Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

In the many varied and wild lands of the Pacific Northwest, there is perhaps no place more varied and wild than Olympic National Park.



From the peaks of the Olympic Mountains, through the lush rainforests full of moss, to the rugged coastal wilderness, the park is a natural playground that could take a lifetime to explore. But for most of us, who might visit once or a few times in our lives, how can you possibly pick and choose what to see?



That was the dilemma I faced as I planned a five-day journey into Olympic.



The massive national park takes up most of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, with the Olympic National Forest adjoining it to the south. You can essentially divide the national park into the accessible west side, the rugged east side, and the sprawling wilderness in the middle.

This being spring, I nixed all high-elevation adventures in the mountain wilderness, and focused on the natural attractions on the more accessible western side of the park. Driving up U.S. Route 101, I mapped out a trip that would dip in and out of the various entrance points, heading deep into river valleys, through mossy rain forests and out to the Pacific coast.

When I told fellow travelers of my plans, they scoffed. Five days on the peninsula wasn’t nearly enough, they said, and they were right. I knew I needed a full week or two to do it right, but that’s time that I, and so many of us, don’t have. So, packed and ready for a whirlwind of an adventure, I set off, ready to be awed by the majesty of Olympic National Park.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

DAY ONE: Enchanted Valley

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On the southwest corner of Olympic, the aquamarine Quinault River flows from the mountains to Lake Quinault, before winding through the Quinault Reservation to the ocean. My destination here was the East Fork Quinault Trail, which follows the river to one of the most spectacular sights in the park: Enchanted Valley.



The valley is enchanting not just for the natural splendor, but also for the population of black bears that call it home. That means packing in a bear canister: a large, hard-shelled food container that weighs several pounds and for two days was the bane of my existence.



At the ranger station, where I purchased my backpacking permit, the ranger on duty peppered me with questions like "do you have a bear can?" and "what does your bear can look like?" and "do you know how to stow your bear can at camp?" If you don't have a bear can – dear reader, do have a bear can – Olympic National Forest will gladly lend you the largest, bulkiest bear can imaginable, as if to reiterate the importance of proper wilderness preparation.



Loaded up with a heavy pack, I set off along the East Fork Quinault Trail on a warm and sunny afternoon, ready to embark on a long two days of hiking. The Enchanted Valley lay 13.5 miles up ahead, and I was determined to get there and back by the next evening.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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As I hiked though lush forest of conifer and fir, I passed other hikers who asked about my plans. A forest ranger who was checking for tags widened his eyes at my two-day, 27-mile itinerary. A trio who left at the same time I did said things like "wow!" and "you're an animal!" and while I smiled politely, I was questioning either their sanity or mine, because while it was indeed going to be a long, arduous adventure, I was under the impression that this was just a thing people do.



After seven hours of hiking I began to think those other people were the sane ones. My back ached under the added weight of the bear can, and my feet were beginning to blister, but about the time my doubts encroached, I crossed a small footbridge over the Quinault River and laid eyes on one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.



The river valley opened wide, snowcapped peaks rising all around, the setting sun painting their highest reaches a deep orange. Dozens of towering waterfalls poured from the cliffs, feeding the river and filling the verdant valley with an almost imperceptible mist. On the banks of the river sat a gorgeous three-story chalet, built nearly a century ago but long since closed to the public, as the eroding shoreline continues to force the park to shuffle it back.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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As I approached the campground, I immediately received validation for shouldering the weight of the bear can. Before I could even put down my pack, I spotted a large black bear sniffing around the campground. I pulled out the telephoto lens I so dutifully packed in, and stood with a fellow camper to chat and snap pictures.



"He's just showing us who's boss," the man said, circling around toward me to maintain distance from the bear.



"He's doing a good job of it," I replied.



With my canister stowed and camp made, I came to the sudden realization that in less than 12 hours I would have to leave this magical place. Disheartened, I vowed to soak in every second. So, watching the sun set behind the mountains, I laid back in the cool grass and stared up at the waterfalls, listening to the river flow and enjoying my brief stay in this Pacific Northwest paradise.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

DAY TWO: Hall of Mosses

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Sunrise in the valley was as beautiful as sunset, but before the sun could reach the valley floor, I begrudgingly embarked on the long journey back. The forest in the morning was magical, and it quickly lifted my spirits. As the sharp yellow light cut over the Olympic mountains, it bounced off the blue Quinault and filtered through the trees to the trail. The woods were quiet save the rush of the river and deep, sonorous hoots that came from the trees.



A few miles down, as I approached a big, moss-covered log on the side of the trail, a grouse sprinted through the brush to meet me. Delighted, I stopped and pulled out my camera, but as I soon learned, this grouse was no friend. When I moved to leave, the bird flew up and attacked my leg, wings flapping, talons grasping. I gave it a swift kick and hurried off. The grouse pursued. I jogged down the trail as fast as I could, given the weight of the pack and the state of my body, but the bird kept up pace, trotting down the trail until I crossed a stream and got away.



I later learned that spring is mating season for sooty grouse in the park. The deep sonorous hoots I heard were from the males, and once they mate, the females find a safe place to lay their eggs – like, say, under a big, moss-covered log. Much respect to the mamas of the woods.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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After another seven hours of hiking, I was back at the trailhead, tired and sweaty and ready for food. Back near the highway, across from the ranger station, I filled up on gas and asked the gray-haired mechanic inside for a good place to eat.



"There's a market just down the road with a café in it," he told me. "But I don't think it's very good."



“No?”

“No! Last time I was there I got fish and chips and they didn’t give me tartar sauce! Who does that?”

You've got to love small-town Yelp.



Instead, he recommended Dino's Pizza, just up 101. A messy burger and a cold beer later, I was feeling rejuvenated and hit the highway north to the Hoh Rain Forest. I arrived as a pall of gray fell over the park and set up camp at the Hoh Campground, two-thirds full of cars and RVs, most with out-of-state plates.



I was still tired from the 13 miles I had hiked in the morning, but eager to see the Hoh, so I settled on the mile-long Hall of Mosses Trail nearby. Massive spruces, maples and firs lorded over the ancient forest, most indeed draped with dark green moss – like beards of the forest or lace from their branches. People ambled about, but the trail was quiet, everybody respecting the place.



This was exactly the kind of experience I had hoped to find in Olympic: natural wonder that awes us into submission. As the sun set behind the clouds, it bathed the trail in gray and green, the trees whispering some ancient wisdom in the wind.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

DAY THREE: Vampires on the Wild Coast

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I woke up to another gray day on the peninsula, and decided I needed a cup of coffee. After breaking down camp I drove north to the nearest town, Forks, where the only place to sit down with a cup of coffee is the café inside the Thriftway grocery. On the wall, I noticed some unusual drink specials: New Moon Mocha, Breaking Dawn Breve and a few others. I was perplexed.



I stopped at the visitor center nearby, where the puzzle immediately became clear, thanks to the word "Twilight" emblazoned in huge letters on the wall. Cardboard cutouts of the characters stood proud. Tourists in matching "Twilight" T-shirts filed through. They giggled excitedly and got maps of the town.



Forget sasquatch – this is vampire country.



In a pamphlet called "Why Forks?" I learned that when "Twilight" author Stephenie Meyer needed a setting, she found Forks by ostensibly Googling "rainy places," and after her books exploded in popularity, the town moved to capitalize on the happenstance. As neither a reader of the books nor a watcher of the movies, this fact stirred little excitement within me. Still, eager to learn the area and with nothing else planned, I decided to investigate.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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I stopped at a few stores around town, most of which were either branded or re-branded with a “Twilight” theme. At each place, store owners told me the same story: After the timber industry dried up in the 1980s, a lot of hotels struggled, and considered leaving town. Then, in 2005, the “Twilight” books came out, and people started flocking to Forks.

“Now, 12 years later, there aren’t enough hotels,” one local told me. “It saved our town.”

According to statistics kept by the local visitor center, only about 5,500 visitors came through in 2005. But by 2008, when the first movie was released, that number had more than tripled. The next year, nearly 70,000 people came through.



Suddenly all the vampire merchandise, the "Twilight" tours and the Breaking Dawn Breve made sense. When you're a town as small as Forks, you have to grab a hold of any good opportunity that comes your way – sparkling vampires included.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Now caffeinated and thoroughly informed, I made my way west to the coast, branching off along Route 110 to the Quileute Indian Reservation and the coastal town of La Push. Here, the tribe owns and manages most of the businesses in town, including the River's Edge Restaurant, where I was treated to an excellent salmon burger and a view over the mouth of the Quillayute River.



After lunch, I stopped off at the Quileute Oceanside Resort, which has an oceanside campground designed primarily for RVs, with several tent sites, too. I made camp and found a seat on a driftwood log, the sky still covered with a blanket of gray. Before long I spotted a whale spout in the shallows, then another, and another. I had seen enough to know these were grays, feeding in the kelp beds just offshore.



They fed, and I watched them, for what felt like hours. As they got their fill, the sun slowly set behind the clouds, waves crashing and booming into the night. Images of vampires sparkled in my mind, as I drifted to sleep in another beautiful slice of Pacific Northwest paradise.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

DAY FOUR: Lake Crescent

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It was another gray and gloomy day on the coast, so I packed up camp early and drove north to Rialto Beach.



There's something special about Rialto – a place of instantaneous awe. Nearly every feature of the Pacific coast is there: sea stacks, offshore islands, tide pools, coastal forest and rocks of magnificent design. I longed to take a longer hike along the ocean, but with my travel days already dwindling, a morning stroll would have to suffice. Before long, I was back in the car headed north once again.



As I drove, the sun finally broke through the clouds, timed perfectly to my arrival at Lake Crescent. The water was a beautiful translucent blue, turning turquoise and clear to the bottom in the shallows. I had a reservation at the Lake Crescent Lodge on the southeastern shore, where I arrived a few hours before check-in. My feet still sore from so many hikes, I instead let the sun and the breeze lull me into a state of relaxation. I pulled out a book and lounged by the lake, enjoying the warm afternoon.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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The lodge was originally built in 1915 as Singer’s Tavern, a seven-room establishment with a series of cottages outside. People came in by ferry, at first, and then by the newly-constructed Olympic Highway. In 1937, the lodge hosted President Franklin D. Roosevelt, the year before he designated Olympic as a national park. In the 1940s, the lodge expanded significantly, and in 1951 its owners sold the property to the National Park Service, which still owns the place.

Today, the Lake Crescent Lodge is marketed primarily as a romantic getaway. While I was there, the demographic of the guests was almost entirely younger and older couples, with a few families. This is, admittedly, something of an awkward place for a lone traveler.

When I finally checked in to my second-floor lodge room, I was greeted to a beautiful view of Lake Crescent, and the forested hills that surround it. I threw the windows open wide, flopped down on the bed and soaked it in. Yes, the bathrooms were communal. Sure, the walls were thin. But for that view, I would put up with a lot.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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As the sun began to set, I went downstairs to grab a bite from the lodge restaurant, a glass-over-white-tablecloth kind of place. The food is your standard American fare: seafood, steak, chicken, salad. I ordered the fish and chips, which was good, though overpriced – a reasonable expectation in a national park. The restaurant was empty at breakfast and lunch, but it was absolutely packed for dinner, when a long line of couples began to form in the lounge. Rather than wait for a table to open, this lone traveler opted to eat at the bar.

As couples continued to file in from their daily adventures in Olympic, I ordered a cocktail and chatted with the bartender. Most of the staff, he told me, have worked at several of these national park destinations, hopping around the country from one to the next. That experience seemed to allow them to work with the unique ebb and flow of a park-owned lodge. While many seemed overworked, everybody there was friendly, contributing to a sense of ease and well-being at the lodge.



I considered taking a hike or renting a boat, but the night felt ripe for relaxation. I kicked back, enjoyed a cocktail and relaxed into the evening. As much as I love the rugged wilderness, the lap of luxury feels oh so sweet.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

DAY FIVE: Hurricane Ridge

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I had a couple hours before check-out in the morning, so I rented a kayak to get out on the lake. At $20 an hour, the excursion wasn't cheap, but with no kayak of my own I had no grounds for complaint. The morning was brisk, a light wind rippling the water as I paddled out along the southern shore. I meandered around the lake until my hour was up, then powered my way against the small waves back to the lodge.



It was a good drive ahead back to Portland, but I wasn't yet ready to go home. First, I wanted to stop at Hurricane Ridge, an easily-accessible viewpoint that stands at 5,242 feet on the north side of the Olympic Mountains. I followed a caravan of tourists to the top, where a small visitor center greeted us with stunning views.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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It's hard to see much beyond the peaks of the Olympics, but closing my eyes I could picture the destinations from my last four days just beyond: The amazing Enchanted Valley on the other side of Chimney Peak; the Hoh Rain Forest fed by glaciers on Mount Olympus; the wild Pacific coast, just west beyond the mountains.



I had hiked, backpacked, kayaked and lounged, explored river valleys, mossy forests and one particularly blue lake, seen wildlife and met some wonderful human beings. I came to Olympic looking for awe and I had found it, packing it all into five wild days.



As I drove back to Portland in the fading light of day, leaving the mountains, forest and coastline behind, I felt certain my experience with the park wasn't complete. The wilds of Olympic still beckon – I'll just need to carve out more time.



--Jamie Hale | jhale@Oregonian.com | @HaleJamesB





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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Courtesy of National Park Service

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