Headstrong Turkeys

Story ID:	1043
Written by:	Kristine L.
Story type:	Only Here
Location:	-- WA USA
Year:	2006

It was unanimous. Early autumn snapped through the morning like a carrot stick. The sun dripped off a flawless sapphire sky while the mercury fluttered near 70.’ It was Friday. Dad had the day off. It took us about a nano-second to reach our decision: laded with hiking gear, water bottles, trail mix, packs, compass, maps, first aid essentials and a picnic lunch, we charged out the door like a herd of turtles. Our destination: Quinault, roughly 45 minutes north.


Highway 101 isn’t yellow bricked but it is the road to Quinault, and Quinault may be as close to the “Emerald City” as one can get this side of a Kansas twister. Located on the southwest shank of Washington’s Olympic National Park, glacier-carved, glacier-fed Quinault is surrounded by the mossy old-growth trees of the largest temperate coniferous rain forest in the country. Here you’ll find the largest Sitka spruce tree in the world, along with other nationally recognized giants of Hemlock, Douglas fir and the mighty Western Red Cedar.

With an average annual rainfall of roughly 150 inches, Quinault’s towering trees and lush green forest nestle within a vast patchwork of trails. We choose one we’ve considered before but the weather wasn’t right. Today, however, the weather is spectacular. Granted, we should’ve started our expedition earlier in the day, but seeing as how spontaneous “spur of the moments” are unplanned by definition, we arrive at the trailhead in the afternoon’s infancy. This is considerably past prime time for trail starts, but the afternoon is young; we are headstrong and foolish.

So we lace into our boots, shoulder our packs, replenish snack and water stock and strike out on the notorious Colonel Bob Trail. We are somewhat perplexed at first, because the trail is decidedly and definitely descending. Our understanding of the infamous “Bob” trail is that mountain goat agility and marathoner stamina are essential for this steep, rigorous climb. So why is the trail heading down? Hmmm. Not to worry. The guidebook and several independent sources all indicate that the Colonel Bob Trail does indeed commence at “Pete’s Creek,” our present location. In fact, a self-registration box 100 feet ahead indicates that every other hiker stalking the elusive “Bob” has signed in at the same place in search of the same quarry. We register, too. Besides, we’re headstrong and foolish.

Several shin-shaking downhill switchbacks later, the moss-festooned, greener-than-green trail opens up into a gentle valley and what one could charitably dub “Pete’s Creek.” So why does the weather-beaten sign on the shaggy cedar in front of us indicate a “West Fork” shelter a quarter mile ahead, across the swiftly running, merrily sudsing and slick-as-glass “creek” (think Amazon River)? Even more irking is the fact that there’s no bridge in sight and the sign indicates a “Gorge Bridge” seven miles down river. Hmmmm.

When driving through California we once approached a small sprinkling of hills as evening descended. Cresting the brow of the closest butte, we peered into the valley below and blinked. Surely our vision was distorted by fatigue, our judgment impaired by too much time behind the wheel, for the dark earth below seemed to pulse and ripple like freshly laid tar. Unable to identify the source of this visual conundrum, we hammered down the hill to iron out the wrinkles. Upon closer inspection we found that the valley floor was carpeted with turkeys, thousands of them, so densely packed that they covered the earth. A feast on the feather.

We later learned that such clustering is in the nature of turkeys toward evening. They seem to derive some sense of intrepidity and invincibility in packing tail to wattle like sardines in a tin. We also learned that these pea-brained fowl often clot in trees, out of reach of coyotes and wildcats. This is the only indication we know of that turkeys possess any intelligence whatsoever. After all, to know turkeys is not to admire them, for they are vain, hysterical, and, well, feather-brained. They gather in vulnerable groups and then panic at rumors. They are subject to all sorts of sicknesses along with other fowl, including some they have invented themselves. Bred-for-the-table turkeys also seem to be manic-depressives, gobbling with blushing wattles, spread tails and scraping wings in amorous bravado at one moment, huddled in craven cowardice the next. It is hard to see how they can be related to their wild, clever, suspicious cousins. But here in the thousands they carpeted the earth waiting to lie on their backs on Thanksgiving platters nationwide.

Back on the trail, we leave said ubiquitous trail signage behind and clamber down to the “creek” (think western Zambezi) in search of a suitable crossing, sans bridge. We walk miles up and down the “creek side” in search of fallen logs, boulders, suitably shallow water—anything to ford the “creek.” Nothin’ doing. We trudge back to the trail sign. Yep, “Gorge Bridge, 7 miles.” Do we really want to hike seven miles out of our way just to cross a river in the middle of the back of Beyond? (Remember, we are headstrong and foolish.)

Nathan has an epiphany: “I know. Let’s build our own bridge.” Sounds good in theory, but engineering the 8th wonder of the world before the snows fly is highly unlikely. Besides, there’s nothing to build WITH. “How ‘bout we walk across?” Chris suggests. “And chug around in soaking wet shoes and squishy socks all afternoon?” Kristine replies. The idea thuds to the ground. Besides, the icy, knee-deep water is running like a three year-old at the Kentucky Derby.

“I know,” sunny Sam pipes up, “let’s take off our shoes and socks and wade across.” (It seemed like a good idea at the time.) “Daniel Boone” Dad goes first. Slipping and sliding and crashing into the river on submerged rocks as slippery as a greased skillet results in his sage observation: “This is too dangerous. Everybody put your shoes back on. Let’s try to find the bridge.” Groans all around.

We scramble up the “creek” bank yet again, caked in mud and river slime, herding Nathan, Sam, and Josiah (Daniel is in high school) south on a trail that’s half prestidigitator and half wishful thinking: sometimes we can find the path; sometimes we can’t. Thank God for the compass and someone who knows how to read it (Dad). In the meantime, we chug through bogs that could give the Okeefenokee a run for its money, slither though ankle-deep mud, fight our way through thickets of brush and briar thick enough to choke Godzilla, tiptoe across a beaver dam, find evidence of elk, deer, coyote, bobcat and possibly cougar (oh, joy), and finally break out into a wide spot in the “creek” with a detached pool thick with tadpoles.

This afternoon isn’t going quite as planned—even for the headstrong and foolish.

We stop for water, snacks, re-lace our shoes, shoot some pix in blinding sun, and let the boys catch their very own tadpole zoo. Josiah, age seven, is vociferous in his unhappiness with the imperative to return said tadpoles to their native habitat. He surreptiously pockets them instead. (We don’t discover said treasure trove until the next day. But that’s another story.)

Still no bridge in sight and the “creek” swirls and taunts, grinning at us like a Cheshire cat. Undaunted, we plod downstream for another half a mile until the trail stops. It just stops. As in, screeching halt, disappeared, vanished, poof! Beautiful as the day is, and as inspiring as this hiking adventure has been, afternoon is rapidly approaching senior citizen status and we’re not too keen on spending the night within spitting distance of NoWhere.

Discretion being the better part of valor, we turn around and head back. This lively jaunt, mostly uphill, is accompanied by Josiah’s Symphony du Jour: “I’m tired. I can’t make it. I’m going to collapse. My legs are falling off. I can’t take another step. I’m having a heart attack. By the way Mom and Dad, why do you take us out in this rotten, beautiful wilderness for these stupid hikes, anyway? I’m going to dieeeee!” We reach the car as shadows lengthen and twilight tugs at our sleeves.

Stowing our gear, husband Chris chats with a verbose oldster who’s just completed a “spectacular” hike.

“Which one?” Chris inquires.

“The Colonel Bob.”

“Yeah? We tried that. Couldn’t ford Pete’s Creek” he nods west. “The bridge is out and there’s no place to cross.”

“Pete’s Creek isn’t over there,” the seasoned citizen replies. “That’s the West Fork River. The Colonel Bob starts over there, on the other side.” She motions to a virtually undetectable, unmarked path feathering uphill on the other side of the unpaved road in the opposite direction, almost directly across from the sign indicating “Pete’s Creek Trail.” Unless someone pointed it out, we wouldn’t have found the Colonel Bob with ruby slippers or a yellow-bricked road.

Brother. We suddenly recall that valley of turkeys and wonder how we ever had the gall to deem those birds dumb.

Gobble, Gobble.