MIKE MacFERRIN'S OLYMPIC SOLO TREK....July 27, 2004
Upriver, the current is sandwiched between alternating rows of cliffs, churning its deep blue waters back and forth between them. I'm hit with the realization that here, at this moment, the river has changed character. Gone are the flat-bottomed river valleys meandering between alder-covered sandbars. From here on up, the river is in a canyon, and the frothing torrent is a liability... something to respected and feared instead of enjoyed and loved. I take the solemn message to heart, hoist my pack, and continue up through the forest to find Paull Creek.
And find it I do! While following a 60-foot cliff rim over the Queets River, I run into an abrupt corner. Below me, at the base of a perpendicular 60-foot-cliff, is another frothing glacial river, bouncing over rocks and splashing loudly into the Queets. "You must be Paull Creek!" I say aloud to the river, as if introducing myself will somehow soften its mood. Maybe if I'm friendly, the river will go easy on me.
No such luck. I can't climb down here; the rock is near vertical. So I head upstream (up Paull Creek), following the cliff as I go. The farther I go, the higher the walls climb... sixty feet... eighty feet... a hundred feet. About to give up, I ask myself: "So... if I were an elk, how would I get down?" Almost immediately, the answer comes to me... find a gully! Nearly every river canyon on this green planet has side-streams leading into it... even the miles-deep Grand Canyon! So upwards I explore, and sure enough, there it is... a side gully leading down into Paull Creek. At first it looks too steep to pass (20-30 feet of vertical at the bottom), but I quickly spot something that shouldn't surprise me (although it still does): an elk trail! Steep but passable, this beaten path zigzags down the rotten rocky wall of the gully, onto the stony banks of Paull Creek. The Park Service couldn't have built a better trail here, even if they'd tried.
After a quick ford of the creek and a walk down its opposite bank, I'm finally ready to get my first look at the terrain entering the Queets Canyon. My heart sinks. Almost immediately on my side of the river, the banks give way to a series of vertical walls and deep water. I have no choice but to ford the river. So I shed my pack, don my sandals, and scout a thigh-deep crossing to the other side. I return back to get my pack (which at only 50 pounds, doesn't seem so heavy anymore), and cross one more time (for a total of three) to get my stuff across. I am now officially inside the Queets Canyon. Scrambling a short 300 feet upriver around a corner, I find I'll have to cross the river again. So I take off my pack, enter the frigid waters, and try again. This time, while standing waist-deep on a submerged rock, I plunge my trekking pole into a deep channel ahead of me. It's a no-go... I can't ford here. I retreat back, and despite the early afternoon hour, make the executive decision to wait until tomorrow morning. When these glacial waters are at their lowest, I'll try again.
One thing I notice... there are no elk trails that enter the Queets Canyon. This uneases me. It seems that elk don't engage in such foolhardy activities as exploring deep canyons in search of long-lost waterfalls.
To avoid making camp at the bottom of the valley (catabatic winds funneling down the canyon floor make for a chilly night), I haul my gear up to a small rocky ledge 20 feet above the river. There, I find a soft bed... a mattress of thick moss covers a unique box spring of tree roots. It's just big enough for my sleeping pad... the perfect place for a good night's sleep in this intimidating canyon of stone and water.