Once. And ONLY once.

Story ID:	1094
Written by:	Kristine L.
Story type:	Only Here
Location:	-- WA
Year:	2006

It wasn’t exactly Pearl Harbor, but it was "a day that shall live in infamy" for me and my family. It was The Day we tackled Bob.

Located in the southwest corner of the Olympic National Forest near Lake Quinault, the Colonel Bob trail offers two approaches to its towering summit, both very steep. The southern approach gains 3500 feet in just over four miles; the northern route climbs 4220 feet and is 3 miles longer. We choose the southern approach from Pete’s Creek, an 8.4 mile round-trip. It’s a hike everyone should take. Once. And only once.

Having missed Bob like a cow jumping over the moon on a previous outing, we revisit the site and know exactly where to start today. It’s 44 degrees as we near Pete’s Creek and “the Bob” trailhead at 970 feet above sea level. We warm up quickly, chugging along a trail which snakes up to roughly 4,500 feet. The average elevation gain on this side of the Colonel Bob is 1,000 feet per mile. If that sounds steep, it is. Every available source rates the “the Bob” as “very strenuous,” “difficult,” or “rigorous.” They aren’t kidding.

Undeterred, we glide through “the Bob’s” first mile under soaring evergreens and skirt an emerald carpet of mosses, ferns, lichens, and wildflowers. Pete’s Creek is dry. We cross its sandy flanks at .9 miles. After that it’s another 3.3 miles of steep climbing into air that thins with each upward step. Our ears pop, adjusting to the sudden elevation gain. We cross an avalanche chute at 1.5 miles. The terrain changes here as thick, green hemlocks and Douglas fir trees give way to maples and alder decked out in autumnal glory.

The trail is guesswork at times, disappearing behind fallen logs the size of our car, tangled with berries, briars, or bracken, or ghosting into a wraithlike vapor. “Wait here” becomes a frequent refrain as Chris reconnoiters with topo map and compass before we regain an ever-elusive, frequently phantom trail.

Above a second avalanche chute at 2.4 miles, we’re little more than halfway. It feels like an eternity. Our chests heave, hearts hammer. Nathan, Sam and Josiah want to go home. We can’t blame them. Offering few opportunities to catch our breath after Pete’s Creek, Bob is a stern taskmaster. The higher we climb, the greater his demands.

We rest at the 2.4 mile junction and plod right. We continue climbing past a silver fir forest before dropping slightly and passing Fletcher Canyon. Moonshine Flats unfurls at 3.2 miles. We rest and eat beside a brackish tarn as we stuff our lungs back into our chests and regroup for the final assault on the summit. Only one more mile to go, but what a mile.

Dubbing Bob’s last mile “steep” is like saying an ape is ugly. The word barely describes the final push to the summit. Dad leads the way, blazing a trail and bolstering Mom. Mom hauls up Josiah. Nathan and Sam swap backpacks, first aid gear, and bickering. We cross a stream on a thin, rocky trail to a narrow saddle south of the stony peak, then clamber across massive boulders. The trail flirts with criminal insanity.

The final mile chews up an hour. We rest and refuel often, transitioning into an energy-conserving gait developed by professional mountain climbers called a “rest step.” One step. Slight pause. Next step. Slight pause. “Rest stepping” is actually less physically demanding and more efficient than a willy-nilly scramble. Progress is as quick as a snail stuck in molasses, but it’s steady. One foot. Then another. One foot. Then another. Gaunt air, perfidious footing, aching joints and screaming muscles yammer for us to quit. Turning back does seem the better part of valor at more than one point. But we’ve come this far; we’ll make it to the top if it kills us. It nearly does.

Rock-strewn and tangled with debris, the trail is nearly vertical in places. More than once we find that the only way forward is on our hands and knees. Our legs are jello. We have long since lost all sensation in calves, quads and feet. Utter exhaustion dissolves into tears. Hearts thumping, chests heaving, we claw our way upwards on little more than an elephantine dose of obduracy. Four hamstring-hollering hours after tackling the Colonel Bob trailhead, we clamber up the final stretch of granite and crawl atop the summit: WE MADE IT!!!

Atop the Bob, the panorama to the north is stunning, with a to-die-for view of the Olympic Mountains. We snap photos, trade high fives, and survey a spectacular 360 degree view of half a million acres of prime southern Olympic forest, Pacific coastline, and Cascade peaks. Success is sweet.

Summiting “the Bob” grants us entrée into a fairly elite (and feather-brained?) club. Many’s the hiker that’s started up “the Bob” and turned back short of the top. We understand. Having hiked hundreds--maybe thousands--of miles over the years, the Bob is the toughest taskmaster we’ve met to date. Summiting is an achievement, perhaps all the moreso because three kids made it, too: Nathan (13), Sam (10), and Josiah. At age seven, Josiah is one of the youngest hikers to ever conquer “the Bob.”

Bob’s brow is windswept and shivering. Clouds coat the horizon like peanut butter on bread. The south and west are socked-in by a pea-soup fog. We linger awhile but the weather is changing, and fast. Besides, it's already mid-afternoon. We all sign the summit register, fully cognizant that none of us could’ve made the climb alone. A team effort got us to the top. A greater team effort will get us down.

This is where hikes turn dangerous.

According to experts, most hiking and climbing injuries occur following a successful summit, during the descent. Fatigue, a drop in adrenalin, dulled reactions and a decrease in mental alertness can all result in serious injury. That’s exactly why we take our time, carefully picking our way through loose shale, boulders, sliding rocks, tree roots and a vast array of treacherous tangle foot.

Caked with fatigue, the cardio-crushing ascent now hits us in reverse with every shin-splitting, knee-numbing, joint-jarring step. By the time we reach Pete’s Creek and stumble onto semi-level footing three+ hours later, there isn’t a bone in our bodies that isn’t creaking or groaning. Total hiking time: just under eight hours.

It wasn’t Pearl Harbor, but for us the date shall forever live in shoe leather lore. Once. And only once.