Olympic National Park, Washington

One languid week basking in the sun under stellar blue skies near the coast lulled me into a false sense of expectation, though I should have seen the clouds on the horizon. There's good reason why Olympic National Park on the Olympic Peninsula is lush and green in shades beyond comprehension. It rains too much, which is why this spectacular emerald gem thrives rich with huge, towering Douglas fir and ramrod-straight western hemlock and Sitka spruce. Mercifully protected from the saw and ax, these trees are left to grow old, snapping and falling of their own accord over time onto rich black dirt, crushing tall ferns and massive globs of fluorescent green moss on their descent; toppling over as they were meant to, without our interference, with natural dignity, these wonderful old-growth giants as wide as a man is tall.

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I knew better than to wear cheap sandals and sunglasses when we drove the 20-mile spur road on the park's western flank into the Hoh Rainforest this past June. The "rain" part should have tipped me off because a relentless torrent pinned us down in our foxhole for days, a liquid thrashing that broke records in a season when records crashed and burned all across the Pacific Northwest. All things considered, it was a blast, I needed a shower anyway, and it was well worth the isolated detour to see all those furry trees slathered in moss. The Olympic Peninsula occupies the northwest corner of Washington State, bounded by the rambunctious Pacific Ocean to the west, the Straight of Juan de Fuca to the north with fair Canada's Vancouver Island just beyond spitting range, the many islands, channels and seething populations of Puget Sound in the east, and ratty clear-cut forests as far as the eye can see making up the southern realms beyond the park's protective cloak.

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1,441-square-mile Olympic National Park consists of three bio-diverse regions. The first is technically a wilderness beach. The park lays claim to a narrow 60-mile strip of Pacific coastline strewn with enormous ancient logs bleached white now, and dotted with towering sea stacks offshore that nearly rival those of the resplendent Oregon Coast. The second region consists of the Pacific Northwest's largest old-growth temperate forest, trees 250-500+ years old which, in the west-side valleys, are inundated with over 12 feet of rain annually. The third beating heart of the Olympics are the Olympic Mountains, jagged snow-capped peaks, rapidly melting glaciers, U-shaped valleys and sub-alpine meadows that dominate the center of the peninsula. Like a hub on a wagon wheel, 13 rivers radiate out in meandering spokes, and altogether 3,500 miles of rivers and streams course over these wild lands. The mountains I've seen only from a distance. One memorable view that caught my attention was from on high, banking starboard in a 737 on my way to Ketchikan. Another image I've managed to retain of these popular snow-capped peaks ablaze at first light on a clear day was from the deck of a tiny pleasure craft bobbing on Puget Sound, fishing for something slippery twenty years ago. Beautiful 7,700-foot peaks and ridges off to the southwest emerged incrementally and unexpectedly from the darkness of dawn. The Olympics are small by Alaskan standards but rugged and inviting nonetheless, especially if you're stuck on a top floor of a Seattle skyscraper, your overworked head buried in legal depositions, gazing out the window across the Sound wishing you were floating and soaking at the Sol Duc Hot Springs Resort around 40 miles west of Port Angeles. One of the most popular drives in the park winds directly south of Port Angeles, climbing 17 miles up a steep paved road to Hurricane Ridge about a mile above sea level. If you're seeking convenient access to the mountains, this is where you want to head. With a visitors center, picnic areas and wildflowers in great abundance, the scenery is reputedly stunning. Possibly, though I wouldn't know because when I heard it was the most popular drive in the park and heard the roar of a disheveled herd of bikers revving their hogs (do they still call them hogs?), I pulled a U-turn at Heart of the Hills and headed the other direction back down to the Elwha. One word of caution: it's not a petting zoo up here. Wildlife is wild, imagine that. The Olympics are home to deer, elk, bear, raptors, mountain marmots and mud minnows. If you're fortunate you might spot one of those shaggy, white mountain goats introduced in the 1920s posing innocently out in the middle of a field of tiger lilies, or by the side of the road. Or you might bump into one on the trail. As tempting as it might be to grab your camera and capture that once-in-a-lifetime moment, and get closer and closer, and maybe just a little bit closer still, stay back. While attacks are rare, they happen. If the goat keeps on coming, try to haze it away, throwing rocks and such if necessary. If that doesn't work, retreat. And if fleeing to safety doesn't work, fight for your life. Don't play the hero like I did once with a charging buck deer and grab his antlers and try to wrestle him to the ground. You'll probably lose that match. On October 16, 2010, 63-year-old Bob Boardman, while hiking in the park 20 miles south of Port Angeles, was gored to death by a 370-pound mountain goat who had allegedly been stalking the group of hikers he was with at Klahhane Ridge. Severing a femoral artery in his thigh, Mr. Boardman quickly bled to death. The family is not happy with the park service because, among other things, the park was allegedly on notice about this goat's threatening behavior, having been warned repeatedly to do something about it. Litigation is underway. The lawsuit raises a host of thorny issues with respect to the government's obligation to protect us from things wild that brandish horns and hooves and claws and fangs, and from ourselves. I foresee a slippery legal slope on the horizon, but if the park service was warned, repeatedly, and had a policy of removing dangerous animals in the past, well .... While I'm on a rant, the campground at the Hoh Rainforest is also a potentially tragic deathtrap ready to destroy lives and break hearts. Inviting campsites right on the raging Hoh River's edge should be closed off for good until some kind of barrier is in place. I warned the rangers, and they acknowledged it was a serious problem but little came of it. The eroding drop-off plunges 15-20 feet straight down, kids are running around on the sloppy lawns chasing balls and each other, and when I was there the river was boiling mad like a tributary roaring out of the Alaska Range. The solution is so simple the federal government should be able to figure this one out. If they don't they might have another 10-million-dollar lawsuit on their hands. Mammals, birds and reptiles aren't the park's only inhabitants. Pacific salmon have migrated up and down these big rivers for eons, except on the Elwha River where two dams have blocked the yearly return-migration of hundreds of thousands of salmon, five species in all, who, one-hundred years ago, traveled over 70 miles to their bitter-sweet spawning grounds for their ignominious rotting end. That's all changing with the removal of both dams beginning this September. The largest of the hydroelectric dams, the Glines Canyon dam, is 200 feet high and holds back 5-mile-long artificial Lake Aldwell. It's billed as the nation's largest dam removal project ever. A lot of blowing-up and jackhammer noise is anticipated for years to come so plan your trip accordingly because access to the area will be severely restricted. Despite the inconvenience - campgrounds, roads, trails and other public access will be closed until the project's completion - the time has come to "Bring Back the Elwha," which is in need of much healing. With the return of the salmon, it is anticipated that other wildlife like bear, elk and deer will return to their old stomping grounds. We spent a lot of time along the Elwha this summer in the cool air with not a cloud in the sky for weeks on end under a thick green canopy of deciduous trees and evergreens, far from mosquitoes and pressing heat that dominates inland July and August. They were releasing water from behind the dam during our stay, getting ready for the big take-down, turning the river milky-white like glacier-fed rivers in the north country. Whether it's deep blue lakes you're after, or raging rivers, rugged sky-scraping mountains under dark-gray Washington skies, or if you want to play the hobbit and scramble through a dark green forest under tree-draped mosses, or traipse along empty beaches pounded by relentless Pacific surf, or even if you just want to hang out in one of the old lodges, Olympic National Park should definitely be on your itinerary if you visit this part of the Northwest. Just remember to bring your rain gear just in case, expect thick rolling fog along the coast, and keep away from those grumpy goats. Or else.

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