Lost My Dad In The Woods
Hiking To Lake Constance
It was eye opening living on the West coast during another record breaking wildfire season. For weeks an oppressive blanket of smoke hung in the sky fed from fires in Washington State, Oregon and California. The smoke blocked out the sky completely, bar a few moments when an ominous, apocalyptic red sun would break through.
Between the smoke and an inconveniently recurring eye infection making itself very comfortable on the bottom lid of my right eye, summer’s end had melted away without many adventures. I had recently bought a car (my first car!) with grand plans to take off across the West, to see sights and visit friends, but a series of doctor appointments tethered me to one spot. It was a bummer to push back my road trip, especially since days were growing steadily shorter and colder, though I can hardly say it was a hardship to spend several weeks enjoying the comforts of beautiful Port Townsend, Washington.
In the middle of September the smoke began to clear, my eye infection stubbornly remained. The forecast suggested the approaching Thursday would be clear, warm and most exciting, smoke free, my dad proposed a camping trip. On several occasions he had mentioned a hike in Olympic National Park, the Lake Constance Route. He reported that it was a rite of passage, unmaintained and steep. Intrigued by the challenge, I hesitated slightly only for the sake of my poor eye, camping might irritate it further. We decided to make a game time decision, and when I woke on that beautiful Thursday I thought what the heck, hiking, jumping in an ice cold mountain lake and waking up in a tent will only do me some good.
Lunch By The Dosewallips River
The road to the Lake Constance trailhead was washed out years ago. A landslide pushed a big chunk of the road into the Dosewallips River and now one must hike 5 miles just to reach the trailhead. After following along the old road for a few miles, we stopped for lunch on a beautiful beach on the bank of the Dosewallips River. I had packed us some sandwiches and carrots which were devoured in silence, listening to the sound of the cold, clear water rushing by.
After lunch we hiked roughly another three miles before reaching the National Park sign that marked the trailhead, the true beginning of our hike. The first five miles were gentle, the warm up. I did in fact feel nicely warmed up, excited even to begin climbing. The next four miles would be a steep, gaining over 3000 feet in the next two miles and then another 2000 odd feet in the second half of the hike.
We had read several accounts of the trail online, all but one lamented the condition of the trail in terms of incline and deadfall. The sign marking the trailhead summarized their accounts well, “extremely steep, infrequent maintenance”. After experiencing some Alaskan bushwhacking this summer I felt prepared for whatever lay ahead. Most of all, the promise of a secluded, brilliantly blue mountain lake is all the motivation I need to heave myself up a mountain side.
The Story:
How I Lost My Dad In The Woods
We were two miles into our four mile hike, half-way, and had been hiking through this ancient boulder field now submerged in lush green Washington forest. Early on I had accidentally led us off trail through some sketchy terrain, however, our expectations of this trail were such that it seemed possible we were actually on the right path: moving through a section of forest left chard by fire, climbing over and under deadfall, following a faint thirsty trail of dry, slick dust. The positive of getting lost and bushwhacking for a little while is that when you meet the trail again, everything feels wonderfully easy.
I was making an effort to stay at a slow and steady pace that matched my dad’s. I knew he wasn’t used to hauling a pack, recently that is, he’s done his fair share of backpacking. Our packs were not very heavy, but regardless of weight, a pack can feel oppressive, a burden. We moved slowly and took a few breaks to admire the massive boulders along the way (like the one photographed above). My dad the archaeologist, me the anthropologist, as we rested we wondered about these massive rocks. How did they arrive here? Delivered by glacier or broken off a peak? Would excavation of the area reveal human activity, modern or ancient, rock climbers or hunters? Nearby in Chimacum, WA there is a collection of boulders called Tamanowas, a sacred site for the Coast Salish people. We wondered about the history of these boulders, are they also sacred?
The trail contoured along a dry riverbed that carved through the forest floor. The snow melt that had likely flowed generously all summer was now, in late September, exhausted. Then, the sound of running water suddenly echoed through the forest. At first I thought it was wind in the forest’s trees: Douglas, Cedar and Western Hemlock. I was lost for some time in deciphering if the sound was wind or water, amused by how hard it was to distinguish. Distracted by this wondering, my pace quickened and the gap between my dad and I widened. As the sound grew closer it was undoubtedly water flowing in the riverbed. “Water!” I called down the trail and my pace picked up even more, I allowed the distance between us to grow a little more. Once I reached the river’s edge I would wait for my dad to catch up.
As I approached the river I unclipped the bindings of my pack and threw it into the middle of the trail with a thought that now appears to be a premonition. I left my bag on the trail thinking if I became preoccupied with the river or climbed down the bank to the water to refill my water bottle and was no longer visible from the trail, muted by the sound of the rushing water, then my dad wouldn’t unknowingly pass me by.
I stood on the bank for a little while, and then played around on a fallen tree that made a bridge across the river. My dad had not yet appeared, so I climbed down to refill my water bottle. After climbing back up the bank, he had still not arrived, so I dug out a bar of chocolate to keep me company while I waited. Every time I go hiking I take a bar of chocolate and every time I save it to the point that I have finished the hike and never opened the bar. In Scotland I walked 100 miles in five days with two bars of chocolate and never opened them, thinking I would save them for when things got too hard or too sore, too glum, too desperate. In a very conscious effort to not squirrel away this bar but use it for its intended purpose, joy and energy, I nibbled through several squares while admiring the river, and still waiting on dad. He would show up soon I thought, we would revel in the excitement of the beautiful river, eat chocolate and take a little break.
I had forgotten my phone back at the house and my parents share a cell which is often left at home, so we had no way to get in touch other than the good old fashioned way, yelling. Between bites of chocolate I yelled, hooted and hollered nonsense down the trail hoping for a reply. My calls were met only by the sounds of forest and worry began gaining momentum in my mind.
I recalled that on the way up I had been surprised by my dad’s expression of effort, moving slowly and stopping often to catch his breath. He is sixty-two but spends most of his retired days rowing and biking so he is in some type of shape. But the longer I stood alone in this ancient forest, worry began to bridge into slight panic. I tried to reason with the panic: it was much more likely that despite my certainty there was only one trail, he was somehow on a different route and as I sat here waiting he climbed on towards the lake. That was possible and reasonable, but panic offered the far more dramatic and terrifying vision of him laying facedown on the trail.
The vision of him collapsing on the trail was too upsetting to not double check. I left my pack and began running down the trail towards the last place I had seen my dad, a distinct part of the trail where a huge tree was turning into cheese. That is what I call it when a tree is disintegrating into vibrant orange dust, turning back into the soil from which it came. The smell of the disintegrating cedar was so beautiful I had waited for my dad to catch up so we could revel in the forest scent together.
As my legs ran me down the trail, my mind ran amuck. My thoughts were as follows: if my dad did have a heart attack and die out there, that is how he would want to go, suddenly, somewhat painlessly, and in nature. It would just really suck for me. With no means of communication I would have to leave his body and hike out seven miles to my car, on top of the seven miles we had already hiked today. Hopefully when I made it back to the car I would run into someone with a phone who could call for help. I wondered how a rescue team would extract a body from this trail, the forest is too dense for a helicopter to let down a winch, it would have to be man power, at least to the trail head. I imagined coming back from this supposedly casual camping trip and reporting to my family that dad had died. The thing is, this had definitely happened to people and boy do I feel for them. How many casual hikes have taken a tragic turn?
I ran about a quarter mile down the trail, placing my feet carefully, dodging roots and deadfall, I really didn’t want to end up hurting myself in this bout of panic. Then I ran all the way back to the spot by the river, back to my pack. There was no sign of dad. I was relieved not to have come across his body, but wildly confused as to where he was. Briefly I entertained the idea that a mountain lion got him, but then decided a lion would probably go for me, the smaller more manageable prey.
He seemed to have disappeared into thin air, but this rational voice somewhere in my mind suggested for the second time, the most likely explanation was that somehow he had bypassed me. My run had not produced my dad, it had also not led me to the distinct cedar tree that marked our last encounter. You see, I had recognized the first half of the way down but at some point the trail felt new: I didn’t recognize the trees, the deadfall, the boulders, the mushrooms. I am extremely detail oriented and my memory is generally rock solid, two skills that contribute greatly to navigating and orientation, so I trusted that the trail felt new because it was in fact new. This meant there was not one trail, there were indeed several variations of this trail leading to Lake Constance.
I threw my pack back on and, aided by adrenaline, pushed up the trail as quickly as I could. Every so often I stopped to shout and blow my emergency whistle hoping it would project further than my generally quite soft voice. However, the trail continued to follow the river and the steady gain in altitude paired with an increase in the river's volume, in terms of amount of water moving and its sound. There was little chance of my hoots and hollers reaching anyone’s ears over the sound of the river.
On several occasions while running through the events of the last hour in my head, filled with doubt and confusion as to how we got separated, I would convince myself that walking farther up the mountain was not the solution and to turn back down the trail for a few moments. He couldn’t be in front of me, he must be behind me. Then as I backtracked, a little voice, one that seemed trustworthy, calm, instinctual and wise, would urge me to continue to the lake. The lake was our collective destination, the meeting place, the end of the hike. So wherever my dad was on the side of this mountain, he would be making his way to the lake and I should do the same.
The trail left the lush forest and led through an overgrown section, right along the river. In the few damp areas of the trail a set of boot prints were visible, but they didn’t look particularly fresh and were accompanied by dog prints which made me think they belonged to someone else. Following the boot prints, I missed a turn and took a short detour until the trail ended at a waterfall. I took a moment to appreciate the waterfall, but I couldn’t linger long. The sky was already in the throes of evening and I needed to get up to the lake before dark.
I retraced my steps, reconnected with the trail, and continued to hike as fast as I could. This section of trail was confusing, ill defined with frequent game trails leading off in several directions. Along the way I carved my name into the trail with a stick and piled cairns, just in case my dad was actually hiking behind me. On the way up I devised a final plan: I would get to the lake and hopefully reunite with my dad. If he wasn’t already there, I would wait for a while and perhaps, if those boot prints did belong to someone spending the night at the lake, I would enlist their help. I figured if dad wasn’t at the lake then I would hike back down the trail, though really how productive was hiking through a dark forest going to be. Perhaps it was best if I stayed at the lake and figured things out in the morning. We both had food, warmth and the wherewithal to spend a night out there alone.
But, I really hoped he was at the lake.
The final section of trail
Finally, the trail began to flatten out and Lake Constance came into view. The path led right to a large boulder at the edge of the lake, I ditched my pack and climbed up onto the boulder to take a few futile photographs, there was hardly any light left in the sky. Despite the situation I found myself in, I took a moment to greet Lake Constance, even in darkness the lake's water was a beautiful shade of blue. This end of the lake was where the lake drained, for in classic Washington style, a collection of logs gathered against the shore of the lake, piling on top of one another, criss crossing one another, creating beautiful shapes and sculptures. Stripped of bark they were almost silver in color and appeared to glow despite the darkness, as if the moon was shining on them, but the moon wouldn’t rise for another few hours.
The lake gave me a renewed sense of hope that everything was going to workout. Okay, I thought to myself, I will wait ten maybe fifteen minutes and then I have to decide if I hike out or spend the night here. The exact moment I concluded this inner dialogue, “Lily!” echoed across the lake.
“Dad!” I replied. He wasn’t far away at all, somewhere in the forest, somewhere along the trail that continues around the lake to the campsites. He had called my name with a slight tone of urgency, like he had called out several times before. That hint of worry dissolved when he called out again, “Where have you been?!”. I replied with the same question and then told him I would come find him. Not more than twenty feet later I patted him on the shoulder, told him I was glad he was still alive, no heart attack, no mountain lion. He must have walked right by me as I waited on the river bank, my back turned to him, his head down, all sounds drowned by the rush of the river.
I have never lost someone while hiking before and it happened in the blink of an eye. It makes for a great story that I know I will tell many times, but most of all, it was a valuable wilderness experience and I am very thankful it was not a more perilous situation.