“According to Queets and Quinault legend, the river was originally called K'witzqu or quitzqu, pronounced "Kw-ā-tz", meaning "out of the dirt of the skin". The legend tells us that Kwate, the changer, or s'qitu, the Great Spirit and Transformer, was walking down the beach one day and came to the Queets River. Seeing no people, he sat down to meditate. When he rubbed his legs to restore circulation, small rolls of dirt formed under his hand. He threw them into the water and from them a man and a woman came forth. Kwate placed them on the river bank as ancestors of the present tribe, saying, “From this time, you shall remain on this river and your name shall be K'witzqu, because from the dirt of the skin you were made.” -Gods and Goblins: A field guide to place names of Olympic National
When I called the WIC at Olympic NP, I asked the ranger if he would recommend the Queets River trail or another. "It depends on what you want," he said. "First off, you need a raft. We got some rain and there's no way you're fording it. You got a raft?" "I do," I said. To be specific, I had had a raft for four days at that point and I had only used it in the sense that I had inflated it and sat inside it on the ground. "I want to backpack up the trail and raft back down." "Alone?" "Yes," I said. "Well, the Queets is perfect if you want to be 'out there.' It's the dark side of the moon. You're more likely to get struck by lighting than see another person on the trail this time of year." "And it's as nice as the other rainforests?" "Oh yeah, you'll see dinosaurs," he promised. I got my permit later that day. The ranger that issued it asked about my packrafting experience. "Not too much," I said, referring to the sitting inside I had recently done, "but I am very confident in my abilities," I lied. The night before I left, I camped by the trailhead. I had been standing on a boulder along the river's edge for about half an hour when an otter pulled itself out of a small rapid and onto a boulder, slipping upriver towards me up and over more boulders. I didn't have my camera but I knew it would be a fantastic trip. I spent the next four nights on the river and saw no one other than more otters, many elk and an owl. The trail came and went, disappearing completely in meadows and often less defined than the paths created by groups of Roosevelt elk, let alone those created by herds of them. Because of the packraft, my backpack was the heaviest it's ever been and floating down the river was a magnificent relief even though shortly after launching into some small rapids I came up to my first log jam which consisted of a downed tree that was at least two hundred feet long and 6 feet in diameter. I made ridiculous time on the river but came across a beach with a view of the sunset to the west and a snowcapped peak to the east. So I sent my dad a satellite message: "Please tell the ranger's that I am going to need another night."