Alpine Lakes Wild Swims

The most extraordinary wild swim of my Summer ‘19 so far—and most arduous hike to it—is Jade Lake, one of the more than 700 lakes in the 415,000-acre Alpine Lakes Wilderness. I would have been happy/ecstatic if I had just loafed around on the shores of nearby Marmot Lake where my husband and I had pitched out tent, but I’m glad we heeded the advice of all the hikers we talked with on the trail: “Go to Jade,” they said. “You’ll be richly rewarded.” Indeed.

We accepted the challenge and with our day packs, lunch, and a pair of hiking poles between us, we set off for Jade Lake. It is not a hike but a steep, slow, ankle-twisting scramble across a talus slope that extends from just south of Marmot Lake all the way to a flattish stretch of boggy land on the approach to Jade. There was no trail, just a very spare but thoughtful series of cairns to guide us toward our destination. The only difference between the rocks used to build the cairns and the other rocks all around us was that the cairns were distinctively horizontal. Once we reached the first cairn, we just stood there scanning the wide slope from edge to edge looking across a field of mostly chunky squarish boulders and rocks for some anomalies: discreet piles of flat rocks—usually just four or five. Talus slopes are dynamic and it’s likely there were more and possibly taller cairns (or even trail markers once upon a time) that have succumbed to gravity, the push of rain, ice, and snow that covers these slopes most of the year.

We were in no hurry to cover the two miles. The weather was dry and sunny and the longer we baked on the hike, the more delicious the icy water would feel on our skin.

Though we had seen photographs of Jade Lake, nothing prepared us for the moment we first saw the lake. The color is laughably stunning and surreal. “Jade” doesn’t quite capture it. Turquoise? Teal? Aquamarine? Swimming-pool Blue? Maybe we should just call it “Jade-Lake Jade.”

The color known as “jade” comes in many hues, tones, and saturation levels. None here or in other color charts I consulted match the water I swam in.

The color of Jade Lake is attributed to the fine, almost talcum-powder-fine crushed rock worn down by the scouring of the glaciers and carried into the lake by the meltwater. This “glacial milk” or “rock flour” as it is known remains suspended in the lake water like silt and causes the most stunning color of blue-green of the sun’s visible light spectrum to be reflected to our eyes. The other colors, the longer wavelength reds and oranges are absorbed in the lake and not reflected back to our eyes.

Other lakes in and beyond Jade Lake—and some rivers as well—show this beautiful jade color, but none is quite as thoroughly jade as Jade.

After a good long while of oohing and ahhing by the edge of the lake, it was time to swim. I dipped my feet in for a quick test of the water temperature. It was probably around 55 degrees F, maybe more. I’ve been swimming since March when an actual thermometer read 52 degrees F so I had a sense of what I could tolerate and enjoy safely. I slipped in and felt that ear-to-ear smile break across my face. I dog paddled with my head above water, spinning around so I could see the entire shoreline of the lake. I was in a vast bowl of cool liquid jade. The bottom of the lake wasn’t visible—the lake is opaquely jade but I could see my feet as if the water was crystal clear. I swam a little ways off shore, testing how far I could go toward the middle without the risk of becoming hypothermic and not having enough muscle strength to get back to shore.

One of the most challenging aspects of swimming in such beautiful water in such a remote wilderness (and working hard to get there) is knowing when enough is enough. I wanted to stay in for hours. It might be my once-in-a-lifetime visit to Jade Lake but I also didn’t want to turn myself into a shivering mass of hypothermia. I floated around a bit, then swam a few strokes, the floated some more while spinning myself around to take in the scenery. I was in a total of fifteen minutes or so, no more than 50 feet from the shore. Little did I know the best part was still to come.

Sitting quietly in the sun on the warm rocks, my husband and I heard the calls of an osprey on the far side of the lake. We eventually spotted it as it flew from the top of one tall evergreen on the far shore to another, its white wings bright against the dark green trees. Back and forth, back and forth. And then…

And then it flew over the edge of Jade Lake and the underside of those white wings and white body turned the color of the lake. A Jade Bird. It floated over the water just long enough for us to do a double-take and then fully take in this glorious natural sight. I attempted a photograph but that kind of light, that kind of ephemeral beauty, just can’t be captured.

Before you go to Jade Lake, please read the trip reports on the Washington Trails Association (WTA) page here. It looks like this lake is getting more love (and less respect) that it needs. Please tread lightly, camp quietly, swim without whoopin’ it up.

In addition to swimming in Jade Lake on this trip, we swam in Marmot Lake, Hyas Lake, Little Hyas Lake, and Lake Clarice. I had plenty of time to stare into these beautiful lakes, especially Marmot Lake where we camped. I’m eager to learn more about the different effects on our brains of the sight and sound of rippling lake water, flowing river water, and wave-rolled ocean water.

Lake Ozette Wild Swim

Lake Ozette sprawls across the remote northwest corner of Washington just a mile from the Pacific Ocean. The lake was named for the village of Ozette, a now-abandoned whaling village occupied from 440 BC to 1750 AD by the Makah peoples. Lake Ozette’s waters, shoreline, and buffering forest fall entirely within Olympic National Park.

In terms of superlatives, Lake Ozette ranks as one of Washington’s top three largest natural, undammed lakes. Establishing the exact ranking is a challenge. Lake Washington is often cited as the first orsecond largest undammed lake and Lake Chelan still gets listed as second largest despite the fact that it was dammed in 1927.

No matter, Lake Ozette is immense as an ocean to a wild swimmer. This wild and undeveloped lake is about nine miles long and averages two miles across (for a total of 12 sq. mi) and is 331 feet deep at its deepest point. It shoreline and bathymetric contour lines are convoluted.

The convoluted shoreline of Lake Ozette makes it a great place to explore by canoe—plenty of bays, coves, points, nooks, crannies, and few uninhabited islands.

The lake’s shoreline is undeveloped. There is a ranger station, campsites, parking lot, restrooms, and boat launch at the north end of the lake and a boat ramp on the eastern shore. Most visitors to Lake Ozette do not come to swim or even boat on the lake, but to hike the ~3-mile mostly board-walked trails to the Pacific Coast at Sand Point or Cape Alava, or hike the “Ozette Triangle,” which includes these trails and (tide willing) the stretch of beach between then camp along the coast. I was there to swim. 

There are no designated swimming beaches on Lake Ozette. In fact, there is no information at all at the ranger station or in my guide books about swimming in the lake. I have discovered that our state’s lakes are underswum; they merely give their names to trails, provide a scenic destination for a picnic, or offer a place to fish. Swimming is rarely, if ever, mentioned as a possibility. Which is a shame. For me, there is no better trail’s-end reward than a refreshing swim.

Given its size, remoteness, and proximity to the ocean, I have always thought of Lake Ozette as intimidating though I had never visited to find out for myself. To discover the best swimming spot and also to swim safely, my husband and I set aside two days in late June to explore the lake in our Penobscot 16 canoe and camp at Erickson’s Bay on the lake’s west shore. The weather was warm, the air calm, and I had my wetsuit and had been lake swimming since March. I was as ready as I’d ever be. 

We launched our canoe at Ozette and paddled south on lightly choppy water for four miles toward Erickson’s Bay. We had the entire lake to ourselves, minus a family of mergansers.

Despite the fact that Erickson’s Bay is a boat-in-only campsite, I was expecting the place to be swarming with boats and campers who had arrived ahead of us. Much of the Olympic National Park has been designated the Daniel J. Evans Wilderness and to reduce the human impact in these areas, there is now a permitting systemin place for overnight camping. Along the coast west of Lake Ozette are limited to just a few sites; Erickson’s Bay was listed as having “99+” sites—in other words, it was a large site with a virtually unlimited number of permits. 

As we paddled toward the shore of the bay, we did not see a single canoe, kayaked, or anchored motor boat. We did not see a single sign marking the way to the camping area. The only indication that we were on target was a break in the shoreline salad hedge and a trail leading to a beautiful driftwood bench.

The only sign that you’ve arrived at the entrance to the primitive campground at Erickson’s Bay on Lake Ozette is this alluring driftwood bench. Photo by MM Ruth.

Civilization! We beached the canoe and walked up the trail. Not only was there the bench, there was a stone fire ring and a smooth flat spot for our tent. And a nearby privy. Before committing to this perfect bay-view site, we strolled through the forest and discovered not a single human soul, but a very tidy forest of young red-cedars and sword ferns.

Erickson’s Bay campground on Lake Ozette features a very young, tidy forest of western red-cedars, ferns, and huckleberry and looks like a Hollywood set. Photo by MM Ruth.

We set up our tent and took a clothing-optional dip in the lake. The water was much warmer than I expected. Unlike other large lakes on the Olympic Peninsula (Quinault, Crescent), Lake Ozette is not fed by glaciers atop Mt. Olympus. The drainage basin to the lake is entirely beyond the reach of the icy tributaries. Lake Ozette is fed by many rivers, the largest being Big River and Umbrella Creek. Most flow through private timber lands—aka young forests, clearcuts, lack of shady, cooling tree canopy. 

The lake was also much more shallow than we anticipated. Though the lake is 331 feet deep at its deepest, we had to walk across twenty feet of soft sand, twiggy branches, and forest duff to get into water deep enough to swim in.

Here in the sunny shallows of Erickson’s Bay, Lake Ozette was anything but intimidating. I felt more like the kiddie pool at a community aquatic center: a good place to test the waters and refreshing once I got out.

For a wild trail to the coast (dashed red lines), boaters can access the boat-in-only trailhead just a mile south of Erickson’s Bay. The better maintained trails (solid red line) to the north form two sides of the popular “Ozette Triangle” and can be accessed from the Ozette Ranger Station.

The next day, we packed a lunch and my swimming gear and canoed south to find a trail to the coast. This was not one of the two well-traveled trails of the Ozette Triangle, but a primitive (as in not marked or maintained) trail that serves as an evacuation route from the coast in case of a tsunami. We beached the canoe and walked two miles through the woods. It was totally enchanting, lush, and was the home of enormous Western red-cedars and Sitka Spruce.

The enchantingly primitive tsunami evacuation trail starts one mile south of Erickson’s Bay on Lake Ozette. Photo by MD Ruth.

We had the entire trail to ourselves. The plank boardwalk is quite dilapidated (and possibly dangerous even if you are not rushing to beat a tsunami toward). This turned out for the best as it slowed our pace down. We had to be careful with every step, which meant we stopped often to look around and admire the giant trees. After our picnic on the beach, we returned to our canoe--my husband to his lifejacket and paddle and me to my wetsuit and goggles. And off I went—swimming back home to Erickson’s Bay.

I’m always a bit breathless when I start a swim. I am never sure if it’s nerves or just a matter of getting up to speed aerobically before I get in an easy rhythm and groove. Having my husband shadow me in the canoe on my left side made me feel safe and also provided a visual marker to keep me on track. I breathe on my left side when I swim and caught a reassuring glimpse of the green canoe with every breath. Though the water was plenty warm enough (75?) to swim without a wetsuit, I wore it for extra buoyancy (and ease swimming) and also to prevent the possibility of hypothermia. Even if we think the water is “warm,” hypothermia can set it if you’re in it long enough.

 I moved across the lake in my usual medley of crawl, backstroke, breast stroke, and floating on my back to take in the sky and clouds and expanse of the lake. Oh, and an Esther Williams’ moment, too. The lake was a tawny tannin color and I could see the bottom clearly as I hugged the shore. I ventured a bit further out, lost sight of the bottom, and had a wee surge of “freak out” and returned to shallower water. Why the freak out? I can’t really say but I am interested in exploring the idea that everyone has a comfort zone in the water—a certain depth, a certain distance from shore, a certain level of surface chop. I swim regularly sans freak-out in a lake that is 65 feet deep. I cannot see the bottom but I can always see my feet clearly. I can see the entire shoreline. Lake Ozette was different—unfamiliar, a bit murky, a bit too vast to feel a kind of hug from the shoreline. I tried to embrace the vastness of Lake Ozette, which turned out to be easy once I turned onto my back and looked into the big beautiful sky and clouds overhead. I had forgotten that I can rely on my old pals, the clouds, for perspective.

Lake Ozette Wild Swim—just a mile from tsunami trail to Erickson’s Bay on June 26, 2019. Photo by MD Ruth

The Dip & The Deschutes River Falls

In The Gentle Art of Tramping, a charming and delightfully dated book published in 1926, author Stephen Graham writes about the joys of swimming during his extended forays “tramping”—hiking, walking, swimming, lolling, exploring in the wild under the open sky. In a chapter called “The Dip,” he writes this:

The morning swim is such an embellishment of the open-air life that many are tempted to plan their whole expedition with that in view. “

Yes! The morning swim is a marvelous way to start a day and on Sunday, two friends and I set off—for a remote stretch of the Deschutes River for our second annual swim. I imagine Stephen Graham would have devoted an entire chapter about this dip. Deschutes Falls Park is a small park with a few short trails that lead to dramatic views of the river, falls, and plunge pools. Swimming is not exactly encouraged as a recreational activity here but I’d say it’s the finest swim in Thurston County.

This particular section of the Deschutes River falls within Thurston County’s Deschutes River Falls Park southeast of Yelm, WA. The river is accessible by trail and then off-trail along the rocky banks of the river. It’s nothing like the Deschutes that flows through Pioneer Park in Tumwater or the City of Olympia near Budd Inlet. This is a fast-flowing, deep blue-green river, moving through a narrow slot-canyon. There are deep (`8 feet) pools between sets of falls where you can safely swim. But you must be ready for cold water—I’m guessing 55-60 degrees F. Listen to this river sing! (click video below)

We scrambled down the rocks and slipped into the water for “The Dip.” I knew the water was “really cold” but surprisingly we slipped right in much more easily and quickly that we did last year. We’ve been swimming since early spring, and think that our tolerance (and enjoyment) of cold water has increased. In fact, we stayed in the water for over half an hour—no wet suits, no whining. We swam upstream to the base of the falls (what a strong current!), relaxed in eddies in cave-like coves, looked at caddisflies on the rocky river bottom, and marveled at the coreopsis, terms, and delicate exoskeletons of stoneflies still clinging to the rocks along the shore (after the adult form of this macro -invertebrate hatched out into the air). Both caddisflies and stoneflies are indicators of clean, well-oxygenated water and therefore good signs for human swimmers looking for clean water.

We were smiling so much our faces hurt. It was hard to get out of the water but will tingling fingers and toes, we decided to crawl out on the rocks, put on dry clothes, do some jumping jacks, and fill up on hot tea to warm up. Once the tingling stopped, the post-immersion euphoria set in and lasted all day. Wow.

What a privilege to have such a park, such a river, such a beautiful wooded setting, and such friends to enjoy this gift of nature with…again. What a dip!

More information on Deschutes Falls Park here.

Washington Lakes--Lost and Found

This is Disappearing Lake in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest the Mount Adams Ranger District in Klickitat County. It’s part of the gorgeous South Prairie and functions as a wetland and prairie in the summer, a basin for holding rain, snow, and ice in the fall and winter, and a lake for a very short period in the spring.

You’ve probably heard of Mt. Hood (second largest volcano in Lower 48), the town of Hood River, Oregon (famous as a wind-surfing, soft-fruit, and craft-beer mecca) and it’s sister town, White Salmon, Washington (white-water rafting, mellow non-Hood-River vibe). You may also be familiar with Gifford Pinchot National Forest—the 1.3 million acres of forested land stretching north from the Columbia River gorge.

As a day hiker who defaults to the Olympic Peninsula and Mt. Rainier for recreating, I have only occasionally visited this beautiful part of Washington State. A few times to hike in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest and once to survey for the egg masses of the endangered Oregon Spotted Frog. Never once did I hear or read about Disappearing Lake or the lake from which the town of Trout Lake gets its name.

Not until I began my research on Washington Lakes and lake swimming and watched a 2014 episode of Oregon Field Guide (it’s just 6 minutes long, worth a viewing) did I learn about Disappearing Lake. It doesn’t show up on most maps or Forest-Service road signs. It’s just called South Prairie. Which makes sense. It’s part of an extensive prairie south of Mt. Adams and is a prairie from mid-summer to late-fall and then, when the rains come the prairie begins to fill with water. The water that fills a lava tube freezes and acts like a plug in a bathtub. The prairie fills up with rainwater and snow and, in late spring, emerges as a beautiful lake you can canoe and kayak on if you time it right. Like most of my wilderness adventures (see my blog on Banks Lake), I’m always a bit off on my timing of natural spectacles. We arrived in mid-June having just missed the canoe-able—and I had hoped chilly-but-swimmable—period of Disappearing Lake. Alas, I’d pack my wetsuit again next spring and be ready to head to the lake on a moment’s notice to try again.

Not wanting to feel foolish about driving for 4 hours with a canoe strapped to the top of our car and not getting it wet, we headed for Goose Lake. But it was raining heavily that Friday afternoon and there was a fishing derby on the lake the next day. So my husband and I up Sleeping Beauty instead for bit of aerobic exercise and a spectacular view of Mt. Adams dancing with the cumulus clouds. What could top this as a consolation prize?

Mt. Adams and the clouds from atop a rock formation known as “Sleeping Beauty.”

On the way back from the hike, we drove through the town of Trout Lake, wondering exactly the eponymous lake was and why there were no signs (not even the subtle Forest Service brown ones) advertising its presence. My husband had a hunch we might have luck following Lake Rd. a road marked as a Dead End. A few minutes later, we parked our car at a classic wooden kiosk and were happy to discover we needed a Discovery Pass. We had arrived at the Trout Lake Natural Area Preserve (NAP) managed by the Washington Department of Natural Resources (DNR). The lake was part lake, part creek, part wetland and a hot spot for the endangered Oregon Spotted Frog.

On our left was an interpretive trail that hugged the southwest side of the creek and wetland. Here we learned that an avalanche of volcanic debris and mud, known as a lahar, flowed down from Mt. Adams about 6,000 years ago. The lahar traveled some 35 miles, following the river channels and leaving deposits as thick as 65 feet. The lahar raised the floor of the White Salmon River, thus blocking one of its tributaries—today’s Trout Lake Creek. The newly formed lake was much more extensive than it is today; sedimentation, especially over the last 50 years, has been filling in the open lake, increased the wetlands.

After our short trail walk, we returned to our car and noticed a pair of flip-flops on the muddy edge of the water. That was the only sign I needed that it was time to grab my wetsuit and goggles and launch the canoe.

We weren’t sure if we’d be paddling in a creek or a lake or deadend in a meadow of reed canary grass or for how long before we got stuck, but the water called. To our delight and amazement, we paddled for a good 30 minutes up the most gentle, intimate little waterway a Discover Pass could buy. The shore was undeveloped the bank was tangled with all the makings of a Hollywood riparian buffer: reeds, sedges, rushes, grasses, willows, snags, and cottonwood trees further off. Paddling upstream was easy and the water so inviting.

We pulled off in an eddy at a very grassy spot and, with Oregon Spotted Frog tadpoles wiggling around my toes, I braced myself for a plunge into the clear cold water flowing off Mt. Adams in the distance.

Despite my attempt at looking relaxed (what’s with my right foot?), it was nearly impossible to go gently into that good lake. Or any lake-river that takes your breath away and leaves you uttering ridiculous but ultimately helpful self-motivating phrases.

Getting upstream was harder than I thought. But worth the effort. My first-ever downstream swim was like flying.