Author: blanford

I read in the news that a body was found off of Deer Park Rd, near where the property lies. Information emerged that the victim was Danny Kendrick, who owned the parcel over which runs the easement for the access road to Deer Park Forty. The access road crosses several parcels before reaching the Forty. Three are owned by Danny Kendrick, one by Paul Kendrick (presumably related), and three by David Skinner, who has for many years lived, off and on, in a cabin there.

Where the access road meets Deer Park, it departs from the easement and encroaches for a couple of hundred feet on land managed by the Washington Department of Natural Resources. DNR does not ordinarily permit easements for residential access, so it might be a battle to make the present road legal, especially since there exists a legal easement immediately adjacent on Danny Kendrick’s land.

The day we withdrew our offer for the Forty, a few weeks prior, I had met with our agent Donna, and Jeffrey, an estimator for C&J Excavating, to learn that changes to reroute the access road onto the easement (and widen it to code, and decrease the steepness of the grade) would likely cost upwards of $100,000, and would need the concurrence, naturally, of Mr. Kendrick. While we stood there talking, David Skinner drove out from his cabin and stopped to close the gate. It turned out that he and Jeffrey recognized each other from high school. While discussing the access road issues, David shared that, in his experience, Danny was a difficult and argumentative neighbor and that it would not be easy to get his agreement to any changes that took away more of his land, whatever the legal status of the easement.

So now it is revealed that Danny was the victim of a homicide and that David is being sought as a person of interest. One can’t help but wonder if they discussed the easement and came to blows over it, and whether it was our questions that precipitated the altercation.

…

The latest rumor shared by Donna is that homeless people were stealing firewood and Danny confronted them with a gun. They took the gun away from him, shot him, and left his body in a truck by the side of the road. Difficult and argumentative, indeed.

…

No matter how large or remote a property is, I fear, it cannot completely remove one from conflict and violence. We bring that wherever we go, a part of our selves and our society.

Think of that time an old truck drove past spewing exhaust fumes from a broken tailpipe. Remember the black smoke billowing around your face, noxious half-burned hydrocarbons flooding your nose and stinging your eyes. How you choked and held your breath until it was gone. How when it had passed you waved the fug away with your hand and bent over coughing out the remnants, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Think of that time you stood watching a jet liner take off. Remember the roar of the engines as it taxied into position, how they spooled up louder and louder before the plane started to move. How it screamed down the runway vibrating the windows and shaking the floor. How it overpowered all other sounds, until you covered your ears with your hands to block out the assault. How your ears still rang once it was gone.

Think of that fight the neighbors had, where you could hear them screaming at each other even through two solid walls. Remember the recriminations they hurled, the thrusts at each other’s greatest weaknesses, reviving all accusations of past failures. How raw anger surged, and unreasoning hatred, and bitter tears. Remember how you shrank from the violence and cowered, helpless to fend off the poisonous emotions. How you kept wishing it would end, and how deflated and defeated you felt when a door finally slammed and only sobbing remained.

Think of that night, those many nights, you spent sleepless, as self-recrimination filled your mind to the exclusion of all else. Remember how you relived the mistake over and over, how the shame of it clutched at your heart, and you knew you would never live it down. How all the many futile “if onlys” and “should haves” only made it worse. How you came to the end of it, only to pick it up from the beginning again. How exhausted unconsciousness, when it came, provided neither rest nor release.

Now imagine yourself so sensitive that any faint scent of fragrance or odor of cooking or cleaning detergent or chemical triggers the same reaction as that truck’s exhaust. That the sound of distant traffic is as overwhelming as that jet plane taking off. That you react to mild cross or unkind words just as strongly as to that neighbors’ fierce altercation. That you question and revisit at night every single social interaction that took place during the day. Imagine the constant stress and pain of such a life. Imagine the fatigue and the energy needed to simply survive. Imagine this life continuing day after day, month after month, year after year with no prospect of relief. Imagine the mounting helplessness and hopelessness you would feel.

What strength of character would it take to keep your positive and optimistic spirit? To be understanding and sympathetic and kind, knowing others face their own unique issues. To bear with good nature the well-intentioned advice of oblivious friends (and therapists), when you’ve already explored and exhausted their every naive suggestion to cope.

Could you work at a job like others do? Could you have a relationship like others do? Could you plan for any kind of future, as others do?

Where would you go for sanctuary?

The Olympic Peninsula is wet. Rainfall in Forks on the west side averages 120 inches (10 feet!) each year, and Mount Angeles in the middle of the Olympic National Park sees over 200 inches. By comparison, Hilo, Hawaii, the wettest city in the United States, only receives 126 inches. Port Angeles, on the edge of the rain shadow that stretches north and east of the peninsula, still receives over two feet of rain each year.

Despite all the rain Port Angeles is not in a flood zone, except along the banks of larger rivers. Rain is a blessing. Climate change may bring more rainfall to the Pacific Northwest, and atmospheric rivers, and windstorms, but Port Angeles feels like the better bet to survive into the next century than San Diego with its droughts and wildfires. Climate refugees will flock here rather than flee.

It should come as no surprise then that the water table in Deer Park Forty lies only twelve to eighteen inches below the surface, and that is in places the surface slopes. In level, low lying areas the rainfall and runoff accumulate three and four inches deep. This is a problem for septic systems where you want the effluent from the drain field to filter through several feet of sand and soil before entering the water table. The accepted solution for this is to build a mound and raise the ground level of the drain field. One unfortunate consequence is that gravity alone is no longer adequate to move the effluent through the field, so an active pump is also required. A pump requires potentially continuous electricity, that dictates a robust power system. This is a challenge that off-grid living must address.

When it rains, small streams and rills trickle down any minor fold in the land, seeking lower ground. These come together into two larger unnamed creeks whose confluence flows down toward Surveyor Creek, thence to Morse Creek and on to the ocean. Dead vegetation and fallen branches obscure the ground, so when exploring one is continually at risk of splashing ankle deep into some small accumulation of water. Lady plunges through these puddles heedless, seemingly uncaring when her paws and lower legs become soaked with snow melt. She is captivated by the vast array of novel scents and sensations that surround her.

The largest creek on the property flows in from the northwest through a deep gully that broadens and shallows when it reaches the central lowland. Perhaps because of the steeper terrain, that corner of the land has not been recently logged and is home to large firs and cedars, trunks a foot or more in diameter, crowns dozens of feet in the air. Ferns flourish in the gloom beneath wide-flung, interlaced branches. A fallen log provides a comfortable place to rest and enjoy for a while the music of the creek trickling and splashing over roots and rocky shelves, the damp fragrance of hanging moss and resinous bark and decaying mulch. The air is cool but not chilling. I sit absorbing the sensations, meditating, or daydreaming, take your pick.

The main entrance to the Olympic National Park from Port Angeles is by way of Hurricane Ridge Road, but there are also popular entrances to the west along the Elwha River, and past the Sol Duc Hot Springs resort. To the east is a lesser-used access, Deer Park Road, that heads south from Highway 101, eight and a half miles to the park boundary. It continues as an unpaved road nine miles farther, past campgrounds and trails into the back country, to end at the trailhead for the 6000 foot summit of Blue Mountain. The gate at the park border is closed to vehicles during the winter, but if you are spiritually inclined, you can hike up the road a short distance to enter a dimly-lit cathedral with massive trunks of old-growth fir trees reaching high up on every side.

Driving along Deer Park you pass many homes and small farms on one side then the other. The utility poles terminate five miles in, and so do the homes. The road begins to wind up and down over increasingly hilly terrain as it approaches the park. Much of the land here is owned by the state of Washington, managed by the Department of Natural Resources, and licensed for timber harvesting. Logging roads cut off left and right into the trees; most are gated and signed to warn off trespassers. Some lots have moved into private hands but remain zoned as Commercial Forest, which limits, to one residence with outbuildings, the number of structures permitted and their uses. At mile seven of Deer Park Road a gated drive turns left up a hill, and after a quarter mile you come to a piece of land lovingly designated the NorthEast quarter of the SouthEast quarter of Section 9 of Township 29 North, Range 5 West, Washington Meridian, Clallam County, Washington.

A Section is a square one mile on a side, 640 acres, and there are 36 sections in a Township. A section is divided into quarters, and each quarter is further quartered. At one time a 40-acre quarter quarter, or “forty,” was the smallest subdivision sold to individual landowners for farming, but under pressure of increasing development most lots in residential areas have been split and split again so that now a rural residential “estate” is commonly five acres or less. This particular forty has been so split into eight 5-acre parcels but is still owned and being sold as a single lot. Having the lot already split, a troublesome regulatory process, means that a separate residence can be built on each parcel if you desire, greatly enhancing its utility and value.

We give this lot the interim nickname Deer Park Forty, while waiting for its true character to be revealed to us. This is just one of the many properties we have been looking into.

Our Port Angeles rental has a wood stove in the living room. Note that the temperatures in Port Angeles rarely stray from the 40’s day or night, and electric baseboards are ample to keep us snug, but a wood fire is both cozy and comforting. The week we moved in, I called up a sawmill and ordered a cord of firewood. The same day, a truck pulled into the yard and dumped its load onto the lawn. The wood had sat outside in the weather for several months and most was too damp to burn. Art and I spent a frantic hour under a sprinkle of raindrops stacking the wood in the shed to dry. Fast forward six weeks to December on the eve of a 36-hour storm event. The time is opportune to break in the stove. I gather an armload of eight or ten splits and stack them by the stove, and since that doesn’t feel generous enough, I bring in a second load. The wood feels dry, at least on the outside.

The stove is a model unfamiliar to us. The interior is lined with bricks, top, bottom, and every side but the door. Just above the door, the chimney vent is a narrow opening stretching the entire width of the stove. We would rather not have the house fill up with smoke, but we can’t locate a damper to open. We will take our chances. A knob on the side regulates the amount of air admitted to the firebox, which is barely large enough for three logs.

There’s no science or craft to our fire: crumpled paper under some kindling, larger pieces on top, in the middle a Duraflame FireStarter block. Art flicks his lighter. The fire catches and burns! It spreads slowly but before long all the logs are lit. They hiss and sizzle, not entirely dry. We turn off the lights and sit in a circle around the stove, Art, Lady, and I, orange flames and shadows flickering in our faces as rain patters on the roof. Life is good.

Back in 2016, Art and I, with my brother Mark, spent ten days hiking Glacier National Park. The last two nights we spent in a cabin in Polebridge just outside the northwest entrance to the park. The cabin was primitive, with no electricity, a fireplace for heat, a hand pump for water, and a pit outhouse. Art loved that experience of living near nature, listening to birds and running water, splitting logs, carrying firewood, making do. He recalls it as his favorite part of the trip. It led us to start thinking about how to spend more time in that area, perhaps buy some land, start a business, maybe a corporate retreat or a way station for backpackers.

We went back in 2021, this time engaging a realtor to tour a property for sale. Nothing came of that, but the idea persisted. Montana was certainly pristine but can be frigid in winter, probably an ill-advised choice for year-round living. On later road trips I kept my eyes open, considering places in New Mexico and Texas, Wyoming and Idaho. The Pacific Northwest grew more attractive. Art enjoyed his first winter in Oregon, taking brief trips and day hikes to waterfalls and forests. He drove to the north Cascades and British Columbia, finding much there to recommend, but returned more than once to the Olympic Peninsula and Port Angeles. And so we thought this was a possibility worth pursuing, with a moderate climate, relatively undeveloped, and the Olympic National Park close by.

We rented a house in Port Angeles, a base from which to conduct our search for a wilderness property. We will build our sanctuary.

Art and I take Lady for a walk. The road runs along a bluff overlooking the Juan de Fuca Strait. Expensive homes line the bluff, well kept and landscaped, where many nearby, less favored, are weathered and sport rusting cars in the yard. Set widely apart, the houses generously share their view with us. Ahead of grey rainclouds moving in, through crystalline air we can see, across the blue water, the deep green of Vancouver Island with Victoria’s white buildings dotting the shore. Turning the other direction, the snow-capped Olympic peaks reach skyward, veiled in streamers of mist. A brisk, chill breeze heralds the approaching storm, filled with the rich scents of ocean and forest and rain. Winter in the northwest is reputed to be dreary and depressing, but this autumn day invigorates and challenges.