Dec 11, 2007: Shi-Shi Beach to Point of the Arches

Additional Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shahiddurrani/sets/72157603434722184

Dramatic sea stacks, a pristine beach, crashing waves, foaming seas, and not a soul to be seen; a beautiful day on the Pacific coast.

Last year, also in December, I made my first trip to Shi-Shi Beach. High tides had prevented me from reaching Point of the Arches, so I had compensated by heading over to Rialto Beach instead. (http://www.wta.org/~wta/cgi-bin.dev/wtaweb.pl?7+reports+displayM+2006122100) This year, I was determined that high tide or no, I was going to make it Point of the Arches.

An early start from the house had me on the 5:30am ferry for Bainbridge Island. By 10:00am I was at the Shi-Shi beach trailhead and on my way. The 1st mile was pleasant walking through forest, over slick boardwalks and quaint bridges.

The next mile was anything but! Similar to last year, a river of mud stretched before me, masquerading as a trail. I decided that an “brute force” approach would serve me best. The very first mud-hole had me sinking down to mid-calf, so I decided that the “blind-man” approach would serve me better: prod next mud-hole with trekking pole, take step if safe…

2mi into the hike is the way down to Shi-Shi Beach’s north end. My tide charts said that with the timing of a Tokyo Bullet train, I had made it to this point smack in the middle of high tide. I decided that rather than heading down to the beach and risk getting stymied by high tides once again, I would continue on, braving the overgrown/abandoned ‘road’ that would lead me down to the beach a mile further along. “Character building” is the phrase that best describes my little bit of madness. Sharp branches behaving like thorns, thorns…err…also behaving like thorns, mud-holes and numerous blow-downs, all added to my misery. One of the longest miles I have done. Finally, after reaching the beach, I looked back north at the route I should have taken and it was blissfully free of any ocean. I guess all high tides are not created equal.

By now I was close enough to Point of the Arches that I could almost taste it. Every second further banished the past 2 miles to distant memory. Photographic diarrhea took hold of me round about this time…I spent the rest of my hike enveloped in a happy glow.

Stats:

• Distance: 8mi

• Elevation gain: Who cares

• Hiking time: 5.25hrs

• Total trip time: 17hrs

This adventure is not for the faint of heart or the weak of constitution.

It requires the dedication to travel five hours one way.

It requires the dedication to obtain permits from the National Park Service and the Makah Nation.

It requires the dedication to pay for parking in a local’s yard and hike .6 miles to the trailhead.

This trip report may be a bit long and playful, but it will (eventually) point out some dangers that can be avoided in the wilderness.

This trip was an excellent reminder that something that is no big deal in town can be life threatening somewhere else.

One of the reasons that Shi Shi Beach is the only place I will camp/backpack on a holiday weekend is because the hoops one has to jump through to get there. A long drive to the “edge of the world”, obtaining permits from two governments, paying for parking away from the trailhead and a long slog through the mud before the slimy descent of death, tend to weed out the riff raff.

People who backpack to Shi Shi Beach (and often continue down to Ozette and even further South) are a hardy group who appreciate the area for all of its sacredness and rugged, natural beauty.

But back to this weekend’s trip…

Boot sucking mud, sleep deprivation, ravenous insects, flesh eating banana slugs, the slimy descent of doom from the headlands to the beach, driftwood piles of death, bone crunching beach combing, a rival tribe camped nearby, not enough wine (oh the horror) and even more challenges faced our “Survivor Shi Shi” contestants.

Out of the Seven who originally accepted the challenge, only two survived (voting each other immunity in the end) Two dropped out before the event due to family and work obligations, bringing the number down to five. School (and an unfortunate incident with a missing data stick) took out the next contestant; only to have a personal crisis take out her replacement bringing the number back down to four, a mere five hours after the number being back up to five. In the wee hours of the morning, the number dropped to three when a contestant showed up at the meeting point on crutches after an injury.

Two left Tacoma (one after unexpectedly staying out way too late and setting her alarm for 4:00 PM rather than 4:00 AM when she finally drug home) and met the third at an obscure yet charming beach resort on the Straight of Juan De Fuca. After acquiring permits form the National Park Service and the Makah Nation, they drove to the white house near the end of the road to the Fish Hatchery and paid for parking. They hiked the .6 miles to the trailhead, patronized a stinky outhouse that may be in the top three stinkiest of all time, and began their adventure.

One participant had been sick the week before with a food borne illness and had not fully recovered. Additionally she didn’t understand how many calories were needed to carry a significantly overloaded backpack through thick mud, down steep terrain and over soft sand.

She bonked. I have done this myself. After completing a three day backpacking trip on the Wonderland Trail at Mt Rainier, and not eating enough (we figured that over two days we had expended the energy required to run two marathons and that doesn’t count the altitude) I went out and tried to run on my rest day. I was overloaded with lactic acid and under loaded with glucose and electrolytes, and I got wheeled into Urgent Care in a wheel chair after a hard bonk.

When I bonked, I was able to grab the gate at five mile drive in Pt Defiance and call someone to get me before I want down. I was darn lucky not to have staggered into traffic and been hit by a car, or to have been found unconscious by the wrong person.

A bonk in the wilderness is even more dangerous.

Anything in the wilderness is more dangerous.

Cell phones don’t work out there (in the rare few places they might, it’s not uncommon to have a 911 call answered in Canada rather than the US) It can take hours to get out to where help can be summoned, and hours running into days to get help back out to the person who needs it.

Recognizing the bonk, I had her sit down and eat and drink as much as she could keep down. Our other contestant headed out to do battle for a prime campsite while I accessed the situation. When I felt comfortable that it was a mild enough bonk that I could leave her alone for a time, I hauled butt 2 ½ miles up the beach to drop off my pack at camp (which although a lovely, sheltered site in the trees, required some serious scrambling over the driftwood piles of death with my own grossly overloaded pack)

Then I hauled butt back down the beach to get our bonked contestant’s pack. Unfortunately, her pack does not fit me, and in addition to being overloaded cut into my collar bone, shoulders and hips (all of which are now abraded and black and blue)

She kept trying to get me to let her help carry things while working her way up the beach, and I had to threaten to poke her with a sharp stick (a tungsten carbide tipped trekking pole to be exact) if she tried to carry anything in her condition.

There was more stubborn on this trip than could ever be described here. It was likely an immeasurable, indescribably level of stubborn.

At that point, after carrying both packs for several miles, I was close to bonked myself, so I sucked down as much food and beverage as I could and rested before dinner.

We had a fabulous driftwood fire on the beach (not in the trees an not in the big logs) and grilled a wonderful dinner. Unfortunately, we realized that we had not packed enough wine for a three day trip. [sigh]

After that, our bonked contestant did the smart thing and went to bed early.

Our other contestant and I ran down the beach in search of adventure and whatever trouble we could find.

We found it in the guise of one of those plastic boat floats. It was big, it was orange, and in the absence of any shiny thing to distract us (Oooh Shiny!) it was our goal. Both us of being athletes, sprinted towards that puppy at mach speed. She got to it a nano-second before I did and kicked it with all her might.

Then we heard the crunch,

Then she limped.

For those who wonder, Keen sandals with their innovative toe protectors do not protect one’s foot from the impact of kicking something that is so filled with wet sand that it might as well be filled with concrete.

She waked it off, limped back to camp and went to bed.

She awakened the next morning with the joint behind her big toe red, angry and swollen.

Early in the morning, as I was dreaming in my nice, warm down sleeping bag, I heard it…

“Lisa, would you mind looking at my foot?”

After accessing it, I advised rest, elevation, cold and anti-inflammatory medication.

If it responded, another 24 hours could make it easier to get out.

If it got worse, the delay could create a situation where she’d have to be flown out or carried out on a litter.

Knowing that she wouldn’t rest (did I mention the level of stubborn on this trip?) she made the decision to get out while she could still get a boot on the foot. Luckily, it’ wasn’t an ankle. One thing most people who do silly things, take unnecessary risks and climb things they shouldn’t’ in the wilderness don’t realize is that something as simple as a sprained/broken ankle while a minor inconvenience in town, can kill you in the backcountry (well, if you’re not traveling with a medic)

Even though this particular incident didn’t affect her ability to bear the weight of her pack (I would have carried it out if necessary) I couldn’t not get her at least to the top of the headlands to the flat, muddy logging road that was heavily used, populated.

I was pretty darn exhausted by this point, but either one of them would have done it for me.

So then there were two of us.

Still climbing over that stinking pile of driftwood, she still recovering from the bonk, me now fried from the extra tips and pack carrying.

I was staring to hate that stinking pile of driftwood. Especially after forgetting my extra batteries back at camp and having my camera die on the South Side of Point of the Arches and having to haul butt back down there to get them before the tide starting moving back in.

We did get some fabulous sunset pictures the first night. We got some fabulous tide-pooling in the 2nd afternoon and we shared food, wine, fun and friendship. I had some fun sharing stories of that trip and swapping NPS stories with the patrol ranger at Point of the Arches.

The 2nd night, as I was snuggled back into my beloved down sleeping back and drifting off to dreamland with the soothing sound of the crashing surf, I heard…

“Lisa, do you have any suggestions as to how to get a bee out of my tent?”

A bee? A BEE? WTF!?!?! It was too bloody cold and beach like for a bee.

Me: “Uh, open both doors and hope if flys out or shoo it out?”

Her: “It’s just stuck there.”

Me: “So whack the roof of the tent from outside.”

Her: “It’s still stuck.”

Me: “So poke it with a stick”

Her: “Crap! It just fell into my sleeping bag!”

I could go on, but I’m sure you, the reader can fill in the rest. Everything had to be pulled out of the tent before anyone could sleep. The next morning, a Banana Slug invaded camp and tried to eat one contestant’s jerky.

We slept in the next morning and were awakened by that silly sound that Bald Eagles make (my favorite alarm clock)

We took our time getting out, myself bruised and battered, my companion recovering from the illness and bonk. Both of us saying, “WOW, that was COOL!”

When we final two survivors made it back to the trailhead, a pickup truck full of icky boys offered a ride to the cars, and I and several others jumped in the back. What luck! On the way back, I was telling our story to some of the other guys in the back of the truck. They said, “Hey, we heard about you guys from the ranger.”

We’re infamous and our reputation had preceded us. Perhaps our story will become legend and will be told at campfires on the beach for years to come.

Or perhaps, the rangers will have a good laugh at the end of season party.

We all made it home safe and sound. (a couple of us bruised and battered, but that’s OK)

*** WHO WILL THE FINAL SUVIVOR BE? *** WILL THEY BRING ENOUGH WINE NEXT TIME? *** WHAT WAS LISA DOING UNTIL 11:00 PM THE NIGHT BEFORE AN EARLY TRIP? ***

FIND THE ANSWERS TO THESE AND MORE QUESTIONS ON “SURVIVOR SHI SHI – BACK TO THE BEACH” THIS LABOR DAY !!!

Although this may sound like a “bad” experience, it wasn’t.

It was an amazing experience.

There is no “bad” trip to Shi Shi. It is a place that will change you if you let it.

The experience could have been life threatening, but instead, it was a chance for our “tribe” to band together and help each other.

I will always have fond memories of “Survivor Shi Shi”

~L

Pictures are available here http://www.wildcelticrose.net/lisasplace/shishisurvivor.html

Shi Shi is ever changing. Most of the changes are wrought by the ocean which shifts the sands, changes river mouths, and tosses all kinds of flotsam up onto the beach. The Makah Indians have made lots of changes themselves. They've created a new, spacious parking lot with permanent restrooms and a very nice trail with puncheons and bridges for about 1/3 of the way to the cliff. The other two thirds remain a combination of forest trail, ORV raceway, and series of sloppy, black, boot sucking mud holes. Hikers have beaten primitive paths around these morasses but even these succumb eventually to mud. These must be water table or spring fed because it had not rained lately as evidenced by other parts of the trail which used to be mud but now were dried out considerably. The zig zag path down to the beach is steep and can be slippery when wet, but was no problem this weekend.

Even with lots of people at the beach for the Memorial weekend, there was plenty of space for all. The tide was average so most pitched their tents right on the high beach among the dried out logs. Beach fires are permitted. Lots to see out there, especially point of arches which are accessible at low tide.

To get there, go to the Makah Indian reservation and take the road to Hobuck Beach. Past that beach, look for a white house at the top of a small hill. You can park there for $5 per day. Hike about a quarter mile around a bend and there is the parking lot and trailhead. If you are not staying overnight, you can go directly to the trailhead parking lot.

Final word - don't kick the red balls. These big floats from fishing nets are thick plastic and often full of sand. They are hard as concrete and unimpressed by the force of a mere human foot.

We started off around 2:00 after paying a decent amount of money to the Makah nation for parking on their land. The boardwalk part of the trail is pretty good, but after a mile, the trail became quite muddy. There are numerous detours around the ankle-deep mud portions of the trail that are a good idea to take.