Dad's Story
For all of us.
This is Dad's story, of his treasured boyhood adventure around Kitsap Peninsula and down Hood Canal in a rowboat. I post it here for us all to enjoy as often as we wish. There is a map at the end, and several pictures which Dad drew.
-Mark
Chapter 2 Readying for the Cruise || First Day Out || First Night Camp Chapter 3 Northward || Eglon Fishing
Pictures: Construction Details, La Paloma, Under Sail Before the Wind
January 11, 2000
Dear Mark,
I send you this story "La Paloma" thinking that you might like to know something about my youth and what has become a prime memory of mine. The title, "La Paloma" (The Dove) was chosen long after the events but stems from the memory of the fishing experiences that were a main, fun activity in my high school years. Don, who shared the fishing and boat adventures, would habitually sing to the fish as we trolled our herring, hoping to entice a salmon. He always sang lustily: and it Italian, too, this rollicking song titled "La Paloma," assuring me that the music would tease the fish into taking what we offered them. I can still hear him singing the tune lustily. So when I wrote the enclosed story, "La Paloma" was reborn happily and remains so in my mind.
Anyway, even though it has remained in the drawer with many other unfinished literary excursions, please accept this draft and enjoy it. It is true in so far as I have been able to recall the events.
-Dad
La Paloma
<Top>I came to Bremerton in 1927, a skinny, shy 12 year old farm boy full of anxious curiosity as I watched from the upper deck of the ferry boat. The seedy town, hugged closely around the dock. The waterfront was alive with hard-wheeled freight trucks and crates were strewn about the spacious wood-planked deck. A three-story frame building on the dock housed the ferry waiting room, the freight storage and offices of the Coleman Company, which owned and operated the ferry service and freight business. The sounds, the salty smells of the busy landing, the swift waters, the fishermen leaning over the dock's rail are clear in my mind. This was fascinating, this new environment where the life of the community was so dependent on Puget Sound which wrapped itself possessively around Bremerton's narrow peninsula.
The cold, clear and deep waters of Washington Narrows separate Bremerton from Manette and in those days no bridge spanned the Narrows. Travel across was a five minute ride on a stubby ferry boat which could handle about five cars. Foot passengers rode for five-cents each.
My home was a small narrow frame house on Pleasant Avenue close to the water and my good friend, Con Forbes, lived across the Narrows on the Manette side. We were high school buddies; both liking fishing, baseball and camping and both wishing for a row boat of our own. Once a "friend" sold us one for two dollars, a flat bottom skiff of no particular vintage but it did float. So we scraped up the money and bought the craft only to find out, even before using it, that our "friend" had stolen it. We returned the boat to it's rightful owner but never got our money back from the jerk who bilked us. This dampened our spirits.
One day a friend of Con's offered him a dilapidated old row boat, which we went eagerly to inspect. There she was, in just the shape we expected. To our eyes she was a beauty, because in our imagination we saw through her quite visible flaws to what she should be. Staring in wonder at the abused craft, ignoring it's neglected condition, our fifteen year old eyes could see only the sheer beauty of her. She was truly a classic: fourteen feet long with a small heart shaped transom, a grand swelling at the beam, with smooth flowing curves to a pleasingly high prow. Lordy, how fetching she was, the narrow lap-strake planking accenting her appearance. She was a vintage rowing boat and exhibited, in spite of her abused appearance, the best of construction and design. Two thwarts amidships with oar locks on the gunwale let us know that she would like two oarsmen please. Perfect!
"Well." I ventured at last, "She sure will need a lot of fixing up." shaking my head slowly and ticking off in my mind all the obvious problems ahead; some very difficult to solve.
"Yeah." Con replied in his usual verbose style, but I knew he too was mentally already at the task.
Then we studied the craft admiringly for a time, saying nothing, dreamily transfixed -- lost in the moment. Our own boat! She would bring freedom and adventure to two lucky boys. Already, as we stood there in awe at our good fortune, the beckoning waters of the Narrows were lapping hungrily at her stern, the incoming tide threatening to take her away. We dragged the boat up the beach and under the shelter of the power-line tower at the north end of Pacific Ave. Then we inspected her inside and out. The planking would need the copper rivets tightened and the seams caulked with oakum and red lead. Luckily there was no dry rot to remove at stem or transom. All four oar locks would have to be renewed and one of the seats was missing. There were no floorboards either but these things we could repair or renew. Someone had tried to fix leaks by pouring roofing tar in the cracks- not a good fix we agreed. Scuffed, keel badly worn, stem damaged though she was, we were afire with the enthusiasm of inexperience and set out immediately to make this abused boat into the seaworthy craft she was meant to be.
Luckily, it was spring vacation so we began exuberantly scraping, caulking, patching and doing all the many tasks needed. We scrounged materials and paint, made new thwarts seats), made and fitted new white oak oar locks. It was good that my father's work shop was near for screws and other hardware could usually be found there. The painting done we addressed our attention to the need for two sets of oars. This stumped us, for new oars were too expensive to buy, so I asked Dad for advice. He said that fir two-by-six should work and gave us some that he had left over from a framing job he had just finished. So began a most arduous task of cutting the oars out of the tough wood. No power tools in those days so hand-saws, spoke shaves, planes and rasps finally yielded four oars which we carefully scraped, sanded and varnished. People admired them and they served well for many years.
So at last the rebuilt boat was ready to go in the bay for sea trials. Scarcely able to contain ourselves we carefully eased her down to the water on wooden rollers, jumped in and began to row with our new oars. We caught "crabs" at first (meaning that one oar would interfere with another) but soon we had the hang of rhythmically keeping in step, as it were. We laughed and shouted at how easily the boat slid through the water and how fast we could make her go. She was a dream to keep on a straight course. At first the planking leaked copious amounts of water. We had to bail out regularly, but before that trial run was over the leakage had diminished to manageable amounts as the wood swelled. Our trial run was a huge success! We had a real boat!
Don, living in Manette and I in Bremerton with the swift Narrows between meant that our boat crossed almost daily, for we chose to row rather than pay the ferry fare of five cents.
It was depression times and Don's step-father supported a half-dozen children on a meager and uncertain wage; while our family income was no better. The boat became a bread-winner itself all through that first fall and winter for we fished long on the waters of Port Orchard Bay. Blackmouth salmon were plentiful to those who knew how and where to find them, which we had learned. If salmon weren't striking we would tie up to a channel buoy and still fish for Rock God. Sometimes a Ling Cod would take our bait and this large and tasty fish would be a great treat in our homes, you can bet. Our catches were a welcome addition to our family larders.
We had great fun and were proud of the boat and the fishing skills which we learned. Don's Uncle Ed Walling, who had served in the Spanish American War, lived in the Veteran's Home at nearby Retsil. His active and eventful life had included commercial fishing using a hand line and trolling gear. He helped us with his knowledge a great deal, for we could never have afforded to outfit ourselves with expensive poles, reels, nylon lines, fancy lures and speedboats such as today's fishermen seem to find necessary. Outboard motors? Out of the question. None of this fated us and Uncle Ed's advice put us on the road to successful fishing with minimal gear. He taught us how to make lures, what depths to fish at various sky conditions, where salmon could most likely be found, tidal influences, how to affix bait to best attract fish; even how to make our own fish-line.
Most of our fishing was with a troll. In those days most fishermen trolled from a small boat, slowly rowing to keep their lure at the depth they expected the salmon to be. A common rig consisted of a large flasher or spoon with a guide ahead to hold the line from spinning and a leader of stainless wire about three feet long behind the flasher to which the hook and lure were attached. It was very important that the lure swim in a motion that imitated a herring or candlefish. We learned how to achieve the right effect and here is a sketch of our gear as I remember it:
When it came to getting fishing line Don asked his Uncle, "Should we get some cutty-hunk line for trolling?"
"Oh, no, you boys need better line than that limp stuff. It will tangle into an impossible mess when you drop it on the boat seat wet."
"We can’t afford wire line."
Uncle's reply was typical of the advice he usually gave us, for he would call out from his memory marvelous lore.
"Go buy some white carpenter's chalk line. Can you get a large bucket to boil water in? Good. Now find a few pounds of very rusty nails, spikes or any very rusted iron. Take a hatchet and large knife; go out in the woods back of your house and find a hemlock tree. Strip off some bark and with the knife, peel out the sappy inner bark 'til you have a few handfuls. Now get all this stuff together in the back yard and build a cook-fire. Put water in the bucket and start it heating. Now put layers of rusty iron and bark in the bucket. Coil out your chalk-line loosely and drop it into the bucket. Add some more rusty nails and hemlock bark. Boil this mess for several hours, then let the fire go out and leave things just as they are for a day or two."
When we took the line out of the bucket it was a beautiful kelp red and when dry, a soft tan in color. We used that line for many years. It never rotted or lost its stiff nature. The fish seemed to ignore the kelpy color and when we drew in the line and let it fall on the stern seat or foot boards we never got a snarl. I since have learned that the process is similar to that used in treating animal hides to make leather, and that hemlock bark's richness in tannin is the main ingredient in giving long life and strength to leather
Uncle Ed's advice on many items and techniques which he shared with us was most useful and fun to learn. Maybe this lore is no longer of value in the light of modern fishing methods but it was great for us, and I'11 bet that today’s fish would still respond to our homemade lures.
We loved the water and as our skills and confidence grew the germ of an idea hatched in our romantic minds. Why not take all summer and just row off to discover the inland waters of the Sound? Maybe we could go up into the San Juan Islands. That wouldn't be too far. We were strong and had proven ourselves to be good oarsmen and able to go anywhere fancy took us. The idea grew and when the summer came we were ready, had made firm plans for a long rowboat cruise northward.
With this background come with us on our great rowing adventure; a trip we made in the summer of 1933. Such a cruise could not now be repeated; because Puget Sound is no longer blessed with pristine beaches, un-peopled coves and lonely rivers such as awaited exploration by two boys.
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Readying for the Cruise
The day before our departure found us rowing against the strong current of the Narrows, hugging the shore so that the swift tide would be lessened by the shallows. Our goal was to get to the area between Bremerton's docks where we knew Candlefish and Herring would be hiding in the protected water. We needed plenty of bait for who knew where we could find any in the unfamiliar waters ahead. Where would the currents and oars take us? To the San Juan Islands, the Canadian Channel Isles, Alaska? We didn't really care; the thrill of adventure was upon us.
As we worked the boat into the relatively quiet of the sheltering docks a school of Candlefish was waiting right where we expected. Don, at the aft oars, maneuvered the boat downstream of the fish and I, kneeling in the bow, held our herring rake suspended until we were close to the school. Then I smoothly drew the rake down into the center of the fish and back out of the water, rolled the rake over the gunwale and inboard, so that the suspended fish wriggled off into the bottom of the boat. Don gathered them into a coffee can. Continuing this we soon had a large can of fresh bait. We tied to a piling and immediately salted our catch down by putting alternate layers of fish and rock salt into a can. These would keep firm for a long period if stowed in a cool place in the bilge.
Our rake we had made from an eight foot long piece of mahogany. It was one-half inch thick by two-and-a-half inches wide and shaped into a cross-section much like that of an airplane wing. Short slim pieces of bronze wire, sharpened on both ends were driven into the leading edge of the rake about one-half inch apart for four feet of one end of the rake. Thus it looked like a giant hair comb. The wing-like cross section of the rake made it slip freely through the water.
We were lucky enough to find a school of Herring also and soon had a number of these salted down. Herring are a very fine bait fish and we were glad to have some. So we drifted happily home on the tide planning for our departure early the following morning.
"Gosh, can we get all this stuff in that little boat?" I asked. "We'll swamp it."
I eyed the heap of blankets, boxes of food, clothes and camp gear piled on the beach beside the boat. Don didn't reply but went ahead stowing things. His reticence was not unusual as he often failed to respond when he assumed that a question did not deserve a reply. So I shrugged and went at the task. Surprisingly we got the whole caboodle in, shoved off and were on our way.
I don't remember that anyone even wished us bon voyage. My mother was very accepting of what the world offered and had never questioned my comings and goings. I expect that in her mind this was what boys did and she trusted God would look over us. Which He did. I think Don's mother was too busy with her many younger children to worry, either.
We adjusted trim by moving some of the cargo and then pulled into the swift currently letting it carry us out of the Narrows. Looking over the side at the very few inches of freeboard made me gulp. I glanced at Don but he merely shrugged, so I shrugged also. We didn't care. Ahead were unknown rocks, tides, waves and wide stretches of water and all the other things that a vast sound could present. We envisioned the fine coves, safe harbors, lonely beaches and our very first camp. As I write this journal looking back at all the fun we had on this adventure I can say without question this was the most unique experience of my life.
The outgoing tide carried the boat past the channel marker at Manette Point, with us scarcely pulling at the oars. Supported on its pilings the light winked at these two boys in their little boat bulging with the gear of adventure. Three long-necked black cormorants, their great wings spread to dry, shifted uneasily on their perches atop the piling; suspecting that we meant to tie up there. Often we had done that; knocked off some of the barnacles and gathered a few pile worms from beneath. With these worms on our hooks we had fished for the fine cod lurking among rocks at the base of the pilings.
We didn't stop though. Rowing over the smooth waters parted to let us through, then quietly closed behind, erasing all sign of our passing except for a small wave hurrying to shore. Now a rhythmic vibration in the water signaled the approach of the ferry Kalakala around Manchester Point. She churned noisily past us at about fifteen knots, sending out her usual monstrous bow waves. Our boat rocked wildly as we nervously held it out of the trough. We worried that the heavy load and slight freeboard might bring our excursion to a quick end. But the boat rose to her task, lifting easily, unconcerned.
"Well." she seemed to say "What are you two worried about?"
So we learned that this small craft would take good care of us. So long as we kept our heads and were alert seamen she would do her part.
Settling into a steady and easy cadence we rowed on past Illahee’s tree darkened cliffs. Then Brownsville Bay fell astern. At noon a sandy spit beckoned us ashore where we ate a quick lunch, our eyes on Agate Passage far up the bay. Often tides swept fast through Agates narrow channel, flowing as much as five knots at full flood. We hurried on. Luckily the tide began to ebb just as we got
to the passage, so we eased happily through, watching how shallow was the water, even at mid-channel. No wonder the current could be so swift. A lot of water must squeeze through to bays beyond.
It was late afternoon as we rowed slowly past the Indian Reservation town of Suquamish and then began to scan the shore critically for a suitable place to make camp. We wanted to find a nice beach well protected from the south, and away from people. Ahead we could see that the shore turned easterly. Rowing slowly we continued north until we were nearly to that beach, hoping for a good spot here because it did not appear that the shore eastward had any likely camping place. As we got within a few yards of the beach we saw a small creek spilled out onto the beach. Intrigued we cautiously eased into it. There behind a gravel spit was a large tidal pond, calm and uninhabited so far as we could see. What a spot! We rowed to the back side of the spit where its shore dropped sharply. Here we beached the boat on the sand and, after a short look around, set up camp. No place could have been better. The quiet protected water and the large driftwood for a shelter were perfect. In no time a driftwood cook fire was snapping, pungent with the smell of the sea and water was boiling for a rice-cheese dinner. We happily leveled spots in the clean sand for our beds.
"Boy." we said, "This is really living!"
We sat by our warm fire after dinner talking over the day's events, happy that the long row had not blistered us too much. Then we spread our bed rolls - old army blankets held together securely with horse blanket pins - and snuggled into bed listening contentedly to the waves lapping at the outside of our protective spit and soon asleep. But not for long. A horde of squirming sand fleas joined usr irritated that we had usurped their playground. They danced in our hair and down our back until we were forced to get up. Well, if you have never slept in a bed of these bouncy critters you've missed a most memorable experience. We rose, shook out the bedding, spread our tent halves in a spot less subject to invasion and tried again. It worked so far as sand fleas were concerned but long before morning we made another discovery. Nice smooth beach sand is totally unyielding under a reclining body. We dug shallow depressions for hip and shoulder which helped some. It was only because we were young and tired that sleep came. After this first night's experience we avoided sleeping with sand fleas or directly on sand for the rest of the trip. Don called this "sleeping on flea bitten cement."
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Northward
Next morning we dawdled about camp, explored along the shore and found other reasons to delay, for we were reluctant to leave such an ideal camp spot. Then, looking out at the bay we noted the wind was beginning to blow and roughening water could soon be worse so we hurriedly broke camp and set out.
There the wind found us and, of course, our direction was straight into the teeth of the rising waves looming higher now, with whitecaps scudding off the crests. Laughing into the wind and shouting our defiance we stroked with long sweeps, determined to reach a sheltering cliff visible a few miles ahead before the storm drove us to the weather shore our port side. The high cliff ahead promised shelter in quiet water. If we were forced ashore now it would be very hard to keep the boat from swamping until the storm subsided. It was a fight. The boat was pitching wildly at each wave like a living thing which is what she was. Don and I strove vigorously, pitting our strength and the boats sea-worthiness against the sea. It was great fun, but now the crests of the whitecaps were drenching our backs.
Don, in the forward seat, called a halt. "Nuts, I'm soaked! Let's turn around and face the bow like the Gloucester fishermen do."
We did, shifting quickly. Now, on knees facing the bow and pushing on the oars rather than pulling we could see each approaching wave much better and; since our weight was farther aft, the bow rose more freely. No longer did each wave soak us and we began to gain slowly. At long last the towering cliffs of Jefferson Head calmed the water and we relaxed with great sighs as the boat came against the welcoming sandy beach. What a relief for two very tired, water-soaked but triumphant boys!
We scurried to build a roaring fire and stood in it's revitalizing warmth until dry, munching hungrily on apples and cheese. We unloaded the boat and spread out wet things to dry. Then we clamored up the inviting sand bank and ran laughing down it again and again. Later we searched out piles of dry grass for our beds. (no sand or fleas for us).
Not the least of our worries here was that the boat would be well ashore on the tide flats in the morning if we beached it now. Anchor it out? That would be OK but who wanted to swim out to get it in the chill morning? So we devised a way to solve the problem. We attached our anchor to the bow with a fairly short line. Then coiled this line carefully in the bow with the anchor perched precariously atop, ready to fall overboard if disturbed. We tied a long rope to the fluke of the anchor, and led this rope up the beach, free to pay out. Then by smoothly yet firmly shoving the boat out into the water, we letting its momentum carry it as far as desired. Now a sharp tug on the shore rope dislodged the anchor which dropped to the bottom, and the boat rode easily at anchor. Pulling the shore line would easily draw anchor and boat ashore. How do you like that? Better than a swim now to anchor it than a cold morning swim to retrieve it.
Next morning the wind was down and the water glossy calm. We pulled the boat in, loaded up and shoved off, rowing easily around the point and out into main channel of Puget Sound. Miles across was the East shore with Edmonds and Seattle visible. We could see large ocean freighters steaming up the Sound and deep sea fishing boats chugging north toward the Gulf of Alaska.
As we rowed north the Kingston Edmonds Ferry crossed our bow.
We stayed close to shore, enjoying ourselves immensely and in the late afternoon were far up the Sound where an inviting cove, just put there for our camp drew us ashore. That evening as we sat by our fire salmon were breaking the water not far out. That got our fishing blood up so we readied tackle, planning to try our luck on the morning's high slack tide. Since the fish were quite close to shore and did not sound to be very large we decided to fish close to the surface, with little or no lead, using pop gear and worms. Our pop gear was a kind called Jack Lloyd and consisted of about four dimpled silver spoons arranged along a piano wire. We attached short leader, swivel and hook to the gear. We were lucky enough to find a loamy damp area at the edge of a field near shore and there got some fat worms.
As it grew dark the florescence shone in wavelets along shore and when a fish jumped there was a shiny display. We were intrigued and jumped into the boat and eased off shore to get a closer look at the show. The water spilled from our oars in brilliant cascades, and when we dipped our hand into the sea the florescence lay in our palm for moments. Looking over the side we saw a myriad of flashing, slashing lights sparkling as fish of all sizes were outlined. Such a dance of light and motion! We watched in awe. It was as if we were being allowed to witness the teeming life of a strange New World. How could minute, invisible organisms create such a vision, and why?
We woke early to see the waves of the incoming tide already lapping at the stern of our beached boat. Better hurry, was our thought, for the tide would not wait, and high slack is the very best for salmon fishing. It is then that salmon are feeding on candlefish or herring. These small fish usually spread out when the water is less swift and become easy target for the salmon. The morning was calm with a soft fog hanging over the water. To the north we could hear the regular blare of a fog horn, probably at Point No Point which we knew was somewhere north of us. No other sound broke the spell of quiet hovering over the smooth water except the muted swish of our oars. Eagerly now Don unwrapped our fish line from the Balsa-wood block on which it was always stowed, and let the gear out easily until we could see the flash of the spoons just below the surface about forty feet astern. Then he looped the line onto the short jig stick at the side of the boat and set about rigging the second line. Our jig sticks were about two feet long and attached one at each side of the stern seat. Tied to the top of the stick were long rubber-bands cut from automobile tire tubes. It was to the end of these rubbers that the fishing lines were attached; thus providing a flexible, anchor for the troll.
Suddenly the jig danced wildly and Don grabbed the line. The salmon broke from the water in a beautiful dance with the flashing spoons dangling from his mouth and shook free. Don quickly let out the other line; but when it was only a few feet astern a fish took the bait. A sudden jerk and he too was gone. So it went for an hour; fish eager to take the bait but unwilling to stay around and let us bring them in. I tried my luck but each fish would break the surface in a frantic dance of singular beauty, stay on only a moment and depart.
Then with the change of the tide, fish stopped striking; so we hauled in the rigs and went back to camp very disappointed and frustrated. What was the problem we asked each other? It was obvious that these relatively small silvers were very tender mouthed and also tremendous fighters so that they would tear the hook out before we could react. If we only had a trout pole and a drag reel we'd catch those fish. But we hadn’t. So we decided to stay another day and try some new tactics. In the meantime we improved the campsite, did some much needed washing of clothes and ourselves; cooked the beans and dried apricots soaking from the night before and explored along the deserted beach.
Next morning we set out again in the morning fog; let out the first line, not attaching it to the jig stick, but holding it very lightly in hand; just tight enough that the spoons did not pull it out. Sure enough a salmon erupted with the spoons dangling, and took the line out rapidly slipping through the lightest restraint of careful fingers. As his run eased I, who was in the hot seat for this first strike, following the technique decided for this day's try to catch one of these unwilling fish, began a two-handed beckoning come-along motion, moving the line from one hand to the other, so that fingers drew in or released line as the fish chose to rest or run. This hand "drag" was succeeding! There began to appear on the stern seat between my knees a coil of retrieved line. When slackness suddenly occurred I thought the fish was lost but he was only making a run for the boat. I hurriedly collected the slack and over the side could see the very tired but gallant fish. He made a couple of short runs but at last Don, with a finger in his gills, lifted him gently into the boat. Not very big, perhaps two pounds, but a beautiful shining trophy and we were high with triumph.
Don then took his turn in the hot seat and brought in a second fish by the same technique. We fished until the tide changed; losing some, catching some of these great fighters. With four in the boat we released all others as carefully as possible, for we had a great respect for them and their fighting spirit. We stayed at that unbelievable fishing spot for three nights; leaving reluctantly, full of fish and lifetime memories of the best fishing ever!
<top>Hood Canal ?
We were up early the day of departing Eglon, loaded the boat quietly for both of us would have stayed on to try more of this fabulous fishing. But adventure was calling us ahead.
"Gee, I bet we will be clear up into the San Juan Islands by tomorrow if we row hard." I ventured. Don was studying our sketchy map, trying to estimate just where we were. Details and scale were both omitted so I added "Too bad we couldn't get a real map. If we had one we might know where we are."
"Well", Don said "Let's just stay close to shore today until the fog lifts and then maybe we can see some landmarks."
That was our only choice and, although reluctant to leave, we poured water on the morning's cook fire and set off. The pea-soup fog held for hours throughout the morning and with no compass our world consisted of a beach close to port, lonesome fog horns in the distance and us. When hunger signaled noon we pulled into the shore. Suddenly the fog rose to reveal a sweeping sand beach and a wooded island about a mile off across the water. We ate lunch on the fine beach with a small fire to warm us and lolled happily there, still not anxious to row on.
Then we noticed that an increasing wind was now blowing in the direction we were traveling down a long channel which disappeared into the distance. Shores on each side stretched high and dark with trees; here and there a point showing. Suddenly Don jumped up shouting "Hey, we could really scoot down this channel if we rigged our pup-tent for a sail."
Enthusiastic with this idea we searched the driftwood until we found a long smooth pole for a mast and a couple of sticks for crossbars. We pared the pole to fit into a hole already through the fore-deck and stepped it firmly in place. Then we lashed the cross-bars to the mast and tied a pup-tent half to the bars. To the ends of both cross- bars we fixed lines leading to the stern and tied them off. Both were glad that we had brought the rudder, built when hoping the craft could be made into a sailing dinghy. This had proved too difficult, requiring a hole through the keel for a center-board, so we had abandoned the idea. Now with the sail and rudder we thought the boat could be controlled enough to sail before the wind. Tacking was going to be only minimally possible.
Now ready we pushed off and rowed out of the protection of the bank behind us. Worrying we watched the sail fill and the boat tug as she responded. We were sailing! Down wind she went, a bone in her teeth, the bow thrusting water noisily aside and the shores sliding astern at a gloriously rapid rate. We were making great time going before the wind but still did not know where the boat was taking us. Who cared about that. I shall never forget that first sail; the exhilaration as we slid along with scarcely a sound. It was as if the water, woods, and all the world were going by, with us in the little boat, just sitting still in the midst of this movement.
The two intrepid sailors scudded on before the stiff breeze until mid-afternoon brought into view a small settlement with the ever present dock thrusting out into the channel. We steered in toward it and beached the boat, needing some provisions and anxious to know where we were. Well we got the surprise of our lives when told that this was Lofall on the shore of Hood Canal! It was hard to believe but a better map given to us by the store-keeper showed us what we had done. While hugging the shoreline in dense fog we had rounded Foulweather Bluff and gone southward into the Canal. Our pleasant interlude on the sandy beach where we fitted out the sail was probably at Little Boston Indian Reservation, near Port Gamble.
What to do now? Neither wanted to turn back and pull against: that north wind. What about the idea of rowing to Alaska? A study of the new map revealed plenty of beckoning water down the Canal and the favorable wind plus a "who cares" vagabond spirit drew us out before the wind and southward. We scudded along, enjoying the effortless sail until late afternoon when the wind failed. So manning the oars we set out to the western shore and made camp. It was wild and lonely there, nothing in the way of habitation visible for as far as the eye could see. There was a small creek spilling into the Canal and a protective headland so shelter was good. An old clearing beside the creek asked for exploration. There we found a deserted cabin and, "hey, look here" a small orchard of knarly apple trees, loaded with small apples. We ate these with great relish for fresh fruit was not in our larder. How long ago had this spot been the dream home of a hardy pioneer? We rummaged about the deserted farm next day, finding a few rusty garden tools. Not much of a clue to the person or persons who had lived here. "Some day someone will live in this wonderful spot again" was our conjecture.
This abandoned home was like many others we found as we continued on our cruise. It seemed most likely that the majority of these intrepid and romantic settlers had supported themselves by hand-logging the forests near their cabins, towing the logs to a mill at Hadlock, Port Gamble, Seabeck or other of many small lumber mills along the Canal shore. When logs gave out the settler had to move on or starve.
Hood Canal is a natural body of water, separate from the main Puget Sound. It is from one to three miles wide and stretches southwesterly from its mouth at Foulweather Bluff for about fifty miles then elbows easterly for another fifteen or twenty miles to end at Belfair. Mid-channel depth is generally 70 fathoms. In the latter nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century there was much logging activity along both shores. Timber was dragged, skidded and dumped into the Canal at convenient places, where the logs were rafted and then towed by tug boats to mills along the shore. These mills sprouted busy settlements. A few of these still exist, lonesome sentinels. <top>
Today there are no large settlements along the shores, although recreational resorts and private homes are scattered there. It is a good thing that industry and dense population centers are controlled along this beautiful channel for the ecology is fragile. Significant abuse by careless developers could destroy the Canal irretrievably. Being some sixty miles long the ability of the Canal to clear it's waters to sea is limited because a six-hour run-out of tide will not fully exchange water in less than several days of tidal flushing so heavy pollution would be disastrous. Local people fully recognize this today and continually act as stewards to protect this natural wonder from regularly appearing plans to rape these still nearly pristine waters.
We glided down the Canal close to the shore on our west side, just lazing along and pulling in to every interesting spot as we went. Our map told us this was the Toandos Peninsula and in the early afternoon we rounded Hazer Point at the end of the Peninsula. There before us appeared the small fishing port of Seabeck, but we only glanced that way as our attention was on a spectacular view of the snow covered Olympic Mountains. They rose before us almost close enough to touch, their snowy slopes beckoning like sirens, saying "beach that silly old boat and come up and spend a while with us" Hearts immediately captured by such magnificence we just drifted and stared. I've never escaped from the pull of these mountains since, nor do I want to. We studied our map, identifying the larger peaks in our view. There before us was the great valley of the Dosewallips River, and other river valleys could be seen disappearing into the heart of the mountains. Our map showed roads leading up several of the rivers and; "Look- Trails!" That did it!
"We can hide the boat up the mouth of one of these streams and go for a hike up there." That was the best suggestion Don had made in a while. "I'm ready." was my instant reply. So the germ was planted and as we continued down the sparkling Canal the germ grew.
Crossing along the wide end of the Toandos we came to a small creek emptying from what looked like a fairly large estuary. It was nearly hidden by heavy trees on both sides and could have been easily missed, but not by us for we were hungry and looking for a camp. We studied our map and sure enough there it was, Fisherman’s Cove. We rowed in through the creek, which was so shallow it would allow no boat through at mid to low tide.
Here was our camp of camps! The water behind the spit was several feet deep and a perfect shelter for the sailor. No one, no house, nothing but a perfect harbor and camp site. It looked like we might have rain later so up went our two-man pup-tent with the opening on the lee side, just in case. Soon our coffee can kettles were on the fire boiling potatoes and coffee as the aroma of frying fish drifted through the snug little retreat. Then we sat and ate before a fine drift-wood fire, staring out at the vast scene.
Short of a few food items we started in the morning to row across the wide stretch from Oak Head to Seabeck. That day the wind came up strongly from starboard side so that the waves began to slosh over our very low freeboard and threaten to founder us. It was a tough ride. Only if one rowed and the other kept the boat heeled over to the lee side and bailed could we weather the rough sea. It was a long and bitter struggle to keep afloat but at last Point Misery, aptly named, gave us shelter from the south-west and we limped into Seabeck. That was a dangerous bit of salting and neither of us wanted to go through such a rough thing again.
When the wind died that evening we rowed around Misery and made camp in a nice cove near Hood Point. Next morning was calm as glass and the row over to the west shore was easy. There we looked in on Pleasant Harbor but it was too civilized for us.
The next camp, as I remember it, Was at the mouth of the great Duckabush River, which spilled into the Canal through a broad delta. We rowed up the river a short distance and there found a grassy landing with, of all things, a camp table. Boy, what luxury we thought. Then after we had the boat beached and our camp gear out and a fire going we saw a slight man approaching and behind him one of the most imposing women we had ever seen. The man said we would have to pay twenty-five cents to camp there for the night. We said that there was no sign but he said there was one up on the road. We might have argues with the little guy but could see his support coming so paid the quarter and camped with the luxury of a table to sit at while we ate dinner. Civilization had come to Hood Canal we thought.
One day we arrived at the mouth of the Hama Hama River far down the Canal. The tidal shallows of the river delta were a maze of small channels between grassy small islets. We rowed among these but found none which would be enough above high tide for a camp. Disappointed that there was no camp site here we drifted out into the bay and rowed northward, searching the high cliffs along the way.
We wanted a campsite where our boat and supplies could be safely cached while we hiked up into the Olympics. A narrow cut in the cliffs appeared and from this rushed a small river, the Waketiki. This was only a mile north of the Hamma Hamma and our map told us a road would lead up this river into the mountains. We beached the boat on the rocky shore and got out. Looking up we saw that a road paralleled the beach only a few feet away, and its bridge spanned the small river. Exploring, under the bridge we found that this could be a good place to camp with the bridge overhead and dense woods at either side. This seemed quite secure.
We camped there, dragging the boat up above high tide and into undergrowth which hid it well. Soon we had our camp made among giant boulders on the rivers shore left there by the high water of spring floods. "Not much of a place to bed down and we better not cut any brush close by to show that we are here. We don't want any curious people along the road to find us." So we searched beside the road and then crossed onto a high rock dome from which the great Canal was could be seen for miles. There, sitting on thick moss we just enjoyed the view and the quiet. "Moss!" shouted Don "and look, it's really thick and dry. See- six inches of soft mattress!" I've never seen such thick moss. We hacked out two bed site pieces and then looked at the scar we had left. Visitors would wonder for years why these rectangles of bare rock were here in this spot.
That night the moss gave us the most luxuriant bed of our whole cruise. Jealous? Supper over we sat full of food and contentment watching the firelight search the shadows of the beams above. Once in a while one would rise to stir the bean pot and add water from the river at our feet. Tomorrow morning we would put the lid on the pot, bury it in the hot rocks and coals and leave-- to conquer the mighty Olympics. Here beside the noisy, busy Waketiki it was easy to think of all the bright, swift rivers which tumbled their short ways out of the high Olympics into Hood Canal and the Straits of Juan de Fuca. All these rivers had been named by Indian Tribes who lived along the beaches. Starting from the heel of the Canal we named them. Skokomish, Hamma-Hamma, Waketiki, Duckabush, Dosewallips, Quilcene, Dungeness, Elwha, Bogachiel, Soleduc, Quilayute, Hoh, Queets, Quinault, Wynooche! Marvelous romantic names. Tomorrow we would follow the banks of the Hamma-Hamma until it led us right up to the slopes of "The Brothers." maybe to the top.
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Lena Lakes
SONG OF THE WAKETIKI
Only a small river, I
But proud.
For the Potlatch people named me so,
Saying that those who slept by me
Would ever after be
Under the spell of my mountain mother.
She of the pure snows.
Heavy with ice from ages past
She swells me,
Bids me spill her waters on the tide
To guide the mighty Salmon home.
I carve the nests they'll need at last.
I - the Waketiki, work with pride!
I do not remember why we had the foresight to bring along a pair of home-made Trapper Nelson pack boards. They had been handy as a place to store provisions on the boat but now they were indispensable. We packed them with a fry pan, tin can kettles, spare socks, matches, jackets and food but decided to leave our tent behind- the weather would hold sunny we were sure. With an axe and drinking cups rattling on the outside and blankets rolled atop we set out across the highway to where a sign said Hamma River Road and began to climb. The road was steep and winding as it found it's way upward. It went on interminably and our shoulders, so very unfamiliar with the pack straps got tender so we sat down to rest on a roadside log. A pick-up truck stopped so we gladly clambered into the canopy. This way the road slipped by quickly and we stared out open back at hill sides vacant of trees, recently denuded by logging and burned off. Was this the Olympics we were going to hike? We hoped not.
In about ten miles the truck stopped to let us off and took a side road. We hoisted our packs and strode off up a valley which grew narrower between steep hills as we went. The road ended in a turn-around where signs said "Hamma-Hamma River" up the valley and "Lower Lena Lake- 2 Miles." Up an almost vertical slope barren from logging led a narrow and meager trail. That seemed the most likely way to get into the upper mountains so we started. Counting switch-backs as we went, thirty, forty, fifty we struggled on; the high sun beating down on us without any respite of shade. Doggoned those loggers, why hadn't they left a tree here and there for weary, hot travelers to enjoy? About when we figured the open hill would never end came to somewhat of a crest where blessed firs surrounded us with cooling shade.
Still the trail went upward but was not quite so steep now. We rested, loosed the packs and conjectured on how much farther it could be. Hadn't the sign said 2 miles? We tramped on in the cool quiet trees, admiring their great size and surprised at the hush, watching ahead for the lake. At last a glint of water and then the smooth lake was there. We walked along the trail as it meandered the shore and then came to a small clearing where others had camped.
Rings of boulders marked the fire spot. We dropped the packs and the lightness made us feel as if we were walking on air. Then we gathered some squaw wood for a supper fire and left the packs to explore farther along the lake. We found no signs of other camp spots but at the end a small stream spilled itself into the lake. Looking into the water there we saw a number of trout feeding at the inlet, so hurried back to camp rigged light tackle quickly and with salmon eggs in hand ran back to where the trout were. There we drifted hooks baited with single eggs and quickly had half-a-dozen nice firm rainbow trout for supper. Good fishing: Lower Lena Lake.
Back at camp with the fish in us and a cup of cocoa steaming along side we were happy. The quiet beauty around us, our lone occupation of this jewel like spot, the promise of high meadows, shiny alpine lakes and snow capped peaks not far ahead filled our thoughts. As we discussed tomorrows plans and what the high country would be like we forgot today's rough two miles. Tired but happy in our oblivion of what the marrow could bring we slept.
Next morning, aches and sore spots soon diminished as we fell into a now familiar trail gait. It surprised us that we seemed to be gaining in strength, after only one day on the trail. This ability to adapt so quickly to packing is a phenomenon of hiking that I have experienced many times over the years. It is a lucky thing that such adaptation occurs for otherwise how could one get such an exhilarating and inspiring time from such hard work?
At the end of Lena Lake a trail sign pointed up the slope and said that Upper Lena was only 6 miles. Six miles? "Well, that's only three times as long as yesterdays climb." was Don's laconic statement. So up we went on a trail which was little more than some scuffed dirt with, luckily, a handhold to a tree root here and there. Yet we went doggedly on at a steady, slow pace, already learned from the day before. One slow foot after the other we doggedly climbed kept at it by the hope of a better trail which at last would go over the top to success. Rests were kept to short minutes for longer delays merely brought tired muscles and an unwillingness to go on. We ceaselessly watched for open sky to appear in the woods ahead and once, when an opening did appear it proved to be only a giant rocky slope, barren of trees and probably the site of an avalanche recently. Here the trail became a guess only but we clamored up over the sharp rocks and re-discovered the trail.
To you who have never been on steep mountain trails it may seem that a short 6-mile jaunt should be over in three hours or so. Don't you believe it! The intrepid and sadistic builders of these trails are a breed apart and their favorite joke is the optimistic mileage markings on signs at trail heads. I know for a fact from personal observation that these untamed and indurate characters have endurance beyond belief. One I knew would run up the trail from the Hamma-Hamma to Lower Lena Lake in twenty minutes, get his lunch bag and immediately run back down to the road. Such people are superhuman. Most of us mortals go less than one mile-per-hour with packs.
We struggled the rest of the climb to Upper Lena Lake, which was at last signaled by the increasing appearance of shapely alpine evergreens on the slopes and then the view of a very near mountain ahead. Our hearts and pace quickened and we lost all weariness as we came over the crest. There nestled among giant granite rocks was the most beautiful alpine lake that anyone could imagine. It's mirror smooth surface had nothing to do but image the bright sky and the perfect mountain rising directly from the south shore. A long finger of snow lay on the peaks slope ending at the water's edge. A long and marvelous mountain meadow led off westerly from the lake with avalanche lilies carpeting the tundra and here and there a mother alpine fir gathered her children about her skirts. Here was heaven on earth. Here Don and I got our first view of the heartland of the Olympics. Since that time we have made many trips into those mountains together and separately: all wonderful, but none topping the thrilling first taste of this alpine paradise.
Wild with excitement we went around the small lake, jumping from boulder to boulder and found small streams feeding it from the meadows. There were lots of trout visible through the transparent water but none of them wanted our offered bait. We wandered on over the rising slope of the meadow and were able to see many snow covered peaks. A deep canyon to our north we guessed to be the beginning of the Dosewallips river valley. We wanted to go on, to search for more lakes, climb that mountain far across the meadow, find more grand places to camp and absorb "our" mountains. But we would need better shoes, more provisions; and besides our little boat was waiting for us at the mouth of the Waketiki.
So for just one more day we absorbed the beauty around us, swam in the icy water, and then packed up and set off back down the trail. We went down fast, like mountain goats, sure footed and agile, a condition which I can now only dream about. What a joy to be young and strong and able to do such things.
Arriving back under the Waketiki bridge, tired but with a mountaineer's swing in our step we found that nothing had been disturbed. I lifted the bean pot out of the rocks, raised the lid and we were greeted by the sweet aroma of baked beans. Right away we had the fire going. Ravenously hungry we could scarcely wait until the beans were hot and the corn bread made in the frying pan was ready. Then as we ate it was natural to start planning for our next mountain climb. Perhaps go up another river to a new mountain pass. Stretched out before us, although we didn't know it, was a long chain of marvelous hikes over the next several years: swift rivers, high slopes, alpine lakes hidden behind secret passes and climbs up to snowy peaks. We dreamed away the evening, then snuggled into our soft moss bed and slept soundly after listening to the chatter of the river beside us.
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Going Home
A wonderful rest and we were up early dragging the boat out of its hiding place and into the water. Soon it was loaded with all our gear, we had doused the morning's cook fire and were on our way. Where to now? A mile or so across the Canal was the east shore, completely uninhabited for many miles, so we rowed over in the quiet morning before the north wind had kicked up it's usual fair weather chop. The land rose cliff-like directly from the beach for perhaps a thousand feet. There was no evidence of man visible as we rowed northerly along close to the very rocky beach, except for a occasional deserted cabin clinging uncertainly to the steep cliff. We came upon a few piling supporting the lower end of former log skids which our eyes could trace up the steep slope to the table land far above. We have watched logs slide down such skids at breakneck speed and shoot out over the water for many yards before thundering into the bay; ending in a splash which could be seen and heard for miles. The beaches were carpeted with large oysters for many miles of these rocky shores. We occasionally ate them. Heated in the shell until it opened revealed the oyster lying invitingly in its own salty water. It made a handy meal. Most of Hood Canal beaches are not now available for oyster picking, as some have been stripped, some are posted and laws control picking.
As we worked our way along this deserted shore it came to us that we were on the way home, which was a shock for there were still many miles of the Canal to explore and enjoy. Nonetheless we kept on northward; stopped at Seabeck for provisions, thus exhausting our money supply. That was the reason we were going home! Continuing steadily on, hugging the east shore which had been missed on the sail down, we wished for a favorable wind so we could again raise our tent half. We got our favorable wind just north of Seabeck when the weather darkened and a stiff breeze blew up the Canal sending sharp waves against the stern. We went ashore and again rigged the mast and tied on the sail. Then we shoved off, the wind caught us sharply and we were again sailing. But then one of the stays leading aft to take the pressure of the sail off the mast came untied. The extra load on the mast was too much for it. The mast broke off and down everything came, nearly capsizing us. We freed the doused tent came about into the wind and after some effort got things put right. "Well that's the end of sailing" I said " Better just row. Don't want to have that happen again." So on we went, rowing and letting the following sea help us on our way.
This time we rounded Foul Weather Bluff in sunlight, remembering the dense fog that had led us into the Canal rather than Canada or Alaska. Oh well, wiser now about distances and time and the importance of knowing which direction you were going, we arrived at Eglon Cove again where the fishing had been so great. It was evening so we, of course, camped there again. That evening Don commented that we were going to get home with only a jar of salt and a few beans left. Then he said " I think we should fish tomorrow so we can at least take home something." I agreed heartily and then:
"Say, the tide will be low early in the morning. How about getting a few of these big Butter clams to take along."
So the next morning at 3 o'clock we were up and at the task. We took turns; Don fished a while as I dug clams and then we traded. We were very lucky for the silvers were again there and soon we had some salmon. We opened the clams, cleaned them and put them in a couple of jars that had kept our beans and corn meal. Then we cast off into the incoming tide and pulled toward home, letting the sea help us along.
So at last we pulled into Bremerton. Brown as berries and tough as nails, we were home!
That's the trip. I know that a lot has been left out and a climatic rip-roaring adventure had not occurred, but I to this day cherish the memories of this adventure and am a little sad to think that it can not be done again by anyone - for the tide of population along these lovely shores and in these many quiet coves has swept over them. Don't be too sad for this, because so many now enjoying these waters are writing the next chapter. I hope they also cherish and wonder at all these inland waterways and keep them clean forever.
Map of the Voyage
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