Tried the Upper South Fork Skokomish Trail. The trail up to the National Forest boundary has been recently graded and storm damage repairs were completed. I had read that the first bridge was out, but that there was a tree across the river. Well this was correct, but after 30 minutes of pondering, I turned back. The fact that I was alone, and there was no evidence of anyone else on the trail that day, along with the river running high and fast, I decided to not risk becoming a statistic. Returned to the trail head and went down to Harps shelter for the night. Quiet, peaceful night listening to rocks rolling down the river. One blow down just north of the shelter, but it was easy to skoot under it. Saw one cow elk by the river. Good warm up trip to test my new pack and sleeping bag.

The road to the trail head is in decent condition overall. The first few miles through the clear cuts have potholes, a few of them deep. The unpaved section is smooth and the paved section after it is even smoother until the last few miles where there is the occasional debris and a good amount of snow (single lane wheel ruts exist).

The trail itself is smooth sailing except for a few parts that have turned into creeks until past the first camp at the river. After that the snow varies from non-existent to 5+ feet in some sections. Most of the time it was at least 3 feet deep. There are tracks in the snow that are generally easy to follow for at least 3 miles past the first camp. There is minor blow down on the trail, a few trees, but mostly small branches that require some contortion to get through (especially with all the snow). You will fall in the snow and you will get wet on this trail so be prepared.

I should have known better than to start a trip in the Olympics when the sky was gray. The empty parking lot at he Staircase Ranger Station should have told me something. But no, reason gave way to sheer momentum. Hey, I had planned this trip for months, and it's August for Pete's sake, and I've already come this far, and I don't have a Plan B for east-of-the-Crest, and it's too far anyway. We're supposed to get wiser as we age (I'm 62) but some of us just age slower.

The original plan was to leave Staircase on the South Fork of the Skokomish, north across First Divide to the Upper Duckabush trail, then to Hart Lake, maybe a day-trip to LaCrosse Lake, and then the loop through Fisher's Notch and south to O'Neil Pass, then back to the Upper Duck (as the rangers call it) and back the way I came. I gave it a week. It was a week I had been waiting for. Rain blew me out of there in four days.

The trail from Staircase to Pleasant Camp has been recently cleared of some huge old trees that had blown down over the trail, and I reached Pleasant Camp easily. The work of the trail crews was evident in the many fresh saw-cuts of some huge old trees, and I tip my rain-soaked hat to them.

The following day, resolved to reach Home Sweet Home, just over First Divide, I got an early start and made good time as far as Two Bear Camp, about five miles in. The crux was a stream crossing on a slick log at Nine Stream, which I managed by waddling, Charlie Chaplin style, feet close together, eyes anywhere but down. Again, the trail crews had cleared some big ones this season. At Two Bear, a sudden deluge brought me to my knees, literally. A slick rock is all it takes. I had found that tall trees provide a canopy that keeps the diligent hiker dry for a while, but that gravity keeps the water coming long after the rain quits. It's all in the timing. Two Bear Camp, in a grove of big fir, it would have to be for the night. Luckily, I had a good book, whisky, a headlamp, and a dry tent.

From Two Bear Camp, I resolved to set a pace for the Upper Duck. The rangers had told me there were still 37 trees down across the trail from First Divide to Upper Duck, and I figured I'm going to make up time. It's only 1,100 feet more altitude to the Divide, then down 2,000 through those downed trees to Upper Duck. Let's just call this a work day, get in the old harness and move. Ha! I got as far as First Divide when the heavens opened. After deciding this cloud-mass hovering over the Olympics was here to stay--there was almost no wind--I quit trying to out-wait it, and just camped in the middle of the afternoon. A good book, whisky, and a headlamp once again. I saw a pattern here.

It is in the nature of the Olympics that weather comes and goes quickly. Like they say in Missouri, if you don't like the weather, stick around. I'd picked this route at the suggestion of my buddy Bill, who went to the trouble of printing out the map from the Park Service software, and highlighting the route, with comments handwritten in the margin telling of the wonderful views. ""It doesn't get any better than this!"" Hey, the guy put a lot of effort into that, and that motivated me. Still, my views were of the various shades of gray and white that make up an Olympic storm-system. Occasionally, Mt. LaCrosse peeked out from the north. Sometimes I could see the 5,000-footer that hovers over First Divide, not a mile away. Whoopee.

Catching a break in the rain, I made a quick day-hike to Home Sweet Home. While I couldn't see much laterally, I could see down, and Home Sweet Home is spread out below First Divide like a visual banquet upon a table. There are people who believe in God because of places like this. This is a meadow of some eight or ten acres, a few groves of fir or spruce but mostly low ground-cover dotted with alpine flowers now just past their prime. At that point there doesn't seem to be much higher terrain nearby to provide water drainage, but sure enough there's a creek to cross on the way in. I suppose a Garden of Eden has to have water, and after all, this is the Olympics. The terrain itself has a mystical form, something akin to the Enchantment Lakes. I'm sure a geologist could explain it, but it would be like a rational philosopher trying to prove the existence of God. This land is poetry.

I came out the next day from First Divide, and as always I found myself seeing things on the way down that I had missed on the way in. That happens, and I think it's only half because of the better perspective. I think a few days in the mountains straightens out the head and sharpens the eye. Along the river, moss covers everything like a blanket, and lichens hang from branches Louisiana style. The sheer size of trees! In the low light, the many varieties of the color green! (If the Navajo have 17 words for brown, how many do the Skokomish have for green?) And always the terrain itself, the land-shape under all that biology!

Next year, I'll catch better weather. I'm not done here.

Adam Kline