Waiting

Ruby Beach, low tide

At the edge of the shore, they congregate, in small basins carved over time by washing waves, capturing the last laps of water as it's pulled from the rocks at low tide--the communities within the rhythm of the sea.
Held here in tide pools, covered by only inches of clear ocean water, until the surf returns and they are, once again, hidden from view.
Waiting for its reviving freshness, safe within rocky walls.



The rugged shoreline of the Olympic Peninsula, with its towering sea stacks and tumbling sea stones scattered across broad sand and pebble beaches is 73 miles of protected wilderness. In many cases, reached only by hiking a narrow trail weaving its way through miles of dense evergreen woods, the shores are rimmed by weathered silver beach logs, piled high, just beyond the water’s high mark.
Here, the exposed tidal pools hold treasure.

Sea stars on rock
Ruby Beach, low tide

With each wave’s passing, the basins emerge.
Then, a slippery path from stone to stone, upon piles of lifeless seaweed.

Ruby Beach, low tide

Until the last foamy finger of cool water slips into gently rippled sand.
This is low tide. And we have been waiting.


At Clallum Bay on the northern shore, we walked out to Slip Point, its large pitted rocks, jutting from piles of smooth, brown sea stones.
The deepest blue of the ocean, bright, beyond a shadowed shore.

Sea stones at Slip Point, Clallum Bay

Gooseneck Barnacles, Slip Point

We found carved basins and hidden pockets beneath the rocks, filled with mussels and barnacles—
and more.

Tide Pool, Slip Point

Hermit crabs battled furiously in arm-to-arm combat, hurriedly retreating as my shadow darkened their pool. Tiny blue feet, barely betraying their presence here.
Their shelter, a small cast-off shell.

Blue Banded Hermit Crab, Pagurus samuelis
Slip Point

blue feet and red antennae

A Purple Sea Urchin and well-camouflaged Sculpin rested, motionless, in the next.

Purple Sea Urchin, Strongylocentrotus purpuratus

Tide Sculpin

And, peeking from beneath the shadow of a large rock, bright orange arms!

Ochre Star, Pisaster ochraceus, Slip Point

Dried seaweed on pebble beach, Slip Point

Ruby Beach, low tide

Further west at Ruby Beach, long, sloping sands surround sea stacks, remnants of the rocky headlands, eroded by the strong ocean waves. At low tide, the sides of these small islands are exposed.
Sea stars and closed anemone cover the surface, waiting for the water's return.


In a shallow sandy pool at my feet, open tentacles.
Translucent fingers feed.

Green Anemone, Anthopleura xanthogrammica
Ruby Beach

An entire wall of the wave beaten rock, encrusted by mussels and barnacles, again.
Their white mozaic shells against blue, striking in the late afternoon sun.
Fed by the action of the water as it surges past.

Goose Barnacles and Mussels
Ruby Beach

In this place, seemingly vacant, long shores without life, I have found it.
In colors a vivid contrast to the muted sands and sea.
Waiting for the tide to come in.

Gulls and Brown Pelicans
Ruby Beach, low tide

all photos click to enlarge


participating in Camera Critters

Olympic National Park--This Place is WILD!

Sign posted at trailhead

I’ve discovered an effective strategy for overcoming my fear of bears.
Settle in for a week of hiking--in cougar country—complete with details of how to avoid, or, if faced with an encounter, stare one down and escape with your life, posted plainly at every trailhead.
A repeated reminder throughout the Park, for those who might have it slip their mind.

Chances are, I’d never encounter one.
But with 300 cougars within the national park boundaries, I read each instruction sheet and studied it well, then picked up my stick and stepped into their world.

Every scrubby cluster became a point from which one could suddenly leap.
Every dark lump, a crouching form.
Hiking no longer was a mindless trek, but an exercise, carefully plotted and executed.
We must keep an eye on the sun--these deep woods lose light quickly.
Stumbling along a dusky trail would be definitely out of the question.

Having just stepped off a plane from Ohio days earlier, made this new place all the more disconcerting. As if suddenly waking from sleep to find the room rearranged, nothing looked the least bit familiar.

Within the deep, dark woods of Olympic, mostly silence. An expansive, lavishly carpeted space with cathedral ceilings opening to spots of bright blue above.

Arion sp. (?)

Snail-eating Beetles eating a worm
Scaphinotus angusticollis olympiae
of Pacific coastal forests

Along the paths we walked, huge slugs.
And their predators, flightless Snail-Eating ground beetles scurrying to and fro, hoping to catch one, or a snail or other slimy, spineless creature that lives in the dark of these woods.

Douglas squirrel, Tamiasciurus douglasii
of Pacific coastal states
eating Sitka Spruce cone

Douglas squirrels, small and noisy, munching cones of odd shapes and sizes.

The evergreens, of course, were huge--and enough like similar species to hazard a guess. But, there were maples--with leaves the size of dinner plates.

Devils Club, Oplopanax horridus

And a low, lanky, creeping shrub, its ferocious spines hiding coyly behind bunches of lovely red berries—and even larger leaves.
Devil’s Club—nothing a hiker wishes to get into a tangle with.

hot springs of Sol Duc Valley

Sulfur hot springs were covered in a morning’s mist. Their aroma less than inviting—yet, after a day’s journeying, a warm welcome home. Nature’s hot tub, clean and clear. A constant renewal from below the earth’s surface.

coast between Clallum Bay and Sekiu

wild blackberries

One afternoon, a barrier of hefty blackberry shoots teased us from the road’s edge with large and luscious ripe fruit as we stopped to watch the tide slip from dark-covered rocks at the coast. We stole all we could of the bright, dark berries, and filled a hat to the brim—a snack to carry us through.



The table for lunch, reminding us again of this wonderful wildness we had landed in.

Rock Crab
Wilderness Beach Trail connecting Alava and Sand Point

Second Beach
Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary, Washington

A place where the sand on the beach bears only your footsteps.
And those that follow, are of another world.

Posted in Camera Critters!

Cape Flattery

Pacific sunset from Cape Flattery

At the end of the road, the end of the earth.

Cape Flattery, the furthest point at the northwestern tip of the continental United States, and last to see the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, is within the Makah Indian Reservation on the coast of Washington.
Weaving our way over narrow, unmarked roads, racing the sun, past scattered trailers and tribal gathering places, we found the deserted lot, displayed our just-purchased Recreation Permit, and hastily hiked out to the point.

From a high, narrow lookout, the ocean faintly seen, pounding the rocks and caves below.
The fog, thick and cool.
The sky, white.

Thinning bit by bit, Tatoosh Island and its lighthouse emerged,
rosy skies to either side.
And glimpses of Vancouver Island to the north.
Then a clearing,
and the sun slipped past the horizon.

appearing through the fog
Tatoosh Island

looking toward the north to Vancouver Island

looking south over Pacific Ocean

See more Skywatch here.

The Hundred Year Storm

I woke again this morning, the distant drone of our neighbor's generator a reminder that opening my eyes to look across the dim room for the clock's red, lighted digits would not be necessary.
The power is still out.
And so Day 3 begins.

I had intended to follow yesterday's post with still more of the sights of Olympic.
But the limited access to both electricity and internet has made sorting and organizing the close to 2000 photos next to impossible.

Sunday's flight home touched down just as the remnants of Hurricane Ike swept through Ohio, leaving the southwestern corner of the state trembling in its aftermath and much of central Ohio in the dark.
I really don't know the extent of the damage, nor the statistics that I'm sure must be broadcast nationally, by now. Without television, we listen only briefly to radio broadcasts listing closings and ever-changing emergency levels. But the governor's in town, and crews have been called in from Texas, Louisiana and the Carolinas for assistance.

We are, as yet, powerless.
Which means the backpacks full of hiking socks, t-shirts, and fleeces wait, patiently for the laundry to begin. Food stores have begun to reopen, as areas reconnect to the grid. But traffic out and about is a snarl--traffic lights out of service and gas stations dark and empty.
We diddle around with what can be done without electric--which, sadly, is not much in the way of cleanup. Fortunately, our house is unharmed. The only structural damage, the loss of the chimney on the garage (a summer kitchen), the tall block stack blown forcefully down and crumbled across the backyard.

Old Oak, May 2007

The 200-year old oak still stands-- my next concern after house, barn and outbuildings. But the small log bench we placed beneath her has been buried under the twisted bough from above. Nearly 2 feet in diameter, sturdy, strong and long, it was torn off by what must have been a fierce wind. I can only imagine the sound of its crushing fall.

Old Oak, September 2008

Days are filled with the ring of chainsaws.
Red cones mark downed wires on almost every roadway.
Food pantries have been opened--with bread and peanut butter, water and ice.

Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.

We recharge cell phones and laptops in the few coffeeshops across town, hunkered down in a corner, with everyone else seeking a connection with the rest of the world.
I haven't been able to visit others' blogs or comment in this short visit, but hope to be back in business very soon!
More news here.

Indian Thistle

The Olympic Peninsula has a rich native heritage.

Surrounded by small villages named Sekiu, Pysht, Kalaloch and Sequim, its history predates our culture—and, the land, European exploration.
Within these old-growth forests of the Olympic Range, much is the same as it was, centuries before, as the native tribes walked these lands. The impenetrable growth of these woods, and the Olympics’ separation from the mainland by the Puget Sound has created a sanctuary—a rich environment, untouched by time, preserved to the present.

Hiking the trail on Hurricane Ridge

fields full of Lupines

The dense woods of the lower elevations, rise and open—to great golden fields of the smallest wildflowers, sturdy and eager to revel in the sunshine of but 2 months’ days.

view south over Olympic Range

Pearly Everlasting

Bees and flies buzz from one to the next, struggling against a strong, cool breeze.
Summer is short on the mountaintop.
And sunshine, a rare delight.

Lupine

Black-tailed Deer

Black-tailed deer graze here, before taking shelter below. And Ravens nest in the small twisted trees, their large blackness, striking.

From a narrow winding trail on Hurricane Ridge, glimpses of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and beyond that, Canada--in shades of blues, haze upon a distant land.

view north toward Canada

And a thistle I’ve not seen before.
Appropriately, the only native thistle to the Northwest, Indian Thistle.
With fuzzy buds and nodding heads.
And many, many bees.

Indian Thistle (Edible Thistle)
Cirsium edule

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