Where Highway 101 turns inland between the coast and Lake Quinault, it skirts the Queets — one of the park's most remote rainforest valleys, deliberately kept roadless, and the homeland of the Queets people, today part of the Quinault Indian Nation. Access is a rough gravel road and a trail that fords a river on foot, so it's not a drive-up stop; know it's there as you pass. The Queets long held a record Douglas-fir among the largest on Earth and embodies what a national park protects beyond its overlooks: wild country kept whole for its own sake and for future generations.
Feel the road bend away from the water here — the coast dropping behind you, the surf going quiet, the country closing in green on both sides as Highway one-oh-one swings inland toward Lake Quinault. Right along through here it brushes the edge of the park's loneliest corner, a place called the Queets. You won't see much of it from the car, and that's rather the point. This is the home country of the Queets people, today part of the Quinault Indian Nation, who have known this river far longer than any road has. Don't try to drive in after it. A rough gravel track leads that way, and even if you found the nerve to take it, the trail beyond ends at a river you have to wade across on your own two feet — ford it, in the old word — with no bridge and no help. Almost nobody goes. So here's the contrast worth holding onto: in a little while, up at Quinault, you'll be able to park the car and walk right up and lay your hand on giant trees. Not here. The Queets you only get to know by knowing it's out there, just past these trees, quietly being one of the wildest places left in the lower forty-eight. Boone knows what waits at the end of that road, and it's worth hearing. Stay with me a moment, and let him carry you in where the car can't go.
Photo: Dog Walking Girl · CC BY-SA 3.0
