Trapped by the Tide on the Road to Queets

I have been possessed from my early boyhood of the desire to spend a few weeks in the rugged Olympics. Why these particular mountains, rather than the more accessible Cascades, should be so strong within me I cannot say, but those cold, white peaks, lifting between the sapphire waters of Puget Sound and the ever-bowing billows of the Pacific, looked so weird and lonely, so like jagged shadows stretched along the horizon of the evening sky, that they were always a sort of wonderment to me—a mysterious, poetic realm. The many strange Native legends connected with them, concerning a terrible devil whose abode is said to be in the midst of their rocky canyons, may have had something to do with a certain pupil’s occasional failure in arithmetic and the irritability of the teacher who paid little heed to the dream of grandeur seen through the western windows.

We left Tacoma for Hoquiam on the morning of May 3. The personal appearance of our party attracted considerable attention from the passengers on the train, and no doubt they were justified in staring at us, for belts, bowie knives and six-shooters, with which we were amply provided, are usually objects of interest. I think the women of the party, although they did not acknowledge it, felt a tinge of embarrassment at being seen with so desperate-appearing companions. At Hoquiam we pitched our tent in Emerson Park. After camping four days, we saw Captain Hank, of the sloop Mary E, and arranged to have our goods carried up the coast to the mouth of the Queets River.

On the following morning we boarded the steamer Tillie for a three hours’ ride oceanward to Oyhut—a Chinook word meaning “the road through.” A long wharf running out into Grays Harbor from Damon’s Point was our landing place, and by the time we had walked the length of the dock our shoulders ached from the heavy packs. The loose black sand by Oyhut made fast walking impossible. We crossed Damon’s Point and stood panting on a flower-dotted hill overlooking the Pacific.

We looked and looked. Mountains of breaking seas to the west; pale bands lifted along the distant horizon; from north to south, as far as our eyes could reach, a line of stooping billows—weary wanderers, white with age, throwing themselves prostrate on the shore and sobbing as in despair. Descending to the wide, firm sand beach, we began our long walk up the coast of Washington. Flocks of sandpipers drew silver circles around us, and now and then a white gull drifted over. We felt the breath of the billows in our faces. The sun shone brightly and, despite the forty-pound packs the men carried, all were exultant.

At four o’clock we arrived at the wreck of the Abercorn and discovered where she lay by rows of pilings driven out into the surf. A mile farther on we struck camp at Mr. Farrel’s, having walked six miles. We were all weary, and when someone mentioned the forty miles yet before us deep sighs were heard; but hot coffee, biscuits and bacon have a great deal to do with changing one’s view of things. When the seas had clambered over the sun’s topmost rim and the stars blinked their baby eyes, we sang songs, made merry and watched fantastic pictures among the glowing embers.

At length silence fell around the snowy tent. Breakfast over, we trudged on, after looking seaward where a mast showed above the breakers—all that was visible of the vessel that went ashore last winter. Farther on we came to the Copalis River, where we were rowed across in a leaky skiff. A veritable mountain of stone loomed about a yard from shore, surrounded by a white wall of foam. On its top some ambitious otter hunter had built a little house and fastened it with chains, and very picturesque it looked on that gigantic rock, high above the ocean. We camped on the banks of Boone Creek, where I got my feet badly wet carrying a pack across the cold, swift water. There is a supply store near here where we replenished our provisions.

The following day we made an early start, arriving just at dusk at the Caps River. A strong breeze was blowing from offshore. The sky had folded ominous-looking clouds to its bosom, and over our teeth chattered as we waded the last mile. We camped by a cave-like mass of driftwood, over which we were certain the high winter tides seldom reached. The tent was pitched on the dry sand beside a big log which served as a windbreak. Supper was not fairly over when it began to rain. Huge breakers kept reaching farther up shore toward camp. Fog closed around us like a black mist, and the booming seas shook the sand whereon we stood. Nearer still came the seething waters; we grew anxious, wondering what we should do if they reached us. Then we discovered, alas, too late, that the rising tide had raised the river so that we were prevented from gaining the wooded hillsides beyond without wading or perhaps swimming. The situation was alarming.

Closer yet, closer came the billows; we saw wild white forms against the darkness. The wind rose. The rain beat upon the tent. As the water lapped nearer, we made a final effort to reach higher ground. I vowed never to undertake such a journey again unless I might return to Puget Sound. But near noon the next day the clouds broke and the sun showed his bright face through rifts in the departing clouds.

We followed a trail up between slim trees, then for a distance over corduroy road, then down again to the ocean beach. At last we came to a cliff that stood massive and solemn in its contemplation of time and mystery. The sun was setting. The waves leaped like flames, and the whole west was crowded with towering pillars of gold, phantom palaces, and scarlet banners, domes and battlements. The temptation to camp on so high an eminence was strong, and when a veteran otter hunter living near told us it would be dark before we reached the Quinault agency, we decided to remain for the night. On so high an elevation we were not alarmed about the tide, and we made up for sleep lost the night before.

On descending “the mountain” in the early dawn we found the beach to the agency anything but good walking. At each step we sank to our shoe tops in pinhead gravel. The tide also hindered our progress, and we were often obliged to hurry around the jutting cliffs between breakers. Near twelve we came to a place where there were several large buildings with mossy roofs, many small ones remarkable in construction, and numerous people in red shirts. This was the Quinault agency. Here we stopped to rest after our tiresome tramp, at the house of the reservation physician.

Not far away are Tunnel Rocks, through which a person can pass only at extreme low tide. I had been told at Quinault that we could go through these caverns on that evening’s run-out, so we trudged toward them, threading our way amid quaint villages of stone, leaping from boulder to boulder, with the roaring seas on one hand and on the other a beetling cliff rising to an enormous height. At its base are many black caves where the mighty waters pour in every six hours. It was a wild-looking place. Suddenly we came to a point impossible to pass without expert swimming, a task we did not feel equal to, so we seated ourselves and waited for the tide to recede. Three hours dragged by, and still we were detained. There was no visible difference in the height of the water at the point, but glancing down shore at the rocks over which we had come with dry feet, I observed that the waves were submerging them. This was a cruel discovery. The tide was rising, and here we were completely walled in.

Had the bluff been perpendicular, as usual, our situation would have been perilous indeed; but fortunately a part of the cliff had fallen off in ages past, leaving a small flat spot covered with weeds and brush. To this elevation we slowly climbed, doubtful at times whether we would gain the goal, which we finally succeeded in doing after difficult struggles. A level place, wet and boggy, and just large enough to hold a tent, was where we were doomed to pass the night. A high cliff rose sheer behind us, and deep down below raged the ocean. We were thirsty after our hard climb, which was increased by the startling fact that we could get no water to drink, although a beautiful stream tumbled down the crags within a hundred feet of us. Neither could we build a fire; therefore, to keep warm, we wrapped ourselves in blankets and ate dry bread purchased at the agency from a Native woman.

In the gray of early morn my watchful uncle informed us the tide was “away out,” and immediately there was a great scrambling to pack up. On reaching the rocks below we were joined by three Indigenous travelers going our direction. They bade us follow them, the women assisting the fair portion of the party around the slippery ledges where a misstep meant death in the caverns beneath. We were guided through wonderful arches worn smooth by the marching, white-plumed seas; down weird, winding aisles among towering columns of stone; through low, dim tunnels where we stepped knee deep in pools of water. When we finally emerged into the full light of day there was a straight, pebbly beach before us, along which we traveled for a mile or more, then waded a creek to our waists, after which we built a fire of driftwood, had breakfast and dried our clothing.

Another mountain compelled us to follow the worst trail imaginable for perhaps three hours, and on getting to the beach again we climbed a series of high, barren hills whose summits were shaped like a pitchfork. It was while resting on one of these elevations that a remarkably heavyset Indigenous man, with four shadowy-looking canines, approached me, introducing himself as “Sea-Lion Jim,” which name, he explained with many gestures, was given him on account of his wonderful ability as a swimmer. He wanted to accompany us to the Raft River and paddle us across in a canoe kept there for the accommodation of travelers, which he said would surely upset with a white man who did not understand canoeing.

We arrived at the river just at dusk, greatly fatigued from the long tramp of the day. Jim’s canoe, as he called it, was truly a frail affair. I did not relish the idea of being one of its passengers. One by one we were carried to the opposite bank. The canoe sank so far that it was just visible above the surface of the water. It leaned badly, the heaviest member of the party being obliged to jump out before reaching the farther shore, to which she bravely waded. We camped in a grove of hemlock bordering the river, from where we obtained a good view of Arch Rocks, showing six distinct arches through which the waves walked as on parade. Meanwhile Sea-Lion Jim had departed for the Queets River—five miles distant—and as far as we could see him he was running as fast as his legs would carry him.

It rained that night and was misting in the morning. Our provisions had given out and no more could we get until reaching “Hotel Hick,” at the mouth of the Queets, where we arrived shortly after eleven o’clock. The proprietor of the hotel was a Native man, and although his wife was decidedly original in her methods of cooking—hanging her dishcloth on the floor and using her bare feet to good advantage in turning the biscuits over—I must say that we all agreed in pronouncing the dinner superb. The table was adorned with silver and glassware, while the walls of the dining room were decorated with fancy show bills and pictures clipped from sensational newspapers. We had now completed our journey along the Pacific shore.