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A Funeral for the Trees
Part Two: The Journey to Spirit's CallingTook place August 28 - 30, 2006
by Jeffrey Pierce
The morning of August 29, 2006 opened to a beautiful sunrise, yet there was a thread of death in the air. A fresh sea lion carcass was cast up on the beach and my early morning exploration stirred a cloud of ravens that had gathered to feast on its most tender parts. Later on in the day, a crab would scurry across my path, missing two of its legs on its right-hand side as well as it's right claw. Both should have been an omen, shedding light on the reason that I had been called to the site, but I was lost in the beauty of the landscape, in the adventure of the trek.
A very tough crab scurries across the sand. (August 29, 2006)
Before breaking camp and heading north up the coast, I stopped at the memorial erected in honor of the Makah Indian Nation who had once called Cape Alava home. It's tradition for hikers to find a special item on the beach and leave a small token of their appreciation in the windswept shelter that holds the memorial. I found a pretty shell and carried it into the sun-bleached wooden shack, pausing as I marveled at the items that other hikers had left behind. Mobiles of shells, bones and rocks hung from the ceiling; bleached whale bones decorated the walls. I quietly spoke my thanks to the Makah and left my shell behind before continuing down the beach toward that night's campsite.
A backpackers' memorial to the Makah Nation. (August 29, 2006)
As I shouldered my trekking pack and began hiking north, the flat, hard-packed sand gave way to a wide field of massive, slippery boulders. Some of them could be navigated, either by carefully leaping from one boulder to the next or by squeezing between larger rocks, but there were times when I had to cautiously climb over the boulders with my pack on my back. It would have been enough of a challenge had I been able to take my time and methodically choose my path, but this was a hike up a rugged stretch of coastline. Ahead of me loomed a river that could only be forded at low tide and headlands that would be cut off by the rising waters. Large stretches of beach would be almost completely submerged at high tide. I had to maintain a quick, steady pace if I planned on reaching that night's camp.
The boulder at left is taller than I am. (August 29, 2006)
Crossing the boulder field, I came upon a stretch of beach covered with slippery rocks the size of bowling balls. Picking my way through the terrain, lusting after each small stretch of exposed, hard sand, I began to visually plan my route around a headland when I noticed a colorful fishing net float hanging from a long rope that dangled down the cliff. I wouldn't be going around this particular headland - I'd be going over it. Slipping my hands into a sturdy pair of gloves, I took hold of the rope and began to climb the headland, stopping to enjoy the view from the top of the massive rise. Unspoiled costal wilderness stretched before me and there were miles to go before I'd reach that night's campsite at the next tent-approved site, a small clearing known as Seafield Creek.
Nothing like rope climbing with a fifty pound pack. (August 28, 2006)