On a clear, June day in 1980, I was in this old car rollin’ down Interstate 5, south of Tacoma. I was riding in the passenger seat, my pal Larry at the wheel. Two other guys, Steve and Dale were in the backseat of Larry’s 1962 Ford Galaxie, an older vehicle, with torn-up seats and sketchy, second-hand tires. But it wasn’t a bad rig, overall.
Larry was the only one who was eighteen. The remaining three of us were sixteen and heading for a long-awaited camping trip along the Hamma Hamma River in the Olympic National Forest. The one and only camping trip I took that summer.
Larry was passing slower vehicles, which was every other car around. We weaved through traffic, and I pressed my feet into the floorboards, while clenching what was left of the armrest.
We white-knuckled it south to the city of Olympia Washington, then west, north-west to the Olympic Peninsula on Highway 101, along the inside passage. Once off I-5, it was less hectic, and we all relaxed a little.
The drive was scenic, with the Olympic Mountain range on our left and Hood Canal, a finger of the Puget Sound to our right. Towering Douglas Fir and Western Hemlock lined the route in areas, occasionally opening up and allowing a warming sun.
We passed a couple of small towns and hamlets here and there, with the usual service stations and roadside diners. Traffic was light and pleasant, since we were many miles away from the Interstate and any major cities.
The next thing I know, we’re tailgating a hippy micro-bus doing ten under the speed limit, its engine emitting weird mechanical noises. The only way to really describe this cacophony is by imagining a handful of nuts and bolts swirling around in a metal bucket. This was the sound.
Impatient, Larry stomped on the gas. We flashed past the slower vehicle, and in an instant, the front of the bus disappeared around a curve far behind us. As Larry negotiated more curves, I could feel the ancient tires straining, just below the screaming threshold. I clenched that familiar armrest.
“SLOW THE HELL DOWN!” I finally blurted out. “It ain’t gonna do us any good if we’re all dead!”
With a little similar pressure from the backseat, we slowed down a bit and were able to enjoy the rest of the trip.
It was decided we’d stop for gas and Cokes a few more miles down the road. Walking back to the car, I could suddenly hear the familiar, nuts and bolts swirling in a bucket noise. Sure enough, the hippy bus passed us…and Larry was sad.
“Damnit, now I gotta pass ‘em again.”
A few minutes later, we finished gassing-up and headed back onto North 101.
Soon, we left 101, turning west on a winding forest service road, near where the Hamma Hamma empties into Hood Canal.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the name Hamma Hamma is originally from a Native American name ‘Hab'hab,’ a reed that grows along the river’s banks, where the Twana settlement was once located at the mouth of the river.
Our car climbed gently into the mountains, winding and twisting on a narrow, shadowy backroad. Climbing away from sea level with all the windows down, the outside air became noticeably cool. So much so, we rolled everything up and turned the heater on. After about ten miles, the blacktop road turned into loose, dusty gravel, and we traveled an additional five miles on this. We finally reached an open area near a majestic waterfall. This was where Larry would drop us off before heading back to Tacoma for his job. He needed to return to this very spot one week later to pick us up.
“Okay fellas, I’ll be back on Saturday…thanks for the gas money…I wish I could stay with you guys, but my job…you know how it is.”
Steve, Dale and I unloaded our food and camping gear from the trunk, and Larry peeled out in a cloud of dust heading back to civilization. We were on our own.
Frankly, it made me a little nervous, not having our own transportation in case of an emergency or if we became weary of each other and wanted out early. But now we’re committed, and the cell phones we all enjoy today were only dreams of science fiction. When I presented my case and noted this shortcoming to Steve and Dale, they re-assured me everything would be okay, like friends do, and told me to quit acting like a word rhyming with wussy.
So, there we stood on a gravel road in the mountains, beside a Styrofoam ice chest and a load of camping gear. Dale suggested we hike upstream past the falls, as far as reasonably possible.
“This is what we did a couple years ago, we hiked about three miles west of this spot,” Dale said. An experienced woodsman for a sixteen-year-old, he had years of training and had been on hunting trips in the Olympic Range with his dad and uncles.
Steve, much like me, was a feral city kid, perpetually underfed, and a little slack jawed. His parents, being tavern folk, may not have even known he went with us.
Nevertheless, we gathered our gear and began hiking west, through a steep and rugged landscape. Whitewater flowed over huge stones, bus sized and jagged. Along the edges of the river, these rocks were covered in thick moss, ferns and other various flora. The smell of Douglas fir and the cool dampness of the forest was consuming for a kid from the city.
The Hamma Hamma had a strong, unending tempo about it. I wondered how many millions of gallons of water flowed into the Puget Sound every day from this river.
Walking with the ice chest was a problem. First off, it was awkward and heavy, and second, it was necessary if we were to eat all week, unless we wanted to ‘live off the land,’ which was in no way going to happen. Therefore, we all happily took a turn carrying it. With our other gear and backpack, this was a substantial load. The cooler was our lifeline, and loaded with numerous packs of hot dogs, bread, soda pop, a potato salad my mother had made for our trip, a dozen granola bars, and other items I have long forgotten.
But I began thinking, even though we had an additional laundry bag with a few cans of beans and spaghetti, the food supply looked a little thin for three teenagers and seven days in the forest. This gnawed at me. But these thoughts quickly passed when the canopy of evergreens opened into a sunny meadow on the south bank of the Hamma Hamma. I was ready to set up camp and quit for the day. We were all ready.
Dale had an old, green, eight-man canvas tent his dad had supplied. A real oldie from the 1940s he and his dad used on their hunting trips. We set this up, and neatly placed our sleeping bags, Styrofoam ice cooler, canteens and other miscellaneous equipment inside.
Dale and Steve got a fire started. It was now time for our supper, consisting of hot dogs and my mother’s fabulous homemade potato salad. We finished her dish right there on the spot, with a concerted effort to scrape the Tupperware for any remnants. Then after what only seemed like a few minutes, the afternoon sun dropped like a stone behind the mountains.
“Holy crap… it gets dark in the mountains,” Steve said.
“Without this fire, you ain’t gonna be able to see anything…there’s no streetlamps here, my friend,” Dale injected. But Steve was right, it was scary dark, and without the fire, a person couldn’t see their hand in front of their face.
We sat around poking at the fire and talked until late, the river’s relentless cadence forever in the background. As our fire burned down to red embers, we retired to the tent and the sleeping bags.
* * *
The following morning came, Sunday morning, and we prepared for the day. The air was crisp and fragrant, with the sound of the river, and a warm sun fully up and climbing. We were all in a good mood.
This day would bring a deeper exploration of the wilderness. Dale knew his way around a little, and what animals he and his dad had encountered in the past. I didn’t personally know what wildlife there may be in the area. But I assumed there would be deer and elk, if we were lucky enough to happen upon them. I’d only seen these creatures in magazines, or on TV.
It was decided we’d take a day hike and head north, crossing a foot bridge, and following an established trail. Our strides were long and sure, and we made good time. The trail was safe for rookies like us and helped prevent our getting lost in this vast and sometimes dangerous expanse.
After a time, I couldn’t hear the river anymore, and it became eerily quiet. Living our lives in Seattle and Tacoma provided a constant grind of freeways, airports, trailer-dwelling neighbors fighting, garbage trucks backing up, crazy people and all the trappings of city life. I didn’t know this kind of silence existed.
Our trail moved along a dangerous, sheer drop-off with spectacular views, and made the hair on my neck stand on end. I took careful, mindful steps. Soon the trail moved in a ways and I felt better, but in the back of my mind, I knew we’d be back later in the day during the return trip.
We hiked for three or four miles and enjoyed the scenery. By late morning, it was decided we’d stop for lunch in another open meadow. I had brought a few granola bars, and sodas in my daypack, and Dale supplied three sandwiches for us he’d brought, stashed in his backpack. We had lunch, and I laid back on the ground looking into the sky. A jetliner so high it looked like a dot, silently streamed past at probably thirty thousand feet or more, the contrails drawing a chalk line across the blue. I remember wondering where in the world they were headed.
By early afternoon, we packed up our lunch gear and headed south on the trail, towards our base camp. The return trip was pleasant and leisurely, and looking back, I think we all felt good about the hike, thus far.
After crossing the bridge over the river, our camp site was located. But something was amiss, something my brain couldn’t figure out. I blinked a couple times and looked hard at our camp. A strange protuberance extended from the entrance of our tent, and it suddenly occurred to me what it was. A very round, hairy black bear ass was sticking out of the entrance, with bits of Styrofoam cooler scattered about.
“Goddamnit,” Dale said in a low voice. “I knew this was gonna happen.”
“What do ya thing we should do?” I said to Dale.
Just then, Steve lost his mind. He sprinted towards it, hollering and throwing rocks. The bear looked out of the tent and took to running away. Steve grabbed another fist-sized stone and hit him square in his bristly butt, causing the thing to scramble even faster.
“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!” Steve screamed, throwing more stones into the brush where he escaped. I stood motionless for a moment, trying to process what just happened.
“Now we’re screwed,” Dale said.
Entering the tent, everything had a bite taken out of it or was outright devoured. Chunks of Styrofoam lay everywhere. Torn pieces of plastic containers and my mother’s Tupperware, all mangled and licked clean.
But he hadn’t ripped into the laundry bag containing our seven cans of beans and spaghetti. So that was good. He must not have been able to smell it or was distracted by the ice cooler.
I was in the first stage of grief – denial. The ‘I can’t believe this just happened’ stage, but this quickly turned to anger, which is the second. At the same time, I was personally proud of Steve. He had guts, and I viewed him differently after that day.
Assessing the situation was paramount, and the three of us took stock of our supplies.
“Let’s see… there’s four cans of beans, three spaghetti, and four cans of soda left over from the hike,” Dale said. “We can boil river water for drinking if we need to… but eating is gonna be lean, boys.”
I don’t recall who mentioned it, but we began talk of packing up our things and hiking the fifteen miles down the forest service road to Highway 101, where we could get to a town and a pay phone to call my folks or Dale’s dad to come pick us up. We weren’t aware of any Ranger stations, or other people in the area, although we did see several hikers coming through a day earlier.
I went to bed early that night, inconsolable. Just get through to the next day. By now, we all knew what a mistake it was coming here without our own transportation. Our youthful ignorance led us down this dangerous path.
The following day, Monday, we drafted plans to slowly make our way to Highway 101, taking two days to do so. We could do it in one day if necessary but why push it. We’d camp along the way and stretch out our remaining supplies. Each of us would be issued two cans - one of the spaghetti, and one of the beans, then share the last can if it came to that. All in all, I think it was a sound decision.
The three of us packed everything, including the garbage, and headed out. The walk was downhill, so it was an easy march along the winding service road.
It wasn’t long, maybe an hour and a half, and the gravel ended, and the paved highway began. We did about ten miles the first day and set up our camp near the river which ran adjacent to the road. All three of us were sort of quiet, and I could feel a palpable disappointment we hadn’t made the whole week. Again, I went to bed early.
Tuesday morning came and I ate my last can of beans. The sun was bright, and I had a better feeling about my future. Maybe I’d be home and sleeping in my own bed that night.
We walked the remaining five miles of the Forest Service Road, Dale leading the way. Next it was me, and Steve last, just like our previous hikes. We moved in silence, as we made our way down to the little hamlet at the mouth of the Hamma Hamma and Highway 101. This was uneventful, except for a couple cars looking like campers going the opposite way into the hills.
By then, it was almost noon. There was a little country store with a pay phone out front. Steve and I went inside and bought a sandwich and a Coke, while Dale called his old man. But his dad wasn’t home.
“Carl, call your parents,” Dale said to me. But I already knew the answer.
“My folks are both at work, they ain’t gonna answer,” I said. But I tried anyways, to no avail.
The three of us loitered around the front of the store for over an hour, our camping gear piled against the wall, and receiving irritated looks from the clerk. We tried calling home again numerous times.
Then, this microbus showed up and a middle-aged couple went into the store. It was the same bus we passed on 101 a few days earlier. Dale, an outgoing, natural yaker, got to talking to the couple. They said they were headed back to Seattle, so we asked them for a lift. (This was still socially acceptable behavior in 1980). They said that’d be okay. We didn’t tell them we’d passed them angrily a few days earlier on northbound 101.
We piled all our camping crapola into this little bus and hopped in. On the ride back, they told us they were both professors at a local college. He a Doctor of Philosophy, and she a zoologist. They had been in the area for a few days studying the Northern Spotted Owl.
This would explain the beards and sandals, I thought to myself. But they were lovely and kind, and drove us back to Tacoma, refusing any gas money. We were delighted.
“Why the hell are you home so early?” my dad blurted out when I walked into the house. Looking back, I think they enjoyed the time alone with the kid away, and felt a little cheated when I inexplicably walked in.
The fall of 1980 was the beginning of our junior year in high school for Dale, Steve and me. I’d see Steve in the hallway, and he looked different, more like an adult man, and less like the neglected, skinny kid I had known back on the block. I think the trip we took that summer helped in this direction. I think it helped all three of us.
The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.