Olympic Overland

The first leg of the Cascadian Tri-Sport Traverse was a thru-hike of the entire span of Olympic Peninsula, beginning at Cape Flattery and terminating at the confluence of primary forks of the Skokomish a few miles from Hood Canal. I sought for the route to completely span the peninsula in a satisfying way that included as many regions of the Olympics as possible. In developing the route, I generally chose to maximize the amount of trail that would be new to me, as I one day hope to have walked every trail and summited every peak in the range. The route consists of a few semi-distinct subsections: the coast, the rainforest, the olympic core, and the timberlands.

North Coast

Iconic WA coast view looking south at Point of the Arches.

Day 0: Sekiu

The journey began with a prolonged abandonment from my dad at Cape Flattery. He had kinldy accompanied me on the way out to drop me off, but as a newly retired guy and bird-enthusiast, it didn't take much convincing for him to get in the car. While I generally try to avoid using a car and requiring a shuttle driver, the logistics of getting to Cape Flattery with transit aren't straightforward, and it was by far easiest to just drive and make a trip out of it.

Since I wanted to begin with a full day of hiking, we decided to leave at a leisurely hour the day before I started hiking and get a hotel somewhere. We researched quite a few places and called around with no luck for a while, but we eventually got hold of a guy at the Bay Motel in Sekiu. Nothing was pinned down on the phone, but he made it clear we would be able to stay the night there, allowing us to drive out without worry.

Despite adoring ferry rides, I've become quite accustomed to driving the Narrows/Kitsap route to the NE part of the peninsula since it avoids the logistical hassle of catching ferries, is sometimes faster, and is cheaper for a Prius. So, we left Seattle and took that route up to Port Angeles where we picked up some burritos for later. Onward we drove on WA-112 as the Strait of Juan de Fuca popped in and out of view through the trees. The previous year (2023), the two of us had cycled the road in the opposite direction with my brother, however this time it felt wholly unfamiliar. That is, until we reached the junction with WA-113 on the Pysht river which for whatever reason is blazed into my mind in the way that critial rural highway junctions are.

We passed through Clallam Bay, where I pointed out Sunsets West Food Co-Op. I had visited there in 2022 while on my Pacific Coast bike tour. It's a wonderful shop that's nicely curated and feels like a relic of the summer of love, particularly the Australian expat shopkeepers.

At the humble Bay Motel, we were greeted by the man we had spoken to on the phone. He was there in the booth style reception office with his MASSIVE dog, who was hard not to be intimidated by. Of course, he was a total sweetie, but I was pretty scared nonetheless. We chatted a bit as he sorted out paperwork and got our room keys ready. He spoke of his doctor son which interested me since he was here in a truly tiny town at the extremity of the country. The most memorable exchange, however, was when after we had told him that we were from Seattle, he asked, "So is it true that it's as bad there as they're all sayin' it is?" This was, of course, in reference to the rural/conservative news refrain that Seattle is a dangerous hellscape. I told him, simply, "no, it's a pretty wonderful city ," to which he replied with a certain wisdom, "yeah, it never is." This man was so kind and clearly sage beyond his appearance, which was inspring and refreshing to experience at the far reaches rural Washington.

We settled in and cracked some beers and the burritos and headed to the beach with my dad's camera. The aura of rural wisdom and serenetiy was short-lived, as when we got to the beach some MAGA folks came down from their trashy camp. They saw we were looking at eagles and claimed arrogantly "watch this, they'll start going crazy for this," and proceeded to dump the skins and unwanted innerds of salmon right on the beach. We chuckled, and despite waiting a while, the eagles didn't seem to give a care.

The beers and surprisingly good burritos carried us jovially through the sunset and eventually to bed.

Day 1: Makah Coast

24 mi, 1700 ft, 6/16/24

It Begins.

I am writing this on 10/29/25, having written the previous entry on 1/29/25. So 9 months have passed, and about 16 have passed since the events occurred. I'm so bad about getting to writing soon, but it's only really because my focus is on the next adventure. I never got injured this summer so I wasn't forced to rest and reflect. There's no way I can write this all very quickly what with my job and everything, so I'm going to date the entries. Anywho...

My dad and I drove up to Cape Flattery early in the morning. We passed through a sleepy Neah Bay and down the Wa'atch River.

This river creates, or exists because of some really interesting topography that grants Neah Bay an amazing geographic location. Neah Bay is less than 20 feet high, yet forms the wall to the pacific of a wetland that feeds the river less than half a mile away. The river is so close to being a tidal estuary that isolates the most northwestern formation of the lower 48, yet it takes a winding, wetland 'turn' toward the Makah Peaks and drains a substantial mountainous area.

Fascinatingly, the mouth of the river is precisely where the Basalt of the Crescent Formation that envelops the Olympics and makes up Mt. Angeles, Mt. Constance, The Brothers, Mt. Ellinor, and more, enters the sea for good in the north. I'm pretty sure...geology can be really nuanced.

We had a great extended birding session at Flattery Rocks, all to ourselves. I forget what birds we saw exactly, but it was fascinating to watch them fly around the caves with waves dancing all over. The sound and smell of the tip of the land was lovely.

It was idyllic time with my dad and quite hard to say goodbye.

But it was time. We had a sincere hug in the parking lot and he convinced me to take 2 more pints of beer in my pack.

I commenced the first road walk portion of the journey. It was quiet, verdant, and peaceful all the way to near Wa'atch where some houses are. An old Makah man in a weathered pickup stopped by me and asked how I was doing. Seemed like he'd offer a ride if I'd wanted, but I told him I was great and set on walking. Still remember his wrinkled smile that was really warm and genuine.

I crossed the Wa'atch and basically at the first rural residence began getting harassed by two massive dogs. Barking wildly, they came out to the road as I passed and I quickened my pace. They began following me down the road which made me really nervous. Probably for two minutes I faced them and walked backwards while they followed with an ambivalent yet persistent vibe. Finally they stopped caring and I continued along the beach.

I passed the tourist spots of the Makah Ocean before reaching the Shi Shi Beach trailhead where there were a few hikers. The trail was as muddy as I remembered, but much easier to navigate when not with a bike in the dark (I was camping in a pinch in 2022). Great start to the trip to have my feet getting extremely filthy and wet.

Emerging to the sand after the descent to Shi Shi is timeless. An iconic view of the ocean-scoured crags rising high above the water with impossible forests clinging to rock. Point of the arches in view with an enormous amount of stacks. The omnipresent roar of the waves enveloped me.

I started cruising on the sand. I was somewhat worried about getting past the 4 foot tidal restrictions south of Point of the Arches so I was movin at a nice clip. Once at the Arches I slowed the pace to explore. The geology totally wild: enchanting spires with macro fracture planes that make them all weatherd similarly yet uniquely. Deep caves carved into them, sometimes with two or more entrances. I couldn't resist going in one and dropping my pack to scramble a bit. Also really cool were the rock strata coming up from beneath the sand, poking through like icebergs.

The pace slowed as the trail became a tideflat. A rich ecosystem with much depth on the micro-scale, with each pool being its own little habitat and local community. While amazing, it's actually quite treacherous with a heavy pack since there's lots to slip on and many a barnacle-type object to tear your skin up if you do. I did tens of thousands of steps perfectly but then an odd misstep would drench my foot in the saltwater. Not great for the bacteria management to have saturated feet on day 1 of ~12 sans laundry...

This is where I started seeing garbage. Lots of bottles and other interesting garbage, often clearly swept by the ocean all the way from Asia. I had the thought that it's probably a bad idea to make refuse boyant, as it's sure to someday contaminate the land again. Although, maybe it's worse for it to find its way to the sea floor where it could persist longer, although I feel like the high pressure depths may be more suitable for our waste than the land. Not really sure.

The trail went up the cliffs to avoid a dangerous headland. These coastal trails are so awesome, like secret jungle routes with really steep mud, handlines, and thick forests. The tide was pretty low so I was able to avoid the headland trails other than the first one.

The beach opened up and the walking continued. Seafield creek was an easy ford and a nice camp, but I wanted to make it past Ozette River to avoid a high tide ford and sta true to my permit. The ford was just doable without getting my pants and nethers wet, but the flow was strong and definitely at my safety limit with the pack on. A fall however, likely would have come with a slow drift out to sea that would be managable to recover from. Didn't want to get everything soaked though, of course.

I set up camp in a beautiful goldend light in a forest of slender trees. I made dinner and ate some of my friend Tom's homemade smoked salmon. Heavenly. My favorite food on this Earth.

I realized that I had misplaced my sunglasses somewhere, probably during the ford. I frantically looked everywhere for them since I really needed them and it was day 1 of a very sunny long trip, plus they were ~$100. It was one of those searches that makes no sense after a while but your determination forces you to keep searching. No luck, and they might've been long gone under sediment in the pacific.

I found a pristine hill looking over the ocean to enjoy the sunset and rest, reclined in some soft grass. I think I enjoyed my beer up there. I could see flattery rocks far in the distance, where I had started the day. Love when you get the reflective view of the start at the end. This time, the coast was feeling less lonely than my previous visit at the end of the PNT stretch I covered in 2021.

Day 2: Ozette Shore

16 mi, 580 ft, 6/17/24

The strictest tidal impediment was near where I was camping, so I was pressed to get going so that I wouln't have to wait for the high-low of the day. The waves had started lapping against the smooth rocks at the foot of the headland when I arrived, so I had timed it nicely to continue on the next beach stretch that led to Cape Alava.

Cape Alava is a mystical place. I witnessed fearless, beautiful families walking the horsetail perimeter of the high tide line near what's labeled an "archeaological site" on the map. The island shown in the image on the left is called Tskawahyah. I believe it's the westernmost point of the contiguous United States, rather than Cape Alavam, but only when the tide is low enough! Otherwise it's a proper island. Something is so enchanting about places with transient access.

Lucky for me, the tide was low enough to get to the island so I was keen to mount the little summit. However despite the forgiving tide, three massive bull deer were right on the obvious/only path leading to the small wood up top. I'm pretty keen for a summit once I get the idea in my head, so at first I approached the deer via the trail until I was a few yards away from the closest/lowest one. He didn't budge, and looked at me keenly yet clearly not concerned about me. They were really quite large and muscular deer, and the fact that they had steep high ground on me and that I would have to intentionally go between three of them to continue made me uneasy. That plus the general vibe of a white man weilding too much hubris on what remains native land (Ozette Resercation) put me off of attaining the small summit.

Reaching Cape Alava meant I was back on familiar territory. As the western terminus of the PNT, I essentially ended my thru-hike in 2021 there, although I made an attempt at returning to Seattle via a second Olmypic crossing (hitch to 101, bus to Quinault, torrential downpour soaked everything, passes were sub-freezing temps, called it).

The stretch from Cape Alava south to Sand Point is likely the most popular stretch of Olympic Wilderness beach, as part of the 'Ozette Triangle.' Like most popular spots in the outdoors, the popularity is definetly a result of its convenience. Nice flat trails with few obstacles. I'm a big fan of the trail parts of the triangle but having now hiked the whole ONP coast I honestly would say that its my least favorite stretch of beach on the Olympic Coast. Not at all because of crowds or others, the beach is big enough for an army, but rather just that the terrain is pretty arduous and the spectacles don't really compare to other parts of the coast.

Don't get me wrong, it's still great. The tideland ecosystems are amazing; in 2021 I saw a bear straight chowing down on whatever was in a tidepool. This time I saw a snake and cool chitin. The walking itself though is pretty rough. Cognizant stepping only and you're still gonna get wet at the pace of 2mph. Hot take over.

I got to Sand Point and got a wonderful view of the beach to come to the south. The coast toward yellowbanks became rich with tidal ecosystems. I squanched through super deep kelp, or whatever the purple cabbage type organism is. Sinking up to my shins in that, which was really cool once I got over the wetness and stank.

The tide was quite low after that, creating a vast beach where I could barely make out the ocean horizon. So much walking over tidepools and barnacle bits!

I really enjoyed the headlands past Norwegian Memorial and before Cedar Creek. An eagle was perched in its nest on the sole tree atop a rock pinnacle overlooking the ocean. Iconic and majestic, lording over the beach.

The tide rose, making further progress unwise and inconvenient with the strictest impediments ahead. I planned to take advantage of the low in the following morning to make it past Cape Johnson before the tide stopped me, and so that I could go inland that day.

I set up my tent at the final campsite of the ocean stretch of the trip. Bounded by tall trees, it felt wild and lush with the clouds and mist that came in in the evening. A fallen log served as a nice bench for eating dinner, and a friendly woodpecker joined me in my meal, finding his own within my seat. The ocean really roared that night, keeping me awake for awhile then plunging me into a deep sleep.

-- 11/6/25

Day 3: Quillayute Crossing

31 mi, 1000 ft, 6/18/24

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