I was grateful that I’d camped where I did. The outhouse also marked the last part of my route where I had travelled before.
On my doorstep adventure up the Deer Park Road, last year I’d approached this point from the east, and I’d also biked up here to run on Elk Mountain back in the fall. On both trips, I had looked at the ridge going southeast from here, and decided that it would be an amazing place to ski.
Today, I would do that ski.
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And the plowing ends...
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Amazing is just an abstract word that I could employ to describe the sense of being there, a feeling that is difficult to recreate with words or pictures. Skiing on the 6,000-foot ridge was a feeling of euphoria. It was the involuntary whoop that left my lips when I saw the beautiful, perfect world around me. There was no one else, no other tracks. The Olympic Mountains were stacked up on all sides.
The south face of Elk Mountain was almost completely melted, a talus slope dropping down a couple thousand feet into Badger Valley. My route took me along the ridge leading up toward the 6,700 foot summit of Moose Mountain, with several smaller sub-peaks waiting in front of it. My eyes followed the Grand Creek valley toward the Gray Wolf River and Dungeness to the blue line of the Salish Sea. The cornices were even more massive than the one I had encountered earlier. Snowballs the size of SUVs had broken off into the valley below.
Again, I encountered sections where I had to maneuver near the deadly fracture lines, with bare ground on my other side of the skis.
I was still going through my water at an incredible rate. I drank and drank and felt no need to pee. My nostrils felt parched. I put a long-sleeve shirt on, even though it was sweltering, because I had already developed a mean burn on my shoulder and lower arm.
The tiny alpine ponds below me had begun to thaw at last, the water creating turquoise rings around white centers. I was particularly taken by the improbable island of snow on one south-slope. The desert colors of the broken rock surrounding it, made the trees and white look like a window to another world.
I mixed with snow into my granola for the extra water.
I skied another mile to the summit of one of the sub-peaks, which had a view of a slab avalanche. Almost half a mile of snow had been cut off in a clean line along a steep slope. Below, lay a massive pile of snowy rubble.
I skied down off the sub-peak and into the next dip in ridge. The extra distance gave me a great view into the valley and Mount Baker. Going beyond this, the way was much steeper, and I’d need to take the skis off to make any headway. The temptation was there, yet, I also realized that doing so would add an element of fear, hardship and uncertainty to what was shaping up to be a perfect day.
I decided it was O.K. to turn around.
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| Snowfall |
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Strange blue water
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The way back was far more downhill than up. I left my skins on for the initial descents, which allowed me to be slow and controlled where the cornice overhangs didn’t leave much room for maneuvers.
I stopped a couple times to put snow into my diminishing supply. I hung the bladder outside my pack so that the sun would melt everything sooner.
When the outhouse was back in sight, I finally took the skins off so I could cruise downhill fast. I made a couple of telemark turns in the corn mush. My right binding popped twice and I ended up using a cam strap to hold the sucker down.
Going up the final hill, I skied as far as I could without skins, then took my skis off to march up the dry part of the hill.
I was getting near the bike, when I heard the trickle of water. Oh, thank God!
It was dripping off the 15-foot cut above the road. I hastily refilled the bladder and then tilted my head back to catch even more water for myself.
I got my bike together below camp where I found a quart of warm water inside the Arizona jug. I mixed some snow in and then drank all of that too.
The bike ride along Obstruction Point road was more fun as a net downhill, though I still had to take it carefully along the washboard and with my loaded bike.
There were more people walking the road today.
“You brought everything but the house!” a man remarked.
I came to the steep half-mile uphill back to the Hurricane Ridge Road, where I guessed that I’d have to walk my bike, but I found myself feeling stronger than I’d thought.
“Hup! Hup! Hyah!!” I cried as I clambered to the top.
Finally, I got back to the pavement. There was still time to make a Mother’s Day call to the east coast. The gravity that I’d struggled against the day before tugged pleasantly at my bike. Down I went.
These late spring days, it was strange to see how far to the north the setting sun had wandered. I was grateful that it kept the road illuminated and warm. I flew past a ruffed grouse with beautiful neck feathers puffed out. It was too narrow on this section of road to pull over. Keep going.
No more snow now. Here are the beautiful fir trees again. So tranquil. Moisture returned to the atmosphere and my nostrils felt normal again. I took a detour down the Mount Angeles road where the light was heartbreaking gold amidst succulent leaves of maples, the emerging devil’s club, the nubs that would become salmonberries over the next weeks. Cut grass of farm fields. Grazing animals, suburban houses, people walking on the sidewalk by the high school, the neighborhood where I live.
I swung up over the curve and swooped through the opening in the fence to the edge of the doorstep.
I looked ruefully at the skis strapped to my bike frame. I had struggled with whether I should take them back down with me or if I should leave them for a future doorstep adventure. How nice it would be to bike up there without the ski and boot weight to deal with. Maybe I would take on Moose Mountain. Yet I also knew that the snow was diminishing fast. I also knew that I had other adventure and life ambitions in the weeks ahead.
Perhaps it was better to bring it all back down and not try to recreate an experience that, really, couldn’t have been more perfect.
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| The skis go where the snow goes |
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The snowball of damocles. I skied a little faster past here.
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