Over Memorial Day weekend, I paddled down the Olympic coast from La Push to Destruction Island and back.
To get an early start, I drove up Friday after work and car-camped at Kalaloch. Needless to say, all the car-campsites had been booked months in advance, but it’s common for reservation holders not to show up to claim their campsites. Arriving at Kalaloch after midnight, I had my pick of half a dozen campsites that had been reserved but never occupied.
La Push and the rest of the Quileute Reservation were closed to the public in March 2020 as a coronavirus prevention measure and had still not reopened. Instead of launching from the reservation, I launched from a National Park Service boat ramp a few miles upstream on the Dickey River.
Between La Push and the Hoh River, there is no direct road access to the coast. The wilderness is left to the hikers and kayakers.
To avoid the Memorial Day crowds, I camped on a little beach on the north side of Hoh Head. Here, the Olympic coast hiking trail turns inland to avoid a series of steep, closely spaced headlands. Hikers can reach the beaches near Hoh Head only by way of a difficult scramble, which they have little incentive to undertake. It is easier for hikers to keep to the overland trail in the forest above until they reach Mosquito Creek, where they descend to a series of long, sandy beaches that make for easier hiking.
Knowing hikers’ predilection for avoiding Hoh Head, I landed on a small, steep beach with just enough room to camp above high tide. Here I set up a basecamp for further exploration up and down the coast. Sure enough, no other people came down to my beach all weekend.
Launch at Dickey River. One advantage to launching on the river instead of the beach is that the river is free of surf.
Greater scaup, Quillayute River. Scaup are primarily present during the winter, but each year, a few individuals spend the summer.
Approaching Quileute Needles. With Rounded Island, Alexander Island, and Destruction Island, this is one of the principal seabird nesting sites south of La Push.
Common murres at Quileute Needles. Murres are more common in Oregon and Alaska, less common in Washington and British Columbia.
Harbor porpoise off Teahwhit Head. Harbor porpoises were unusually abundant on the coast this weekend. I must have seen thirty over the course of three days.
Ocean swell in Giants Graveyard. At low tide, there were too many reefs for comfort inside Giants Graveyard. High tide is an easier time to visit.
Approaching Toleak Point. The beaches here are some of the most beautiful anywhere in Washington.
Arch at Toleak Point. Hikers on the beach looked on with envy as I visited monuments they could only view from a distance.
No trip south from La Push would be complete without a visit to Goodman Creek. Most streams that outlet to the coast terminate in braided channels, too shallow and rocky for kayakers. Goodman Creek is a rare exception. Here, the stream reaches the ocean as a single stem. Sea stacks shelter the entrance from the swells. Thanks to this fortuitous geography, a kayaker can paddle straight from the ocean into the stream.
At high tide, it is possible to paddle quite far up Goodman Creek and even one of its tributaries, Falls Creek, so named for the thirty-foot waterfall near its confluence with Goodman. I arrived at low tide, when riffles and shallows blocked further progress some six hundred yards upriver from the mouth. I parked my boat on the sunny, sandy left bank of Goodman Creek and waded upstream to the waterfall.
When I returned, the tide had risen so rapidly I could no longer wade back across Goodman Creek in my boots. I took them off and rolled up my pants, but by the time I had finished doing that, the creek had risen even higher. It was now above knee-deep, and no end in sight. That meant the pants had to come off, too, so I could wade across in my underwear, and I had better hurry, lest the ever-rising tide force me to shed even more clothing.
Kayaking into Goodman Creek. Just a short distance upriver, the cool, salty ocean air gives way to warm, lush forest air.
Falls Creek waterfall. This is a popular spot for hikers to cool their aching feet.
Heading farther up Goodman Creek. Thrushes, warblers, and flycatchers were singing from the shade of the forest.
From Goodman Creek, I considered stopping at Mosquito Creek, which, notwithstanding its name, is one of the loveliest campgrounds on the coast. The sight of hikers milling on the beach gave me pause. One of the reasons I go to wild places is to be away from crowds, even crowds of like-minded people.
The sight of surf pounding the beach sealed my decision. The Olympic coast is no place to paddle if you hope to avoid surf altogether, but some stretches are more exposed than others. With careful site selection, it’s possible to find beaches, or at least corners of beaches, where the waves are only a foot or two high.
I hugged the coast south past Mosquito Creek for a few miles, until I discovered a perfect little cove on the north side of Hoh Head. Wrapped around by bluffs and buffered by rocks, no surf or hikers would reach me here. I set up a basecamp, although there wasn’t much to set up. The weather was so nice I just slept out under the stars—no need for a tent and not really any need for clothing, either.
In the morning, I made a day trip farther south to Destruction Island. Destruction Island is one of Washington’s prime habitats for marine mammals. It has been been home to Washington’s largest concentration of sea otters since the early 2000s. It is one of only a handful of Washington haul-out sites for northern elephant seals. It is a main breeding site for harbor seals.
A visit to Destruction Island would also mean more seabirds. Almost the entire North American population of rhinoceros auklets breeds on just eight islands between Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska. Destruction Island is one of these precious sites.
Sunset, Hoh Head beach. According to the National Park Service, the trail down to this beach "no longer exists." Perfect!
Surf launch, Hoh Head beach. Surf was higher at low tide, lower at high tide.
Pacific loon off North Rock. Every other seabird species was in breeding plumage, but most of the Pacific loons were not.
Marbled murrelets off North Rock. In Washington State, this threatened, forest-dependent species’ population is declining at an average rate of 3.9% per year.
An appetite for destruction. Landing on Destruction Island is prohibited, but there were several fishing boats off the island, including two guys spear-fishing from kayaks.
Harbor seals at Destruction Island. Unfortunately, I forgot my binoculars, so I can’t say whether any of the hundreds of seals present at Destruction Island were elephant seals.
Mother and baby harbor seal. Several of the mothers were carrying pups on their backs. Whenever the mothers dove, they would crane their necks back to make sure the pups were ready to be submerged.
Olympic Mountains from Destruction Island. Most Washingtonians never see the western face of the Olympics, which is visible only from at sea.
Black oystercatcher, Destruction Island. These gooseneck barnacles are some of the oystercatcher’s favorite food.
Gulls over Destruction Island. It is amazing how much more abundant wildlife is in places where humans are not allowed.
Purple stars, Destruction Island. The long, narrow bays on the southwestern side of the island were full of life.
Sea otter, Destruction Island. Once extirpated from Washington, sea otters have rebounded to the point where they may have reached carrying capacity along some segments of the coast.
Raft of sea otters, Destruction Island. I accidentally disturbed this raft when I rounded a corner and interrupted their sleep.
From Destruction Island, I returned north to my basecamp at Hoh Head. Along the way, I stopped along the south side of the headland to visit a few sea caves. However, even a mere three-foot swell kicked up enough chop inside the caves that I was too intimated to enter. I contented myself with loitering outside, watching the comings of goings of the pelagic cormorants that nested on the cliffs above.
Kayaking past North Rock toward Hoh Head. The flood tide appeared to be running against me here, but that may simply have been fatigue.
Sea cave at Hoh Head. The cliffs are discolored from the accumulation of centuries of cormorant guano.
Sunset at Hoh Head. Here is a time and place where it is good to be alive.
The next morning, I set myself a goal: I wanted to see Cassin’s auklets. Alexander Island, just north of Hoh Head, is home to 55,000 of them. They are Washington’s most numerous breeding seabird other than gulls. However, they are also notoriously difficult to see. They forage off the continental slope, which along most of the Washington coast lies thirty miles (48 km) offshore.
During the breeding season, they must travel to and from their colonies, including Alexander Island, but they do so only at night. Short of kayaking thirty miles out to sea, there is no reliable way to find Cassin’s auklets, as I discovered in 2019 when I paddled to Alexander Island during the day and failed to find a single one.
This time, I tried something different. I launched before dawn and paddled out to Alexander Island in the dark and parked myself off the western shore. If the Cassin’s auklets wanted to fly out to sea, they’d have to get past me first—assuming I didn’t run smack into a boomer in the darkness.
The chart between Hoh Head and Alexander Island is studded with asterisks signifying rocks, as well as written notations saying: Rk, Rky, Foul, and the like. Fortunately, I had scouted a route between the boomers the day prior, and I was also able to take advantage of a pre-dawn high tide that submerged most of the worst offenders. What few boomers remained active I could locate by sound. I survived the gauntlet and took up station off Alexander Island to wait for the auklets to emerge.
I may have been the victim of my own success. When I arrived at the island, it was still so dark I couldn’t clearly see any birds. Indistinct, black shapes would come whipping past my head with a whir of wings, but I couldn’t tell an auklet from an ostrich in the darkness. By the time it grew light enough to identify the birds, the only species still active were the diurnal flyers: murres, guillemots, puffins, and cormorants. I had missed the Cassin’s auklets again.
Still, Alexander Island was its own reward. It was a beautiful place to watch the sun rise. To the north, the offshore islands began glowing in the sunlight while the bluffs on the mainland remained in darkness, which only made the islands seem more a universe unto themselves.
Eventually, it grew light enough to watch the action of a large blowhole on Alexander Island’s western face. Every so often, the swell would strike at just the right height and angle, and the blowhole would explode in spray sixty feet high.
When at last I was ready to leave this spectacular place and head home, I swung by Rounded Island for one last visit with the seabirds. The diurnal species put on a fine farewell for me, featuring many close flybys of alcids and cormorants.
From there, I picked my way through a short-cut sea arch at Teahwhit Head, thence to the Quillayute River delta, shrouded in mist kicked up by the breaking waves. The tide was still falling on the river, leaving me stranded in a side-channel. Moving quickly to catch the water before it disappeared, I dragged my boat across slippery pebbles to regain the main stem.
Dawn at Alexander Island. The colors, sounds, and smells of the coast make me feel like the first man on Earth, or possibly the last.
Blowhole at Alexander Island. During the largest spouts, the spray would reach nearly to the vegetation line on the top of the island.
Kayaking north near Toleak Point. Rounded Island to the left; Teahwhit Head in the distance to the right of the island; Toleak Point and associated islands to the right.
Pelagic cormorant at Rounded Island. At least 95% of the cormorants I saw were pelagic. The few others were all Brandt’s.
Tufted puffin at Rounded Island. There are fewer boomers surrounding Rounded Island than the other puffin colonies, so it is easier to approach the birds more closely.
Pigeon guillemot at Rounded Island. The guillemots came so close I could hear their thin, whistling calls.
Arch at Teahwhit Head. This headland marks the division between Second Beach and Third Beach.
Entrance to Quillayute River. More sea stacks beckon the paddler beyond.
A trip like this has nothing to do with finding a Cassin’s auklet or an elephant seal or visiting one particular island or another. Those so-called goals are just excuses to accomplish the trip’s true purpose, which is to get close enough to wild animals and their environment to awaken, once again, the ancient bonds that lie between each individual human and the Earth. It’s a visit home, that’s all.
—Alex Sidles