By Brian E. Clark
Special To Channel 3000

My son saw the bear first.

It looked to be about 300 pounds and its shiny black coat glistened in the sun as it poked around in the berry bushes and tall grasses where the beach met the forest.

Then it was gone. We turned our attention back to the Pacific Ocean, the small islands offshore, the shimmering tidepools, the flocks of seabirds and the huge trees that lined the strand.

After two weeks of rain, we were fortunate to find a window of sunny weather for a backpacking trip to one of the more isolated -- and beautiful -- corners of the United States.

Though I’d lived in Washington for a decade and traipsed all over the state, I’d never made it out to the wild coastal strip of Olympic National Park, which is about 170 miles northwest and nearly five hours from Seattle.

With my son headed off to his sophomore year of college, this outing in early September was a great chance to dust off my backpack and spend a few days with Matt.

When the bear reappeared minutes later, it had ambled south along the beach -- away from our campsite behind piles of bleached driftwood -- never seeming to notice us.

Later that night, however, after we’d crawled into my two-man tent, I was roused from a light sleep when I heard something big moving around outside, less than a foot from my head.

Fortunately, it wasn’t the bear, a cougar, porcupine or even any pesky raccoons.  Just my 6-foot, 4-inch (230 pound) “boy,” putting some of our gear under the tent’s rainfly to avoid the heavy drizzle that was drifting down through the cedars.  

I thanked him, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Our adventure had begun a few weeks before, when I’d called the park’s backcountry ranger office to reserve a campsite.  Because I’d chosen a Thursday, and most schools were back in session, we were in luck. It was no trouble getting a camping permit.

We picked a trail bordering Lake Ozette, where Matt, his mother, another family and I had gone sea kayaking 15 years before. But this time around, we were headed for the ocean.  

Because I was flying in from the Midwest earlier in the day, we chose not to rough it the first night, instead staying at the Quinault Lodge. This rustic hotel, built in 1926 and situated on picturesque Lake Quinault, resembles Yellowstone’s Old Faithful Lodge. It’s also one of my favorite Olympic Peninsula getaways.

When morning rolled around, we ate breakfast in the dining room -- whole wheat pancakes and a salmon omelet -- and then registered with the park rangers, whose office was located conveniently next door.    

We borrowed a mandatory hard-sided “bear canister” for storing our food, toothpaste and anything else that might attract the attention of a hungry critter.

A few hours later, we’d filled our water bottles, loaded up our backpacks and were crossing a footbridge over the Ozette River on the north end of the lake.  The stream was clear, but tinted a tea-like color, stained by root tannins from the tall trees that lined its banks.

For some reason, call in vainglory, the pack I carried was twice as big as my son’s. While that would have made sense a decade earlier, it didn’t now. But some old habits die hard.

The gravel crunched beneath our boots as we hiked up and down hills on the trail, which was bordered by a tangle of salal sorrel, ferns and mosses that grew both on the ground and hung down from trees like scraggly beards.

Soon we came to boardwalks, some made from wood, worn shiny and thin from years of use. Other sections were made from recycled plastic, which presumably would last longer.

The sun slanted low through the trees, but we were in no real hurry. It was only 5 p.m. and the trail to the beach was just 3.2 miles long.  Though the temperature was only in the 70s, sweat rolled off my brow and I stopped to strip off a sweatshirt and jacket.

After an hour, we came to Ahlmstrom’s Meadow, an open spot where a Swedish immigrant had homesteaded nearly a century ago, when only trails lead to the small farms near the lake.

Then, 30 minutes later, we were in the bluffs above the beach, picking our way down to the shore. We were greeted by barking seals nesting on an island. They would continue to bellow all afternoon, night and morning. After a while, though, we didn’t notice the cacophony.

At the mouth of a small stream, a woman backpacker was drawing water through a filter into a plastic bottle. We traded hellos and Matt and I tromped another 50  yards to the next campsite and plopped down our packs.

We sipped some water and then set up the tent that had only seen use in my backyard in Wisconsin. Because the sun was shining and the forecast was for sun, I told Matt I didn’t think we needed the rainfly.

But he still lives in the Northwest and knew better. I thanked him on the drizzly walk out. After all, it does rain 100 inches a year on this coast.

After setting up our campsite, we hiked south along the beach about a mile. With the tide far out, we had a huge area to explore. In some spots, it was dry out to seemingly distant islands.

By the shore, which was littered with huge logs that looked as if they’d been tossed around like so many pick-up sticks, several big trees seemed to teeter on high, undercut banks. We figured they’d tumble into the sometimes raging surf with the next big storm.

On the hike back, we picked up armloads of dry sticks for our campfire and watched the sun sink behind a fogbank to the west.  

As I fired up the small propane stove, Matt lit the kindling in the fire pit. Soon we were spooning up our dinner of freeze-dried curried stew and tea. I also brought some freeze-dried blueberry cheesecake, but we were bushed so it stayed in the bear canister.

The next morning, while Matt slept, I hiked north along the beach to Tskhawahyah Island, the westernmost point on the contiguous U.S. coast. With the tide out again, I stepped over slick rocks to the swatch of land but didn’t climb it for a sign said it was off-limits, sacred to the Makah Indians.

On my walk back to our campsite, I saw three frisky deer and a spotted fawn on the beach.  And while Matt slept, a doe and another spotted fawn munched on new grass near our tent.  Because no hunting is allowed in the park, they were anything but shy.  

By 10:30 a.m., we’d eaten our granola, drunk more tea and were walking south to Sand Point, another three-mile jaunt. We stayed on the beach, except for one spot where we had to use a beach trail to get around a fallen tree, and hiked past mist-covered coves and some sections of open water.

We passed only a few other hikers, and basked in the wilderness solitude. Eventually, as sun broke through the clouds, we came to the sign that marked the trail back through the forest to the ranger station. The last leg of our nearly perfect triangle was, of course, another three miles.

Instead of solitude, we were accompanied for half our hike by two ladies who must have been in their mid-to-late 70s. Rugged Washington natives, they had camped next to Lake Ozette and were doing the nine-mile loop as a day hike.

I was impressed by their vigor and spirit, almost as much as by the beauty of the rocky coastline – seemingly untouched by humans – the old-growth forest and the abundant wildlife, including Mr. Bear.

If You Go:  

The best time to hike in the Olympic National Park is the summer and fall, but some hearty souls go to the coastline year round. Camping permits are mandatory and can be obtained from the Park Service by calling (360) 565-3130 or writing Olympic National Park, 600 East Park Ave., Port Angeles, WA, 98362. The park’s Web site is http://www.nps.gov/olym/.

For information on the northern portion of the Olympic Peninsula, go to http://olympicpeninsula.org/ or call 800/ 942-4042. If you’d like to try surfing on the wild and woolly northwest Pacific coast, contact the Lost Mountain Surf Co. near Sequim at http://www.lostmountainsurfcompany.com/ or call  360/ 683-9001.

For details on Lake Quinault Lodge, go to http://www.visitlakequinault.com/ or call 888/ 896-3827. The lodge is open year-round.

And for those who’d rather stay in cabins at Lake Ozette, try the Lost Resort at 800/ 950-2899 or go to http://www.lostresort.net/index.htm.