We were in trouble.
As a former Girl Scout, preparedness should have been my middle name. In my haste to check off the achievement of reaching the most northwestern point of the contiguous United States, however, I
had allowed eagerness to override caution.
My first sight of the Pacific Ocean in October 2002 did not disappoint. Nor did the hike to Cape Flattery from our camper van, which had been home and school to my five younger children and me as we traveled across North America for three months. We marveled at the massive Sitka spruces, red cedars, and primordial-looking ferns that dwarfed thirteen-year-old Hannah. We had nothing like this back in Atlanta or even in my childhood home in the Great Smoky Mountains. The Hoh Rainforest was magnificent, and in a region that received more than three hundred days of rain a year, we had been blessed with a rare, sunny one.
It was a magical experience.
Since we arrived in the late afternoon, the trailhead parking lot was empty except for a lone Bobcat and a large pile of gravel. We had the trail to ourselves. And—joy of joys—when
we finally reached the point, there was a picturesque lighthouse and magnificent sunset
just waiting to be captured. Luke, who was an aspiring Ansel Adams at fifteen, had eagerly lugged along our camera equipment and was already setting up.
“Look at those caves!” shouted ten-year-old Sarah as she gestured up the coastline. “Do you think sea lions live in them?”
“The shore is so rocky!” exclaimed Abby, who was eight. “It’s not sandy like Florida.”
Six-year-old Ethan hung over the sturdy rail fence overlooking the Pacific and smiled. It had been a long drive, and he was just glad to be outside again.
We marveled at our good fortune as the sun slowly slipped beneath the water in a glorious blaze of color. As the children excitedly chattered around me, I looked out over the panorama one more time. An ominous blanket of fog was silently unfurling across the Pacific like something out of The Ten Commandments.
“Uh, Mom…” Luke trailed off
uncertainly beside me. “The sun has SET. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”
Darkness was gathering with astonishing speed, and the air was noticeably cooler. I quickly took stock of the situation. We were a long way from the camper--not to mention the jackets, flashlights, and day pack of supplies I had left behind.
“Mother and Children Die of Hypothermia on the Cape Flattery Trail,” the headlines would read barely a year after my husband had been killed by a drunk driver.
“Hey, Guys?” I called in my
most upbeat voice. “We need to get back to the camper before it’s too dark.
OK?”
I took the camera gear from Luke, and he lifted Ethan onto his back. Hannah automatically took Abby's hand. Sarah was determined to manage on her own.
“Now watch your step. We don’t need any twisted ankles, alright? Let’s go!” I said cheerfully, attempting to conceal my concern.
We trotted along steadily, then slowed, and finally stood still as darkness engulfed us. We could go no further. The thick canopy of trees we had admired earlier now obscured the remaining light. My mind raced. Would a blanket of pine needles be warm enough if the children curled up together? Or would they be too damp? Were there predators in these woods? I couldn’t recall. We had planned to buy books about the region at the ranger’s station tomorrow.
“Mommy?” Abby said in a small voice. “I’m
cold.”
I took a deep breath. In a time before cell phones, there was one call we could make.
“OK, Everyone. It looks like we are in a bind here, so it’s time to talk to Daddy God. We need His help to find the camper; I can’t see the trail anymore.”
The children automatically reached out for each other's hands.
“LORD, we need a miracle,” I prayed. “We’ve enjoyed Your creation today, but time has gotten away from us.
Could you please help us make it back to the camper?”
“In Jesus' name, Amen,” the children chorused.
I opened my eyes. And then it
happened. I saw a gleam of light out of the corner of my eye. Startled, I turned my head
sharply to look at it head-on. Nothing. Was I imagining light flashes as I once had in the bowels of Mammoth Cave when the lights were extinguished? I held my breath and turned my head sideways
again. No, it was still there.
“Luke,” I said calmly, for he
had the best vision, “Close your eyes again and then look around. Do you see anything?”
“Yes,” he replied. "There's something over to our right."
I slowly walked toward the light with the children in my wake. After a few minutes, I felt the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. “Mom, I don’t think we’re far from the camper now,” Hannah said excitedly. “There was gravel at the beginning of the trail."
"Good girl!" I replied, giving her a hug.
We slowly walked along the barely visible path, listening for the reassuring crunch that meant we hadn't wandered off it.
Suddenly, Luke shouted. “I think I see the parking lot!” The children cheered and ran forward. There, under the open sky, was our camper. We were safe.
Once inside the camper, I fired
up the generator, pulled out blankets for everyone, and made hot chocolate. The
children were already shivering from exposure.
After they had warmed up and were talking about their big adventure, I slipped the camper into gear and began threading my way out of the Makah Indian Reservation and back onto the main road. Just before I turned, I saw the welcoming glow of a diner. Parked nearby was a dump truck and some heavy equipment.
On impulse, I pulled into the
parking lot, left the camper running, and went inside.
“Hey!” I said, greeting the
waitress who was serving coffee at the counter. “Has someone been working on the
Cape Flattery Trail recently?”
“Yes,” she said with a
friendly smile. “They’re laying gravel on part of it.”
“When did they start doing that?” I asked, my heart beating faster.
“Today. They haven’t gotten
very far, though. It takes time, because they can only use small equipment on the trail,”
she replied knowledgeably.
I left a tip in the jar and walked
out the door into the velvety night, the bell clanging behind me.
“Thank You, LORD,” I said
silently.
Once again, God had shown himself faithful to our family. His timing, as always, had been perfect.
Kay Seibert O’Hara
June 11, 2024
