Roadtrippin’ Southbound: The Rules & Regulations

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There are rules to the road and I was obviously ready and willing to learn. I jumped in the car, hours late and having just packed, and was completely discombobulated. But what mattered most was to be in the car, heading north, heading west, heading south, heading east. I was reeling for the Queets River, some 40 miles south of Forks, Washington. But like I said I was late, and my compatriot who was going to “introduce” me to the steelhead country up the Lower Queets Valley was missing. For three days and three nights we planned a serious backcountry fly-fishing expedition for the lustrous sea-run trout. But he bailed (that’s right MC… play is far superior than work!) So I was on my own, without a guide, without any idea where I was headed except to the discreet black dot marked on the roadmap within the vast greenery of the Olympic Peninsula—Queets, WA along the winding tributary of the Queets River.

The Saab wagon was zipping northward. Loaded with a month and a half worth of supplies for a voyage down the Pacific Coast, I was prepared for the backcountry (tent, sleeping bag, pad, stove, etc.) with fly-fishing amenities, along with surfing gear, guitar, CDs, books, journal and some basic camping grub (peanut butter & honey sandwiches). However, my stomach twisted and turned. My head throbbed. My eyes were blurry. Damn, I had a long month and a half ahead of me if I kept this up.

The last night of my homebound stability was anything but stable. I drank and I enjoyed, but then I blacked out, I passed out and my 5am wake-up call turned into a 10am crawl out of bed and into the shower. Not expected. And thus here comes my first rule for roadtrippin’:

Rule #1 - Do not go for a 16+ mile bike ride on an empty stomach, return to drink beers and throw disc in a large field with a best bud, and continue to hydrate and sustain yourself off booze for the rest of the evening.

I’m on the road and quickly I come to my second most important rule:

Rule #2 - Don’t begin a roadtrip hungover.

Nothing feels right. No choice of music was uplifting. No amount of caffeinated tea revived my energy. No food or sustenance or slap to the face kept my eyes wide. All I wanted to do was turn around, park and fall asleep in front of a fantastic silent movie. Yet, that was not an option. Already seven hours late, my 4-hour drive would not leave enough time to hike into a reasonable camping spot. But I was persistence. No questioning. I was on my way.

Queets River was my destination for the next three nights. I was off in search of the Miss Piggies of the tributary and the mythical “Little People” known to grace backpackers and Park Rangers with their shy presence and playful trickery. It has been spoken that those who wander up the valley come out with stories of small shadows and wispy voices. It’s from a tale of elves, gnomes, magicians and childlike beings known as the Little People. They frolic. They laugh and giggle. They speak of things unbeknown to the human race; places to dance and prance, things of such joy to revel in and celebrate.

I must meet the Little People. They’ll be my lil’ peeps.

And this was my hungover-motivation. Don’t stop. Don’t delay any longer. The Little Peeps wait.

And what else could exist in the folklore of Mother Nature when entered with an open mind and a vast imagination. Gnomes, faeries, trolls and walking toadstools. Please, Miss… show me the way!

Before I left, I pulled out of the fridge the only victuals I had; a week-old batch of black beans with cumin and orange peel spices. Delicious, but a week-old and obtained for a roadtrip? I was hungry. I needed something to soak up the mess within my system. As I drove, I spoon-fed myself with the pot on my lap. Cold spicy black beans… Yum!

Na-uh. Not so much.

Rule #3 - Don’t eat a batch of week-old black beans while driving for 4 hours.

Fortunately I was alone. Fortunately I was driving and could pull over when necessary. Fortunately they were seeping up the leftover booze and providing some intense energy, fiber and indigestion.

I kept eating. I kept eating even once I arrived at Queets. And I kept eating until the last little cooked legume of flatulence was gone while I took my first steps on the trailhead.

A sign read: Road closed due to severe landslides.

Well, there was little reason to turn back. I made it. I was awake and ready to move. My stomach was still cramping, no longer with beer, but was a mass of fiery beans. And with the road closed, I figured I could walk the rest of the way to the actual trailhead, bypassing any little landslides that blocked the path. At 5pm I locked the car and placed a force field of good juju over it to ward off any break-ins, mischievous Little People, goblins, hobos, ghouls, etc. I was on the good side of the Little People, and Ms. Piggy Steelhead as well.

The closed road was overgrown, lush with the Queets Rainforest. Everything was green from the mosses, herbs and ferns, to the lichens and the boughs vibrant with summer leaves. Birds sung and miniature chipmunks floundered their tails as I passed. I emerged at the first landslide. The sign wasn’t joking.

The entire road was gone and a cliff of dirt, logs, rock and dead shrubbery fell into the river. I bushwhacked around it, stepping on rotting logs, slipping on greasy mosses and ducking under arches of baby Western Hemlocks. Then I emerged on the other side with a grassy road leading onward. And eventually the next slide. Earth swept away. Flesh revealed. But I dealt with it, fueling my body with beans and pure drive. But then the unexpected.

Ten minutes out of the second landslide, a road opened up.

What the f#*@!

I was confused. I was essentially lost as a fork stood in my way. A phrase returned to memory: If there’s a fork in the road, take it. I would have taken it, but I realized the absurdity of the phrase. Do I go both ways? Okay.

I took the one that lead to the river. Winding through the woods I came to the waters and stepped on its’ shores for the first time. The Queets was wide, lazy, calm and beatific. Large rounded stones held its waters, which caught the evening’s light and reflected the summer sun into my eyes. It was astounding, but there was no trail, no path, no way to round the bend except ford the river. I turned around and read another signpost: Beware! You are in cougar land.

Great. General rules of a lone backpacker in cougar country:

- Don’t hike alone.
- When faced with a cougar, don’t turn around and run.
- Stare him in the eye, wave and make yourself look large, loud.
- Again, do not turn around and run.
- If cougar attacks…fight back aggressively (a.k.a. - for your life).

I walked back down the road, checking my back every two seconds until I arrived at that fork. I took the other one and after fifteen minutes of heading the opposite direction of the river, I stopped.

What am I doing? I’m in cougar country, backpacking along a mysterious river, without a map. Yes. It’s true. No map.

Rule #4 - Don’t hike into the backcountry, into cougar territory, without a topography map.

I relied too heavily on my hombre, mi hermano (ahemmmm…) and thus disembarked unprepared. I had to turn back. I had to let the Little People have their powwow without my presence. My intestines were equally upset. The booze was movin’ on out, as were the pounds of black beans. In a sylvan glen, I wandered through a grove of alders, stepping over squiggly mounds of scat from either deer or elk. I dropped trou among them and added a hot lava tube. Then, as I traversed the landslides, I heard a strange whistle, a horn of some beast. Turning around from atop a bluff from one of the landslides, I gazed upon a huge bull elk standing below by the shores of the river. He was massive, gargantuan, towering at least 8 feet tall. And slowly, from the opposite bank strolled the herd. There were 14 beasts of beauty fording the Queets, heading for their glen of wasteland. It was an a-hah moment; one of silence as they moved slowly and peaceably, sounding an ethereal cry up the river’s valley. Two hours after leaving the car, I arrived back in its seat as the sun began to set.

I drove north along Highway 101, gazed at a hazy sunset off Ruby Beach and by 9:30pm I was parked at La Push, listening to the surf before passing out in the trunk. Day 1 of 44 more to come… damn.

To be continued...>>>

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Comments

[Daisy Garcia]

Haha
Very reasonable rules.

[Laura Hartstone]

Very cool
That is awesome dude...enjoyed the read.

[lily Brewis-Condon]

musical toot
I laughed out loud more than once. What a beautiful beginning!