WELL, THAT'S WHAT I call them. Roo prefers "packrafts," short for Alpacka rafts.

Roughly six feet long and weighing only five pounds, these one-person rafts draw just six inches of water, collapse to the size of a sleeping bag, and inflate quickly with a lightweight air bladder. Originally popular with Alaskan trekkers, the urethane-coated crafts have recently caught the attention of a tiny segment of the outdoor world. With feet braced against the upturned bows, gonzo adventurers have descended long Arctic rivers and explored remote creeks. A guy just wrote a guidebook about using them, and Roo is such a fan he recently became part owner in the company.

Our plan is to start halfway down the eastern rib of the peninsula, ascend west into the heart of the range on the Dosewallips Trail, bushwhack up the Elwha Basin, scamper along the glaciated parapet of Mount Olympus, and then butt-boat some 50 miles due west on the Hoh River, all the way to the coast.

In theory, anyway. None of the handful of rangers Roo interviews can offer much insight besides the obvious—that bushwhacking, glacier travel, or both will be mandatory. Which is fine. Between us, we have a fair amount of experience mountaineering and orienteering (i.e., enough to make us dangerous). But stuffed with equipment for three sports—hiking, mountaineering, and rafting—our backpacks break the scale. We jettison things like passengers on a sinking ship.

Crevasse-rescue equipment is the first to go, followed by underwear. Two headlamps? We can share. Ditto the life jacket. Serious liposuction transforms my first-aid duffel into a sandwich bag filled with a gauze bandage, a stack of antiseptic wipes, and a safety pin. In a final stroke of brilliance, Roo removes the silverware, plates, cups, stove, and fuel.

We'll subsist mainly on military-issue MREs and Coast Guard emergency rations, purchased at an army/navy-surplus store.

Our packs still push 50 pounds apiece.

We'll scrap the MRE heating packs, Roo declares.

Ah … OK. Having never tasted an MRE hot or cold, I'm just psyched to try a clam chowder made with titanium dioxide.

Worried that I haven't made any ingenious contributions, I suggest we start on bikes.

So on an otherwise typical afternoon in July, we kiss goodbye the brackish lips of Puget Sound, shoulder our packs, and spin slowly up the Dosewallips Road.