From Vision to Fruition- A Bucket List Hike
Have you ever checked something off of your bucket list before?
Do you remember how you felt leading up to the moment?
Do you remember what the weather was like that day or who you were with?
Visiting Ozette Lake on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State was added to my bucket list 5 years ago, after my friend Jeremy told me about it. He explained the positioning of the lake in comparison to the oceanic coast. He described a profound presence of mystery and a fog so dense that you can feel the weight of it on your skin.
I had to go. I needed to feel and experience it for myself.
On the morning of August 3rd, 2020,
I arrived at Ozette Lake to explore during the day and camp in the evening. This is the story of my journey through the coastal rainforest that grew between the 8-mile-long and 3-mile-wide Ozette Lake, and the ocean.
My first steps onto the trail took me across a bridge that gently arched over a river. It flowed out of the lake in the northwestern direction, only to continue its journey through the coastal forest and drain out into the Pacific Ocean. The bridge was solid underfoot, yet visibly held age and wisdom due to the minty green moss that sprang from its railings. The river moved slowly beneath me as I began to fall deeper in love with the Olympic Peninsula.
I crossed the bridge and entered the forest. I didn’t know what to expect as I’ve never experienced a hike like this before. Instantly I could feel the pulse of life that surrounded me. Trees stood tall, collecting the majority of light from the sun, leaving little for the forest floor. Younger trees bowed under the weight of life climbing up their trunks. Mosses and ferns grew on whatever they could get their roots into.
The trail was lined with logs and cedar boardwalks for humans to travel. Each board was carefully placed and installed with the intention to last years. As I hiked, it became apparent that Mother Earth was working slowly and diligently to reclaim what is hers by overtaking the boardwalks with her nature. Ferns sprouted from cracks in the boards. Moss coated the areas where no humans touch. The path held character and prudence. Some boards teetered under my step and bounced like a suspended bridge in an old wooden playground. The warm humid air wrapped its arms around me, welcoming me into the forest.
Some ferns grew high above my waist extending every part of themselves towards any light leftover from the canopy above. It would be nearly impossible to bush-whack in this forest. The interweaving plant life made it extremely dense. If you dared to leave the trail, the vines and bushes would reach out to trip you like in the Goblet of Fire, showing no mercy and pull you into its darkest depths.
The forest was a patchwork of countless shades of green. Deep hunter green, mint green, kelley green, chartreuse green and many more, flooded my vision. Dense and lush. I saw no wildflowers or pops of color. As I wandered deeper into the forest, a large tree had strategically fallen across the trail with the hopes to keep the humans away from the coast. I reached one leg over its wide trunk to discover that I was just barely tall enough to step over it.
Suddenly, I emerged from the forest. My eyes squinted as sunlight touched my face for the first time all day.
The ocean must be near.
The trail began to change as I got closer to the coast. Some sections still had cedar boardwalks, but on the other parts it has changed from a soft dark forgiving dirt to light grey crushed stone and dust.
An hour twenty into the hike, my nose perked up. I could smell the stench of low tide. Salty air filled my lungs and spread a smile on my face. “I am about to check an item off of my bucket list,” I whispered to myself.
The salt got stronger and stronger. The unique scent suddenly transported my mind to the coast of Maine. It brought me to summertime at a small cabin with wood-planked walls that you can see through. I remembered the ever-present coating of dew, giant lobster pots, and buttery ears of corn on the cob. My mind took me to the foggy northeastern coast where poets and great writers escape to complete a masterpiece in solitude.
I arrived back to the moment to find that the forest that had engulfed me once again- this isn’t Maine. “I’m on the opposite side,” I thought to myself. This is the most westerly point of the continental United States. I smiled at the memory and continued winding through this playground.
I noticed more light breaking through the trees ahead. This must be the shore. I pause, I listen, I can hear it. I continued on, but this time, at a faster pace fueled by excitement and anticipation.
A few minutes later I came around a bend and down an embankment. I see it. The ocean. The fog. The rocks and kelp. Persisting down the path I am getting pats on the shoulders from the taller ferns congratulating me on arriving at the Cape Alva Pacific Coast Marine Sanctuary, and checking off an item on my bucket list.
Jeremy was right, you can feel the weight of the air on your skin. Although the sandy beach was only 50 feet deep, the well-seasoned rocks of low tide stretched a mile out. The ocean waves crashed steadily and continuously at a far distance.
I walked onto the beach and thought to myself, “no wonder why artists come to areas like this to dive into their work. It is grounding, empowering, magical, and raw, all at once.”
Off of the shore there were a few tall islands lined with jagged cliffs and topped with evergreen trees. Sea lions barked back and forth to each other in the distance as the tide began to creep in. I strolled down the beach to the north pondering how quickly the weather can change out here. I wondered about the lifestyle of the natives that were on this peninsula first, and how their traditions and lifestyle had shifted once white people colonized North America. I followed the puffy clouds with my eyes trying to differentiate them from the dense fog that lined the coast. I reached the border of the Ozette Indian reservation and turned around out of respect for them and their sacred space, especially during a global pandemic.
Heading south down the coast, I paused to watch new found friends in the tide pools. I came across something I had never seen before. It appeared as a small, round, green, squishy, jelly donut. They sat on top of the sand and did not move. I was curious about what they were so I stepped a little bit closer with my boot. The center of the jelly donut squirted water out onto my shoe! I jumped backward, gasped, and laughed. “We definitely don’t have these in Colorado,” I thought.
I later discovered that it was an anemone folded in on itself to protect its arms from the outside world at low tide. When the tide would rise and resubmerge the creatures, they would open to display their pink and neon green feelers.
Half dollar size crabs scurried at the sight of me and hid. Some in plain sight, others behind or underneath barnacle and algae covered rocks.
I stopped in a tree graveyard to sit on a log where I wrote, drew and reflected on this journey. Dense, heavy clouds rolled in slowly from the south. They began to release their water, forcing me to pack up my journal, and put on rain gear from head to toe. At that moment, I had the desire to hike 3 miles south down the coast to the second trail to complete the loop, but after discussing the tide calendar and current conditions with a ranger, I decided it would be safest to go back the way I came.
Returning to the cedar log lined trail, I noticed that part of me was experiencing the joy and fulfillment of checking an item off of my bucket list, while another part of me felt discontent.
Hiking back into the coastal forest the root of my discontent became very clear. In my vision of this bucket list item, I would spend hours in the sanctuary spotting sea otters and osprey. I would build a fire on the beach to warm the parts of me that have been chilled by the moisture. I would meditate on a rock smoothed by years of waves crashing against it.
I could not help but realize that my vision had only partially come to life on this excursion. As I walked away from the coast, I felt a longing to watch the tide come in and out. I wondered what the sun would look like as it set, slipping beneath the waves off of the peninsula. I hoped to witness the anemone reveal their colorful ways to me when surrounded by saltwater.
Although this journey was me checking off a bucket list item, it seemed more like a giant seed of mystery had been planted in my mind and heart.
The next time I return to Lake Ozette and Cape Alva, I will plan on backpacking out to the coast to stay a few nights, only to immerse myself further into the wonders and majesty of the coast of the Olympic Peninsula.
Perhaps then I will become a self-proclaimed oceanic explorer.