100 Mile Post and Quesnel

I stopped today in 100 Mile Post (it’s a city), named for the mile marker along the Canadian gold trail with its epicenter in Lilooet.  Considering the number of lakes in this area, I was sure that I’d have some luck fishing, so I decided to stay overnight, fish the afternoon, and then camp at the Luc du Hache provincial park.  When I arrived at Luc du Hache, the afternoon was sunny and my campsite looked across the highway at the shimmering waters of the lake.  I set up my tent and pulled out my solar camp light and was pausing to admire the view when a dense cloud passed over the sun.  Within seconds mosquitos appeared and surrounded me. Not 50 or 60 but clouds of them. So many that I jumped into my car to get away, taking out my frustration on the few that clung to my clothes and whined against the insides of my windows.  The air was so thick with them that the telephone lines 100 feet away were slightly blurred and I realized now that the ground squirrels chirping at me as I set up my tent were yelling warnings.  So after a few minutes of thought I wrapped a scarf around my head, jumped out of my car, threw my tent in pieces into my car, and hightailed it out.  I figured I’d drive until I stopped seeing marshy water and I left the mosquitos behind.

I didn’t stop until almost 8 pm and I’d passed Quesnel (pronounced Qwenel) by a few miles.  Spotting 10-mile Provincial Park, I pulled over and was so happy that they had not only a fishing lake and relatively few mosquitos, but that they had showers (with warm water!).  After the biting mess that was Luc du Hache, 10-mile lake was a paradise.

Lilooet

I woke up this morning from a dream about a waterbed, but when I opened my eyes it still felt as if I was sloshing around.  The night before, the rain was light but I had picked a nice hill between the roots of a tree, figuring it would keep most of the rain off.  While I slept the rain kept steady and now the hill I had chosen was the sloped shore of a small lake.  Luckily, I had bought a new and apparently waterproof tent, because my old tent would have had me swimming.  Still, my things were damp and the continued rain made it so that no matter how I tried to pull my tent from the lake, the canvas and tarp stayed soaked.  So I wrapped it all in a towel and threw it in my trunk. 

Frustrated and soaked to the core, I got in my car and drove to Whistler but the rain kept up so I kept driving.  Miles farther, the road began climbing between towering forests of giant trees and mist and rain.  I wound around hairpin turns between mountain peaks and eventually the rain stopped. The sun was out and waterfalls lined the road and as I passed through misty rainbows, water condensed on my windshield and sheeted past my windows.  As I passed higher into the mountains, the trees began to thin and granite cliffs parted as I passed.  Ranches cropped up in dry corners between hills and the mood changed so quickly that I forgot the maelstrom I had emerged from. 

Marble Canyon Lake

It was through this scene that I wound, past sheer drops off loose gravel to rivers hundreds of feet below.  Signs that had just warned for avalanches now posted caution for rockslides.  And then, as I rounded a bend past a hydro plant and dam, I looked into a valley and spotted the small city of Lilooet.  I stopped for gas without planning to stay long, but as I was pulling out of town I noticed signs for a winery.  Curious, I pulled over to ask how they grew grapes in such a cold climate, but the woman at the winery said that the weather was dry and mild.  There was rarely snow in winter and summers were no more than 100 F.  At the suggestion of the winery folks, I decided to make for the free BC Hydro campsite, just beside the BC Hydro Dam.  Looping back through town I crossed the Fraser River, famous for its prehistoric looking sturgeon.  Up to 12 feet and over a ton (according to a sign) these behemoths trolled the bottom of the river and are an exciting sport fish although it’s exclusively catch and release. 

With the late afternoon light, the mountains above the camp glowed red and orange in geologic layers and the warm sun dried my tent in minutes.  A warm wind whispered and howled through rocky valleys and lifted the edges of my tent so that I had to line the inside with large river stones.  Basking in the evening glow, I finally had my chance to dry off.

 

Squamish and “The Chief”

About an hour from Vancouver, Squamish sits at the end of the Howe Sound and boasts an impressive number of outdoor or extreme sports.  Salmon fishing charters head out just south of town, kite boarders use the high winds in the summer to launch off the ocean, rock climbers scale the granite peaks, and there seems like an endless number of hikes.  Add to that the grand scenery of granite cliffs rising steeply from the ocean and a short drive to Vancouver and you have the perfect little resort town, without the notoriety of Whistler.

Squamish from sea level

I spent two nights here in a sleepy little campsite just across the road from Shannon falls and directly beneath an uncomfortable number of power lines.  The stone face of “The Chief” dominated the mountain above me and I made an afternoon hike up to two of the three “Chief’s” peaks.  Rising 700 meters, the six-ish mile trail climbed wooden stairs then continued, winding between fallen trees and across makeshift bridges, before it ended abruptly at the bald head of “The Chief”.  As I scaled the steep granite, tiny reflective plates hammered into trees growing every hundred feet or so kept me on track.  The third peak might have been the tallest, but a segment on my loop to the second peak had the best view.  It dropped off so suddenly that I found myself 5 feet from the edge, looking down maybe a thousand feet.  According to the lady at the information center, slack line professionals had been teetering across up there earlier in the year. 

 

On the way up "The Chief"

I saw a photo of this gap with a man slack-lining across.  In the background is Squamish.

Seattle in a Day

I started my drive today along the Hood Canal past stacks of shucked oyster shells, down to Olympia, and then back North again to Seattle.  As soon as I got off the highway it was apparent that although Seattle was clean and beautiful, parking would be a nightmare. My first stop was an hour (dictated by the parking meter) to run through the Frye Museum.  East met West in a display of four colleagues’ paintings from the interlude between World Wars.  I finished in the museum and pulled my car away from the curb as a meter maid was counting down minutes on my car.  I found another lot down town where I parked for the afternoon and headed to the Seattle Art Museum. The outdoor sculpture garden was a collection of fantastic shapes reaching towards a blue sky with perfect mushroom-cap clouds.  Tall buildings stood out against the skyline and from my vantage on the waterfront, it seemed as if they were the background of a two dimensional city.  

Oyster shells and the Hood Canal

 

Seattle Art Museum's sculpture garden and Seattle skyline

I strolled along until I reached Pike’s Place, a market hosting the famous fishmongers and a variety of other boutiques and jewelry shops.  Inside, I bought some postcards from a gentleman with a unibrow who had adopted an accent that made him sound like a close relative of Count Dracula.  A woman in his shop visibly started when he spoke to her from his vantage behind the bookshelves.  I left and meandered up to the top level, where I saw the fishmongers invite a girl up behind their counter and instruct her in the ways of fish flinging. To her credit, she didn’t drop the beheaded salmon that was tossed to her, but she must have caught some of the smell because she wasn’t behind the counter for long.  Back down to the lowest level, I stopped in a jewelry shop with tiny jade figurines in the window and fell into a conversation with the extremely friendly owners.  One of them was a shorter man with a round face who smiled from behind thick glasses and gave me a plastic cockroach. 

“Here’s a lucky cockroach… you know, they’re probably the ones who are able to time travel.” As an explanation, he offered “I always talk to them, just in case they’re here from the future.” 

To his credit, the logic seemed sound: since roaches are evolutionarily sturdy animals and the most likely ones to survive an apocalypse, he figured they would probably be the ones who would be around long enough to invent time travel. Therefore he wasn’t taking any chances in case his roaches were the ones trying to reach out to the human race. If he’s right and the roaches are coming back to communicate, I hope they visit him instead of me.

On the way out of town I looped around one block a couple times, which was when I realized that Seattle is like the Bermuda Triangle for my GPS.  Frustrated, I had to sit in a tunnel, trapped in evening traffic as my guiding system told me repeatedly to turn left. From museums, to the waterfront, to eccentric shopkeepers, to rush hour traffic, I’d say I saw a good chunk of Seattle today.

Climbing Mt. Muller

Mt. Muller peaks high above lake crescent in the Northern Olympic Peninsula, but its trailhead is hidden in the woods, down an unobtrusive gravel road.  A large signpost required 5$ for a day use permit and when I parked, the box offering maps was empty. The only help was a basic sketch of the trail with mile marks and a sign marked “trail” pointing into the undergrowth.  I made a quick note of some trail markers, packed myself a lunch, and waded in.  According to the trailhead, the loop was 13 miles with a peak elevation of 3745 feet.

Mt. Muller’s first couple hundred feet was a wet forest of lichen-covered trees and tiny single leafed clovers growing across the ground like umbrellas across restaurant patios after a rain.  The air was cool and I kept my windbreaker on for the first mile.  As I hiked, my walking stick marked the tattoo of my steps: “mush, thump, clack” as it struck moss, dirt, and rock.  I wondered how the equestrians using the trail managed on the soft loam that was hardly wider than a deer trail.  Winding higher, I passed back and forth up switchbacks and the miles crept by with the steady pace of a slug sliding down a leaf.  By mile 3 of the steep climb, I was wondering if the trailblazers had been measuring only straightaways because I felt like it had been at least twice the distance.  At the 4-mile mark, the trees began to thin and the earth dried.  Bumblebees buzzed around, thanking me for using my face to knock down every spider’s web across the trail.  The sun peeked through the trees and the path became ruddy, with a mulched texture of rotting redwood branches and leaves.  

            At the peak of the first mountain, trees parted and I saw that the trail continued along, tracing the spine of the mountain.  I climbed higher, noticing that the horse tracks I had followed up the mountain continued over fallen logs and across winding segments of the trail with nothing but a precipice to the right.  The rider must have been fearless and the horse stupid because half the tracks seemed to skirt the edge.  I stopped at the peak, enjoying my sandwich and looking out over the mountains to the east, their snowy caps just visible under a dense cloud ceiling.   A light wind shook the trees around me, but the clouds were open above and the sun dried a rock enough for me to sit.  

On the way back down, I passed through similar terraces.  Just along the fringe of darker Redwood groves, a forest of Christmas pines traced their branches across my arms.  Morning dew weighed heavy on their needles and I came away with damp patches soaked through the light shirt I wore.  As the trail traced down the mountain I saw an abandoned ski lift on another ridge cut through the dense forest and every mile or two, I followed numbered wooden markers hammered into trees. The last three miles were along a flat, marshy creek that I followed, jumping over muddy horse prints and the occasional fallen tree.  Patches of clover folded their leaves down in places where the sunlight had broken through the trees.  It was just past two and I could tell that the sun was bright outside my gloomy canopy.  The whole loop with a stop for lunch had taken me 4.5 hours. 

 

A quick detour to see Fout's house

The Western Olympic Peninsula

Across Southern Washington, yellow expanses of blooming scotch broom filled in the mountains with color.  Between acres of clear- cut redwood stumps, and even in the downpour that seemed to hover only over my car, the bushes were like highlighters that stood out in a greyed landscape.  Rain persisted for hours, but by the time I had reached the coast, the clouds had cleared and the afternoon sun was causing pools of water on the road to steam. 

Along part of the Sol Duc river by the Mora campground

My campsite in the Mora campground on the Western coast of the Olympic Peninsula was 1.4 miles from the beach, a windy pile of pebbles that were mostly perfect for skipping.  But the waves crashed heavily on the steeply piled rocks and ominous clouds promised a shower, so I didn’t plan to stay long. Just off the coast, a towering island structure with cavernous roots matched a landscape of grey rocks and a glowering sky.  The rain began quickly and as I grabbed my pack, the drops got heavier until my hair and face were soaked.   Even the waterproof jacket I had draped over my shoulders became waterlogged, but by the time I trudged back to camp the sun was out again.  To avoid being soaked in my sleep, however dry the roots of my redwood seemed, I decided to camp in my car.

Portland

Portland is a weird city with redeeming qualities.  The downtown is reminiscent of San Francisco, with square blocks bordered by an impractical number of one-way streets and I can imagine that without GPS, driving would be impossible.   Homeless people flood the streets and with so many asking for change, I don’t understand how anyone pays for metered parking. Although the downtown has its rough blocks, voodoo donuts were a sweet kernel and I was amazed at the number of breweries.  It’s strange how well the show Portlandia captures the atmosphere, because from the infinite number of coffee shops to the unnervingly nice drivers, I felt like I was living on its set. 
 

Doughnuts!!

Rogue Brewery's sampler

On one side of the downtown, the Columbia River cuts Portland in half and on the other side of the downtown, a shady suburb crops up, melding seamlessly into the park.  Forest Park rises behind the city, crowned by a cluster of cell towers; houses fall farther apart and fade out as the forest becomes dense and it was unbelievable how quickly the city was left behind.

A bridge across the Columbia

Southern Oregon Coast

I passed through Crescent City on my way to the Oregon border.  Crescent City’s claim to fame, or at least their most self-publicized quirk, is a soft spot for tsunamis.  On the hill overlooking the city, a plaque describes the mechanism of tsunami formation and points out how the structures below are in an ideal position to be squashed. Despite the risk, I stopped in Crescent City to do some fishing before I left California and my fishing license became moot.  My fishing license might as well have been void for all the fish I caught because as far as I know it’s not illegal to catch rocks without a license.

Driving North on the 101, the dividing line between California and Oregon is more a whisper than a shout.  Where “Welcome to Vegas” signs make sure visitors know where they are, the Oregon border is marked simply by a street named State Line Dr and before you know it, the speed limit signs have changed style and you’re in Oregon.  The coastline doesn’t change- forested hills still separate lagoon after lagoon, but it seemed as if there are now more sleepy little beach towns.  Add to that the sun and the white sands and it was as if I were driving through Pismo Beach in California.  

I reached Port Orford and the Cape Blanco state park highway exit late in the afternoon.  The park lies on a rocky mountain connected to the mainland by low-lying meadows.  As I passed by, sheep were grazing contentedly beneath tsunami warning signs and I pictured them bobbing away in the tide of an errant wave like cotton balls circling a bathtub.  Between tall pines, I passed campsites carved out of dense shrubbery.  Towering hedges hemmed in each parking stall with its associated electrical box and water spigot. After finding a space on the ocean side where the undergrowth thinned and a glimmer of ocean could be seen through the trees, I headed out to explore the park.  

A short walk down the beach trail put me on one of the longest and most pristine beaches I have ever seen.  White sand stretched as far as I could see and golden cliffs seemed to end abruptly in stacks of driftwood. I took off my shoes and walked down the beach, my toes leaving prints behind me that blended into the sand. Small waves spread long mirrors across the fine sand and flat stones were scattered along the high water mark.  Each rock I skipped seemed to bounce along the water and into the sky, reflected in the wet sand.  At the end of the beach I sat on the thumb of a giant tree trunk reaching out of the sand like the bleached knucklebones of a giant.  The sun was warm on my back and a slight breeze played with the ends of my shoelaces.  Today was a good day.

 

 

The Sea Ranch

In the four days I spent staying in The Sea Ranch the sun was warm, the wind was strong, and the ocean was pleasant.  The mosquitoes bit, the sheep were loud, and the smell of the redwoods was inviting.  In mornings, the air was cool and the dew that collected overnight on tall blades of grass bent the stalks.  Midday winds picked up to over 20 mph and persisted into the night, blowing up whitecaps across the ocean like stiff peaks in whipped cream.

Between the redwoods

I spent morning hours diving in the wind chop just off rocky cliffs looking for abalone.  My first morning in The Sea Ranch, the wind was so strong and the swell so persistent that I jumped in the water, made three dives to pull in three abalone (the CA limit per diver per day), and hightailed it out before I got knocked into the rocks.  The second day, the wind splashed water down my snorkel and kept flipping my sponge board out of the water and into my face as I tried to tie off my float line and spear gun.  At one point I had my back to the open water, facing my dive buddy and saw him look over my shoulder and yell "Oh shit!"  Not good to hear when you're diving in sharky waters.  But I turned around and was pleasantly surprised by the spray of a grey whale as it surfaced, heading North on an annual migration.  At about 30 yards from us, I could almost count the barnacles on its diminutive dorsal fin.

A Grey Whale heads North just off the coast

My last day diving was fairly uneventful as well.  The wind was a meager 4 mph and the swell had dropped, so I pulled my three abs from a rock cluster a little further out.  I had a close encounter with a sea lion who was blowing bubbles at me from the bottom; in about 5' visibility, I had no idea what it was until I saw his bulgy eyes pop up a few feet away.  A few minutes later he tried surfacing under my float (which was 30 ft away from me) and scared himself pretty badly. Startled, he shot out of the water, and managed to back-flip over my board before heading straight back out to sea. The swell picked up after that and even though my dive buddy lost his breakfast, I didn't see any fish in the area.  I popped an urchin out of a rock shelf at about 15', deciding to try some uni later on.  I'm glad I did because it isn't my favorite and now I can decline honorably at the sushi restaurant.

My prepared Uni

The Sonoma Coast

 The North coast of California's highway 1 is a forgotten beauty, not far from the congested freeways of San Francisco.  After Bodega Bay, cliffs loom in the fog and white trailers scale the greenery like Dall's sheep.  A rattle of cattle grids shakes passengers awake and marks the beginning of what was first known to me as "Dramamine Drive". Vultures circle at eye level and cows stand on the shoulder of the road, chewing their cud and daring oncoming traffic to take the corner just a little too fast.  I've often marveled at how high those cliffs were and wondered how long it would take to hear a cow's splash.

Before long the cattle grid has sounded, marking the end of the cliffs, and tall trees have grown over the road.  Pines give way to groves of damp Eucalyptus in the fog with stands of redwood and fern interspersed. Here is the land of Huckleberry bushes and mushrooms nestled between roots. Spanish moss drips from branches and signposts, while blackberry bushes line gutters by the road. This is the Sonoma Coast.

Between Bodega Bay and the cliffs

Welcome

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my page. I've dedicated it to my road trip and will post periodically from California to Alaska to keep you informed, amuse you, or at the very least give you a few screensavers to copy.

For my friends: If you're bored and wish you weren't where you are, I hope I'll post a few things to make you laugh.  I'll try to keep up a decent review of  places I visit so that if you find yourself with  time to travel, you can decide for yourself whether or not to go where I have.

Oh and for anyone worried about me (you know who you are), I promise not to cuddle any grizzlies. 

For my family: Don't worry! I'll be just fine.
Specifically for my mother: this is not "Into the Wild"... I promise not to try wintering in any abandoned structures and I promise not to eat any questionable berries. 

For anyone else who stumbles into my page and gets stuck (I hope there will be at least one of you out there):

This is a log of my trip through the Pacific Northwest, into Canada, and hopefully into Alaska.  Feel free to use my pictures for personal stuff... but please don't use my pics in ads, etc. 

Enjoy!