Pedaling the Puget 2020

In July 2020 I pedaled 350 miles around the Puget Sound. I rode to See the Salish Sea by Saddle. 

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The Dragons of Borneo

There are some that will breathe fire. Some will create darkness with a flap of their huge wings. Some will lurk in the lair of dark caves. Some will make mighty a man, and he, and his knightly sword will become legend. Myths and folklore about dragons abound. Shying away from fantasy books in favor of realism and natural history, I've never really been a big fan of dragons, other than those that Harry Potter's Hagrid tended, and of course, Toothless. I also love how the paper bag princess in Robert Munch's book of the same title outsmarts the dragon, and her wimpy prince Ronald. But beyond these children stories of dragons, I know little else.

And I know less about the dragons of Borneo.  Perhaps it's because I have not done too much research about this trip, aside from a dip into the Lonely Planet, and a recent national geographic article a friend gave me about caves of Borneo.

Yet, nothing could have really prepared me for what I saw.

Let's begin with a look in the lair. Mulu National Park boasts some of SE Asia's best and biggest limestone caves. The park is a UNESCO world heritage site. In two days I'd visit twice as many show caves: Lang Cave, Deer Cave, Wind Cave, Clearwater cave, and Ladies Cave. Each was unique.

For example, moon milk grows in the Wind Cave. The moon milk fungus, looks like sparkling snowflakes, like freshly fallen dust on crust, and gives the walls a white washed look. A hole in the roof of a chamber is beautiful. I was reminded of a cave I visited in Vietnam, with a similar hole to the sky. When I asked there about how it got there, the guide looked at me and said, "You put it there". Let that sink in a minute. Viet Cong were hiding out in Vietnamese caves and the US American army dropped a bomb on the cave, collapsing the roof. Here, at the Wind Cave of Borneo, the skylight however, is from many years of rain, pooling until the limestone collapsed.

Up 200 steps from a picnic shelter where we first take tea and biscuits, and then later lunch, we enter The Clearwater Cave. Named for the 220 km under water river system, that churns below, there are some tell tell pockets and benches in the cave walls. Also here are phytokarst, sharp rock like Cyanobacteria bacteria growing toward the sun. The bacteria produces CO2 as a byproduct, speeding up the dissolving of the limestone leaving behind pits and characteristic high points and sharp edges. Now that cave scientists know about this, the phytokarst is protected with extra railings, and standing there leaning over to admire the details of the points I'm reminded of the desert soils, living upper crust, cryptobiotic crust.

Lang cave, which reminded me of Janolan Cave in Australia, hosts the most magnificent stacltites and stalactmites. There are also helicites, that defy gravity with capillary action. Tentacles of jellyfish hug the cave walls and later I see a silhouettes of a shapes. In the wind cave we see an eagle, the king and queen, a hand, frog, hugging people, a mom carrying a child, camel head. It's all perspective, especially if you have an imagination.

The profile of Abe Lincoln, and the map of Africa mark the entrance to the Deer Cave, dripping with Monophylla pendula, a single leaf plant endemic to Mulu. This cave is enormous, the passages so huge that light paints striations of green of all colors of army camouflage color on the walls. The air is perfumed by the guano of millions of bats.  Guano, as bat shit is called, is to a cave like sun light is to forest. It sustains the cave ecosystem. It sparkles, like fine grained coffee grounds mixed with sugar, in the shine of headlamps. A fellow traveler shines his hand-held torch towards the holes in the ceiling, that our naturalist Maria tells us are often shared by birds and bats. Indeed, we see small nests, and in many, the tail feathers of the Pacific Swallow feeding young. I know the latter to be true, for in one nest we see just the bald red heads of newborn chicks with big blue eyes waiting for the parent's return. The air chatters with the click and ticks of both the bats and swallows.

My guide tells us where to sit for the best seat in the Bat Observatory in Mulu National Park. With the rest of the park's visitors, we wait in silence at dusk to see the Borneo Dragon.

Rising like a mirage from the limestone walls, the dragon takes flight. Two to three million bats make their nightly exodus. Swirling in a helix corkscrew like a Chinese dragon, each of 20 or more groupings, the spectacle is the most magnificent natural phenomenon I've ever seen.

Deer cave hosts 2-3 million bats, 12 species of bats, the highest number of bat species in a single cave ever recorded. These two to three million bats that call dear cave home will consume and estimated 20 tons of flying insects every night. Each bat weighs 15 g in nice about 2/3 of its body weight in a single night.

The entire swirling phenomenon is an evolutionary adaptation to avoid predation. Like the bats who forge for insects for dinner, so do the bat hawks who dive from above to pick off ones from the end. The wallis hawk eagle, preys on the hawk.

I lean back into the slanted back hardwood bench of the Observatory to witness and watch. Half of the time I take up my swords, not in fear, but in awe: the fish eye lens shows me the entire canyon with the dragon center stage; the 300 mm lens shows me individual bats and their wings shape;  the video camera captures a dragon's movement, the dance on the sky. Half of the time, however, I simply let the swirling mark my memory. I try to be a blank piece of rice paper, and let the dragon be the master calligrapher with Sumi ink, pushing the brush into my heart and then swirling it, leaving the flying white at each edge.

Then, dusk becomes dark, and the humans head, too, for dinner, walking the boardwalk back to the Mulu Cafe. For nearly an hour walk it's a cacophony of cicadas, leaf insects, and frogs. Each frog racket is like a ratchet. Crick, tkk tkk. Crick, tkk tkk. Some species say, what sounds like "what". What. What.  It's that one I stop to spot. I lean over the hardwood boardwalk railing and listen. I turn my headlamp on and I spot a rough sided frog. The throat puffs up like a bubble gum bubble, what. What. What.

We return to the place of myth & origin. Where all myths are basic truths twisted into memory.  In the Borneo jungle, from the caves deep greens, it's not a myth; I have been slayed. The pen is mighty than the sword.

Granite roof top of Borneo

On the day I slid down a waterfall in Uvita Costa Rica, and plunged into the cool refreshing pool below, I committed to doing something each year that scared me.

I've revised the annual goal. It's not really that something has to scare me; instead, something has to challenge me physically and mentally, to count; something that sets me at the edge of my comfort zone.

For example, since that waterfall watershed I bought and house a pet snake. I gave a webinar to over 100 people. I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. I biked across Canada. I hiked 100 miles around the base of Mt Rainier.

I continue to push myself for my love of mountains and mountain culture. It's not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves. Mt. Kinabalu was another challenge.

We woke in the sunrise in Kinabalu National Park with a clear view if the mountain. After a decent breakfast at the Balsam Cafe, we took a mini van 5km uphill to the trailhead, where we were issued our permits on colorful lanyards.

The downhill to the Carson Waterfall was a tease. It was nothing but uphill after that. Warm uphill, steep long stairs, well maintained trail with rest stops with modern toilets (likely the modest mostly Muslim Mayla culture for covering up means a nature pee is frowned upon.)

I could feel the altitude most just 400 meters from the Laban Rata rest house, and struggled to arrive at the  Himalayan style bunk house (10k) with a smile. In fact, the shortness of breath was nearly panic inducing and I was holding back tears, as I entered the place. Maybe it was the motivational and mountain life quotes on the pinterest-style gallery wall, but I actually weep, some, with joy at arriving.

A buffet dinner at 4:30 and then quick to sleep. At dusk, I felt the bunk beds rattle. While Mt. Kinabalu experienced a 6.0 magnitude earthquake in 2015, setting off a landslide and rockfall that killed 18 climbers, this was simply my bunk mates admiring the sunset, pulling back the little curtains and oohing and ahhing.

The alarm went at 1:30, giving me time to get to the bathroom and take supper before pushing off at 2:30. The two hardboiled eggs from yesterday's lunch made for a great line-avoiding meal, with Sabah tea.

Again, it's straight uphill. Staircase of dipterocarp hardwoods, rope handles, fade into shear granite slabs above the Sayat-Saysat checkpoint.

The exposure was a shock to me, almost scary, and it took a while to shake it off. In the dark, not clear of the consequences of a fall, and wind knocking off my weary balance. Even with earplugs, my Houdini jacket fluttered like helicopters on my shoulder. It was deafening and disorienting. The ropes are heavy and I straddled them in some places hoping to make it all easier. Then I zigged and zagged.

Then, sunrise and the last 100 meters of hand -over -hand scrambling to the summit. I had a wee glimpse of alpine glow, before cloud cover obscured St. John's Peak. Swirling winds. Othorgraphic clouds up from the ocean. And drifts like a paraglider, curved light, and lofty, swooping looping over our descent.

Imagine a glacier, from 13K to 10K, yet no ice and no crampons. Just smooth granite and some ropes. I would have been more confident and comfortable with crampons and an axe. Then a grueling down hike that pounded the quads so much that three days later, despite yoga and walking, still hurt on every little staircase.

But, again, I found joy in the mountains. During the descent I sat for a while listening. The wind roared through lowland trees. Frogs, and birds, sang to me.

Just across the Sound

Have I mentioned how much I love my bike? And bike camping? And getting away by ferry? Another S24O to what's becoming routine. I hoped to make the 6:30 pm ferry after a day of meetings and appointments. I left the house in time, but when running through the option of paying the ferry with my Orca card, I realized I left my wallet in the bowl by the door. I turned around at the light on Yesler, waving again to the same group of boys at the park I saw just moments ago. 

I arrived to the ferry terminal just as that 6:30 boat was pulling away. Never mind--it was sunny and I hauled myself up on a concrete barrier like a harbor seal, soaking it up. I chatted on the phone with a dear adventure friend, and felt inspired. Late city workers rolled into the lane and we all boarded the 7:30 with following the call, "BIIIICYCLES!" 

I never tire of seeing the city from the water, or the spy hopping of Mt. Rainier. I am in awe of this all. Just miles from my home. On the boat I chatted with three women, also who were going bike camping, and one recognized me from the Gigantic Bicycle Festival last September. Another woman she was with was totally new to bike camping, and the other I would learn later in the evening while brushing our teeth in the bathroom of the state park, had been a cyclist whose talk I attended in March at the Stoked Spoke event. It seems I was meant to miss that 6:30 ferry. 

I pitched my tent at dusk and was invited to gather with these women and their friends, who would be hanging and camping, and also leaving early to get to work in the morning. The stars exploded with light, and while lying in the sand, I tracked satellites. I delighted in the Sound, the sizzle of the surf, and the strong waves that crashed beside us as the tide rolled in. 

In the morning light, I saw the others roll away early. I heard the chatter of the osprey and squawk of the bald eagles. I soaked up the sun, the shade, and the solitude reading beneath the faded driftwood leanto. It's all breathtaking. 

three times a charm... orange you glad I stopped at the bakery? 

Buckhorn Wilderness, Olympic National Forest

After a few previous trips in tunnel vision due to the weather, this weekend adventure was the light at the end of the tunnel. With long views, plenty of sunshine, pleasant walking weather, this trip was a huge bang for the buck.

Emma and I planned the route a week or so before our departure from Seattle on July 20. Despite some significant delayed traffic before the Hood Canal Bridge, we made it to the trail head by noon. We ate lunch, donned the gear, and noted that we were both carrying light weight backpacks (certainly compared to my 4 day solo). We began the hike through the shaded forest, along side the babbling creek. The trail gave us a few opportunities to get to the water, the crunch of gravel under our boots.

It was mostly easy going to the lake where we dropped packs and planned to camp. I dried out my sweaty shirt and we refilled water, while watching a man in an LL Bean t shirt cast a neon green fishing line from the shore. He waded in further, the muck of the lake bottom making him grimace. The fishing line arched in the air like calligraphy. I thought of Henry Wu who in college, tied flies for me that matched my hair, in a gesture I missed then as flirting. We had thought to trade fly fishing lessons for photography when we both made our way out west. I don't know what happened to Henry.

Emma suggested we head higher for camp. The lake was both shady and a bit buggy, and better views could likely be had above. We filled all water vessels, including her dinner bowl, which she carried like a monk would carry for alms.

The ridge did indeed offer more sunshine and more views, of Mount Constance, especially.

We dropped packs at the ridge and scouted for an ideal campsite, skirting around the heather, pushing aside the firs to find surprises. The biggest surprise was the view of the sound from other side of the ridge. I could see my city from here, and it was glorious. It's not just that the clumps of buildings were visible, it's that I could see the stadium, the Columbia Tower, and the ferry boats that crossed the Sound. This was such a delightful view. It stretched for miles. From Tacoma to Mt. Baker and Mt. Shuksan. 

We found a spot and settled in for the night, dinning by sunset, back lit by the beauty. 

The stars were visible at night, and moon rise glowed orange as the city lights. It was marvelous. I woke up here to the sunshine I was craving, the views I had been missing. 

We ate breakfast on nearly the last of the water we had hauled up from the lake and saved a few sips for the summit. 

Then, down again through the forest, and to the trail head, and to the ferry to get home. Mountains + Sound + Ferry + fun = a wonderful adventure. 

High Divide, Seven Lakes Basin Loop

Seven Lakes Basin, High Divide Loop, July 4-7, 2019

Maps; check. Gear; check. Food; check. Definite plan; ummm. Trip partners; bailed. I'm always up for adventure. Thinking I'd learned a few things from my Wonderland Trail experience, where I carried all my own gear and food for up to 5 days, I felt really ready for this solo multi-day. The first thing I knew is if you don't have a permit, you better get to the ranger station early. So I woke up in a cozy bed from my friend's home in Kingston at 4 am, and drove to the ONP WIC in Port Angeles. I pulled out my sleeping bag and rested on the hard bench. I was first in line at 5:45 am, and by the time the doors opened at 8 there were 45 people behind me. 

Ranger Tobin gave me prime camps up in the alpine, at all the key lakes. When I asked about the gentians he said we were three weeks early in all of the blooms and most of the avalanche lilies have come and gone. On route, I ate blueberries...July 4th. Red white and blue. That IS early!

Vaccinium ovatum

Delicious

I drove, with the tape deck and radio off, along Lake Crescent and down the Sol Duc Valley road to the Sol Duc trail head. I finally ate breakfast, followed it with the lunch left overs and finalized packing up the bear can and my pack. I hit the trail at 10:30 am.

The four miles to Deer Lake were mostly uphill, but not terribly difficult. Regardless, I napped promptly after setting up camp above the lake. When I woke, I took a hike around to explore the rest of the campsites, and circumnav the lake. I found this little rock note, and many sub-alpine blooms including the shooting star, Pedicularis, bear grass, heather, bog orchid, marsh marigold and lupine. 

Whale indeed. But LNT? 

The sun came out at Deer Lake. 

I had dinner with a couple from Philly and a few others packed into the heavily impacted space in a sunny spot down by the lake shore. There was a lot of new camping gear pulled out of packs and whole bear canisters plopped down on the veg. I almost left, but it would be some of the last sunshine I saw for days. The next morning I headed up hill again into the Seven Lakes Basin. I walked out of camp at 9 am, with sunblock on for good measure, but with the sunglasses stored in their case.

Just around the bend, the alpine meadows began. Dark eyed juncos flit in the heather. Avalanche lilies popped from lingering north facing recent snow melt, magenta paint brushed the fog. Every flower I could name was out on the ridge, but couldn't see ten feet in front of me, or off the ridge at all. I had read a trip report about the geologic upheaval but it was nothing like I expected. Uplift, shift, and split--the trail split in two. I step over cracks and upturned rocks. I was in awe of the active geology.

At the trail Junction into Seven Lakes Basin there were some confusion between parties regarding location, and maps, and apps, but just around the corner and through a gap in the pass, I followed the staircase switchbacks into the basin belonging to Round and Lunch Lakes.

Folks coming up the hill pointed out the bear. I photographed it just as it disappeared in the rolling fog.

When I crossed into the stream outlet I met another solo woman. She was carrying a big knife on her hip belt that made me think of Irena (see Spokeandstories.com). We traded stories, of solo adventures and alpine flora, although I wanted to ask about all her tattoos that were peaking out from behind her open side zips in her rain pants. She said she'd borrow my line... I'm not solo, I came to visit my friends in the alpine. And it seems that this visit is vital to my soul, these alpine friends, these nearly lost words, that I love to list, and these wonders.

Castelleja

Castelleja and Spirea

Spirea and insect

I made camp by 2pm, or maybe three, and then instead of just the mist, it started to rain in earnest. By 6 pm I crawled out of the tent to fetch water and begin dinner. I walked uphill seeking some tree cover, but found Annie and Jack sitting in the drizzle in the site just above me--they were most welcoming. My dark chocolate peanut butter cups were a nice peace keeping gesture, but they upped the ante with a trade for some whiskey, that in my hot chocolate with coconut oil for dessert, went down really nice and helped keep me warmer. I wandered about from 7:30 to 8:30, holding my wonderland trail rule of not getting to bed before 8:30.

At 1 am I saw stars when I got out to pee. Orion was hanging out above the lake. At 5 I dreamed it was sunny and clear, but not quite. My 7 a.m walk to the privy was aglow in sunrise, and droplets shone like crystal balls. The whole meadow was sparkling.

From the outhouse I saw a buck. Two dear and two fawn pranced right beside my tent. Then, 4 goats across the lake and then for the next hour all at camp would see at least 10 goats, some kids, and a few radio collared Billys. These are the last of the goats at Lunch Lake. 120 will be airlifted out of here on Monday. (Story...)

There was sunshine, shadows, and smiles, yet it was short lived.

This lasted about an hour and then it was all fogged in again as I hiked back up the switchbacks to the high divide. Fog on the ridge was so dense, I don't know how I spotted the marmot, but I do have a naturalist's way.

On a dark gravel zig, or zag, two smiling hikers passed with news of a clearing just ahead. I booked up to the break--overlooking 7 lakes basin, later with a glimpse of lunch lake, too, and the path up from the saddle I'd seen yesterday in camp.

But this clearing, too, was short lived. The rest of the High Divide Trail was socked in. Erin, a teacher who grew up in P.A., and now lives in Houston, said, "Now when you come back, you'll see it for the first time again." I love that beginner mind set.

When the views are limited one can look below and within. at my feet are heaps of wildflowers. Spiderwebs, once hidden, glisten with droplets. And the single gemstone that lays in low of the lupine leaf. And if I stop on the ridge, seeing nothing below me in the fog abyss, I listen. To my heart beat, my breath. and to the droplets falling from trees with a sound that reminds me of the inconsistent plinks in to the tub after hand washing a summer swimsuit and hanging it in the shower to drip dry. And the whomp of the wings of a grouse. I hear these things when hiking with others as I don't often keep up. But I'm savoring these sounds solo. The mileage today means I can meander, and reflect. I can take heart.

The trail to heart lake leaves the High Divide, and as I did I dropped below the cloud deck. I could see the lake, and was the first to camp to choose my spot but the visibility didn't last long.

I had dinner by 6, and into the tent by 7:30, as it's raining, again, really raining. I'm not one for praying, but I guess I vocalized my annoyance with two nights of rain and felt I had my limit, or at least getting to the edge of my comfort with it. It was laughable, but not great. I had a good book of stories, as a end of year gift, and it was perfect. I read 174 pages! I also slept a great deal! These are bonuses of a solo backpacking adventure in less than perfect weather.

Yet, I was having FOMO for the landscape I couldn't see as a result. I wanted a break in the weather. My pee break at 11:30 was misty, so much that the head lamp blurred my vision with the dense particles of fog. I stumbled to pee in the trail. A goat hoof steps startled me and I scurried back in and zipped up, heart racing, as the Billy rooted around, licking salt from my ammonia urine. ugh.

I sort of slept til 5:30 and when heading to the privy, I sensed a break in the weather, but not enough to get me packing. I read another story. But at 7:30, the sun was seeping in at the edge of the tent fly. I was beaming. And I made a break for the high point for a view.

I continued back up the Divide for more, more of what I came for.

This. Love. Of. The. Alpine.

I jaunted back with a perma-grin, and skipped a hot breakfast to pack quick to get out by 10:15. I had 8 miles to go, mostly downhill, through the Sol Duc River valley along the Sol Duc River Trail. Plus I had a goal of 3 pm to the car. Saw not a soul for hours. No one coming up this way for the basin will be closed tomorrow for ten days.

It was sprinkling between the Sol Duc Falls and the parking lot, but it was a full on downpour rain when I approached the car.

So I went to the Sol Duc Hot Springs (where I hadn't been in 21 years, and only that time prior with my mom) and for $18 that included the $3 towel rental I soaked in the sulfury water, and showered away all the grime from the last 4 days, smiling at the rain, as it continued to fall.


Details:

Elevation profile for the 20 miles

Route info and map