Cape Flattery and a Herd of Elk

Route

Tuesday, November 3rd. Staying in Neah Bay paid off this morning, since it saved us the hour and 45 minutes we would have driven out to Cape Flattery. I made breakfast in the kitchenette, did a little work, and showered while Rhea slept in, and then we took a walk around town.

This is the third reservation we've driven through in Washington, and the difference from the rest of the state is hard to miss. There's far less wealth here, with more RVs and older buildings. These communities feel like they have been left behind. At the Cape Flattery checkpoint, we paid $20 for the Makah recreation pass. It's their land, and after everything this country took from them, $20 doesn't even compare.

Last night, I thought we were driving through a forest. In the daylight, I could see that whole stretches had been clear-cut and were only just starting to grow back.

Cape Flattery is the northwesternmost point of the contiguous United States. Captain James Cook named it in 1778, after a small opening in the coastline "flattered us with the hopes of finding a harbor." The trail out starts as gravel, then turns into an old boardwalk only wide enough for one person, with weathered boards that get slick when wet. It blends right into the landscape. Western red cedars line the way, their dead lower limbs twisting out in every direction like wiry fingers, a lot like Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy. Ferns carpet everything, and if you step off the path, the forest floor gives like a sponge, built from thousands of years of fallen needles. It was overcast at the point, but we weren't socked in, and we got some good shots.

Back on 101, logging trucks came barreling down the hills, each one stacked high with thick trunks and towing a second trailer carrying just as many. If one of those veered into your lane, you'd be erased from the earth. A lot of the land along the highway gets clear-cut, entire sections at a time, with mounds of limbs and brush left piled up in the open.

Around noon, the sun broke through, and wild blackberries still lined the roadside with no one picking them.

We napped in a parking lot in Forks, then headed out toward Rialto Beach. Little stands sold firewood for $5 a bundle every mile or so, and one building had swapped its fire danger sign for one that read "high vampire risk." Another said "no vampires beyond this point." My buddy Steve in Seattle had told me this was Twilight country, and he was right. The books are set in Forks, though most of the first movie was filmed in Oregon. With all the clouds out here, I can see why vampires would like it.

Rialto Beach is breathtaking. The stones are the same smooth blue as Lake Crescent's, small ones down by the breaking waves and much bigger ones up by the tree line. The trees at the edge of the beach are dead and bare, killed off by the salt water, and huge driftwood logs, three- and four-foot-diameter tree trunks, line the whole shore. It's the Washington coast's version of driftwood, bigger than anything we see on Long Island. Offshore, sea stacks hundreds of feet tall rise out of the water with trees on top, and a mist from the breaking waves hangs over all of it.

Around the point, at First Beach in La Push, the sand turned black and gentle, with dunes up top. The harbor there is clever, tucked in behind a big sea stack and protected by jetties on both sides. The Coast Guard was out running drills in the surf while we all watched from ashore. Then the clouds pushed out and left us a bluebird sky, practically unheard of on this coast in November.

We stayed for the sunset. A thin layer of mist hung between the rocks and the ocean, and the sky slowly turned from yellow to gold. As we pulled out at golden hour, the pines were lit up bright gold, and the truck was coated in a thin sheet of salt. It reminded me a lot of a Los Angeles sunset, just with a lot more moisture in the air. The sky glowed yellow behind us, purple clouds sat over the Olympics ahead, and Rhea stretched out in the back seat.

Driving up into the Hoh Rain Forest at dusk, we spotted a black bear, and then a whole herd of elk standing in the middle of the road. They couldn't have cared less about us. We sat and watched as they slowly strolled across, lit up by the light bar. These are Roosevelt elk, the biggest elk in North America by body mass, and they're named for Teddy Roosevelt, who made the heart of these mountains a national monument in 1909 in part to protect them. Worth the drive up just for that.

We had the campground nearly to ourselves, with just one camper van down the way. Dinner was chicken sausages for both of us, ramen, and a big salad to use up the greens before they turned.

Rhea

Rhea wasn't a fan of the Cape Flattery boardwalk. She slipped and slid on the wet boards, but she was fine.

After our nap in Forks, she woke up nervous, pacing and shaking in the back seat. I'm not sure what sets her off. It might be a loud boom she hears from trucks going by; I truly don't know. Luckily, we were only five minutes from the beach.

On Rialto, she knew exactly where to head back up the beach from where we'd come down. When I say "let's go back," she turns and runs the other way, and when I tilt my head, she takes the trail that way. She's so smart, and she had the biggest smile on her face. When the elk crossed, she lost it.

After our second beach run at La Push, she napped in the back seat while we watched the sun slip behind the island. She's teaching me to slow down, take breaks, and enjoy the little things, a sniff here and a nap there. We're on Rhea time now.