Across the highway, about 50 elk are grazing around the runway of the Forks airport. Rumor has it the police have to come out and clear them off the runway when small planes want to land.
I head for La Push and stop enroute to eat lunch at the Three Rivers Restaurant and store. I treat myself to a decent Monte Cristo (dipped in strawberry jam) and chat with staff and fellow tourists. A couple from New Jersey is distraught that Kalaloch Lodge was closed due to the government shutdown and they will be unable to stay there.
We speculate about whether the trails to the Olympic National Park beaches will be closed. The staff recommends going down to First Beach at La Push since it is on tribal land. I declare my intentions to hike into Third Beach if it is not posted. I'm off to the trailhead and since there are no officious signs prohibiting access, I defiantly head down the trail. (take that, congress!)
In spite of a dozen cars lining the parking lot, I have the trail to myself. A well maintained trail leads through spruce forest. The day is sunny and bright, but the light reaching the forest floor is ethereal and muted by filtering through the canopy overhead.
About ten minutes down the trail, I stop to quiet my noisy footsteps and look around without fear of tripping over something. I'm impressed by the silence. No road noise, no ocean noise, one distant bird call.
A slight movement catches my eye off to the left of the trail above a small pool of water. As I watch, a drop of moisture collects at the tip of a sword fern and drops into the pool. A ray of sunlight interacts with the resulting ripples, causing many points of filtered light to dance up a moss covered stump.
Another ten minutes down the trail, a brief pause to listen, but no ocean sound yet. I also can't smell the ocean yet, but that could be due to the havoc the smoked out carpet of the Alamar Palace has played on my sinuses. Onward and downward! The trail is descending steeply now.
A few minutes later, I stop once again to listen. Now I can hear the sound of the surf hitting the beach. I put my hand on the rough bark of a sitka spruce and inhale the pungent aroma of the sap that comes away on my fingers. (take that, Alamar Palace!)
A large pile of driftwood heralds my destination. A couple of older hikers are sitting on the first log, unwilling to clamber over the jackstrawed pile to reach the sand. I clamber over and under the obstacle to reach the beach. Even at high tide, there is a walkable ribbon of sand. To the right is an open expanse. To the left lies a large creek that is spanned by the tangle of driftwood. I envision myself adroitly skipping across the large log that spans the entire distance. However, knowing my balance and coordination, I crawl unceremoniously across on my hands and knees, providing high amusement to a couple of twenty somethings reclining on a nearby stretch of sand.
After hiking up the beach to view a waterfall, I retrace my steps, inspect a purple starfish and caress a tiny piece of driftwood that feels warm and smooth in my palm. I do my four-appendage clamber back across the log, walk a bit in the other direction and then make my way back to the trail.
I climb back up the steep part of the trail at a faster pace than my fitness level can support. When the trail levels out, I pause to catch my breath and wait for my heart to stop pounding. Just as I start forward again, the couple from New Jersey appear on the trail.
"Please tell me we are almost there," the woman pleads. Since she said please, and since they started on the east coast, it isn't too much of a stretch to provide them some assurance. I tell them that the trail is steeper from this point forward, but yes, they are almost there.
Back to the trailhead with "It's too late to turn back now" running through my head.
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