Kayaks in the San Juans - (Pt.2)

In the last episode, we left our six, intrepid kayakers digging in for a long night on Raccoon Island. Their fearless leader, Cap’n James, had warned of the devious ‘Coon Pirates who raided the camps late at night, and had directed the work on fortifications to thwart them. In addition, the expedition’s food supply was hung from a sturdy tree branch, out of harm’s way. If any critters were to resort to thievery, Aide-de-camp Augustus had been charged with bludgeoning them with big rocks. “We must steel ourselves for the worse and hope for the best,” proclaimed Cap’n James, for they all knew that to lose their food (and whiskey) would jeopardize the mission. They had paddled twenty miles the first two days of the journey. But to reach the Holy Grail of Anacortes, there were still another twenty-five miles to go. Hence our saga continues, as to the fate or glory of James, Augustus, three daring ladies, and an old dude.

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Day 3: The morning pack-up on Jones Island. The day greeted us with sunny skies, but the wind had strengthened during the night and was now kicking up whitecaps out in the channel. There had been no raccoon raids during the night, much to everyone’s relief. Hanging the food in the tree and keeping a spotlessly clean campsite had done the trick—either that, or the varmints had all been deported.

The first two miles of the day are across open, choppy seas, paddling into a brisk headwind. The bigger waves broke over the bow, and the wind would fling the spray into our faces. Being in the forward cockpit, Ter caught the brunt of it. It was demanding work with no rest, the most challenging section yet of the trip.

From the still waters of a kelp forest eddy, James watches August and Allison turn into the tidal current. I was beginning to grasp how to read the water’s surface to locate the boundary lines between currents and eddies. James had led us up the south shoreline of Crane Island, from eddy to eddy, to avoid the majority of wind and current, both of which were flowing against us. The small island above James’ hat is Bell Island, which is where we are heading next. The larger landmass and mountains beyond Bell is Orcas Island.

This is our camp on Blind Island, a tiny isle that sits at the entrance to Blind Bay on Shaw Island. We had come ashore early in the afternoon and called it a day, set up the tents, and then paddled across to the Shaw Island ferry dock (across the bay in photo) for ice cream.

It seemed that our happy hours were commencing a little earlier each night.

The sunset view from Blind Island, which is less than three acres in size, the highest point being forty feet above sea level (where this photo was taken). A German immigrant, John Fox, homesteaded here in the early 1900’s. However, the island’s solid bedrock prevented him from drilling a reliable well, and the cisterns he built couldn’t supply enough fresh water. The homestead was eventually abandoned, and all that remain are a few structure footings and plugged holes. Supposedly, John Fox is buried here somewhere, but no signs of a grave exist. The island is now a state park and has four, primo campsites.

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JULY 19th –
We only logged about six miles today, but the first two were a bitch, paddling into a stiff headwind. Fully loaded, our tandem kayak handles like a container ship: not the least nimble, but it takes the waves pretty well. We made camp on Blind Island, a small isle at the entrance to Blind Bay. After lunch, we paddled across to the Shaw Island ferry dock and bought ice cream at the general store. I asked the young man serving up the ice cream cones how many people lived year-round on Shaw, and he said about 250. Life goes by slow and quiet here. There’s no rush. We sat outside in weathered chairs overlooking the bay and savored the afternoon. Back at camp, we launched into happy hour, then dinner, and then gathered round a warm fire, roasting marshmallows, and discussed tomorrow’s plans. Storm clouds are rolling in. The weather is changing. It’s noticeably colder tonight than last night, and there’s a chance of rain in the forecast.

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Day 4: Under ominous skies, Allison and August make the crossing from Shaw Island to Orcas Island. We had a big day ahead of us—in addition to a chance of rain—so James had us starting extra early to catch the flood tide just right.

A purple sea star (Pisaster ochraceus) clings to the rocks along the shore of Orcas Island. Catching low tide first thing in the morning, we came across scores of these fascinating creatures. They are considered a keystone species in the tidal zones of the San Juans.

photo by Zenzi Griffin

More sea stars. These are orange. There are also burgundy red ones. Why the different colors? Check out Dr. Mah’s research.

We drift with the current for a short break, musing on Blakely Island in the distance, and the 4,000 yards of open water we must cross to reach it. An hour or more is what it will take to paddle across. The skies have been dark and threatening all morning, but so far, no rain. Hopefully our good luck will persevere.

An old bronze bell hangs on the jetty at the Blakely Island Marina. After the crossing from Orcas Island, we stopped here for coffee and pastries at the general store. There are about sixty year-round residents on Blakely.

We head into Peavine Pass, the narrow channel that separates Blakely Island (right) and Obstruction Island (left). James had timed it perfectly, for we were riding a two-knot flood tide through here. Supplemented with paddle strokes, we were scooting along at four to five miles per hour.

Pelican Beach is our camp for the night, an alluring cove on the northeast end of Cypress Island. There were several sailboats anchored offshore, some of them a group of friends who had come out from Anacortes to camp, all of them amiable folks.

This handsome ketch was anchored off Pelican Beach. We were admiring it from shore, when a young couple sitting nearby said: “That’s our boat.” No kidding? It was a vintage, all-wood vessel in pristine condition. Turned out, they had purchased it just two weeks ago. They had quit their jobs and were making it their home, with plans to eventually sail abroad. Would we like to come aboard for a tour? Uhh… Yeah!!

Aboard the Ursa Major with owners Hayden & Michaela, and their yellow lab, Alex.

Not a bad rig for cruising around the Salish Sea, living the dream. 

photo by Zenzi Griffin

The Ursa Major’s main cabin. It’s kind of like living in our camper van. Except our van is smaller … and would sink if you put it in the water.

Yet another gorgeous sunset. We had hiked to the top of Eagle Cliff, 750 feet above camp, to watch it. Hayden and Michaela had joined us, and several of our camp neighbors were on the summit as well. The air was still, and a hush came over our eclectic group of voyagers as everyone gazed at the technicolor sky, soaking in all the beauty and good vibes. If we were to keep a “Best Sunsets Ever” album, this would be one of them.

On the summit of Eagle Cliff.

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JULY 20th –
What a day! We broke camp extra early, the skies dark and brooding; beat across 2+ miles of open water to Blakely Island, where we had coffee and pastries at a sleepy marina; shot thru Peavine Pass on a flood tide; dodged rain; beat across the Rosario Strait (another 2+ miles of open water); paddled around the north end of Cypress Island; made camp on beautiful Pelican Beach; took a tour of a real pirate ship; made new friends; Glenfiddich; a tasty dinner; an evening hike to the summit of Eagle Cliff to watch the sunset; and finally, crawling into our tent on the beach and calling it a night. I’m guessing we paddled about 11 miles today—about the same as our first day, but this time, feeling much stronger afterwards. I think we’re getting the hang of it. Or maybe it’s the lightened cargo of food and whiskey?

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Day 5: In the morning, just before launching, we had one of our camp neighbors take some group shots. You gotta have a good group shot that captures the theme of the trip. (No, not Gilligan’s Island. More like Treasure Island.) The AKT Flotilla lineup, L-R: Zenzi, Ter, yours truly, Allison, Aide-de-camp August, and Cap’n James.

James points out the route that we’re taking this morning: down the east shoreline of Cypress Island for a spell, and then across the mile-wide channel to Guemes Island. The snowy ramparts of Mt. Baker can be seen faintly on the horizon at far right.

photo by Zenzi Griffin

Always looking for that perfect shot. The advantage of being in a tandem kayak was that I could stop paddling and snap photos while Ter kept pulling. However, it annoyed her to no end when I’d say: “Pick it up, babe, we’re falling behind.” What she didn’t know was that I’d already calculated that I was sitting far enough aft to be out of swinging range of her paddle. But it never crossed my mind that she could throw it at me.

We came ashore for lunch on an empty beach on the west side of Guemes Island. Guemes is eight square miles in size, with about 600 people living on it—including August. Since it would be our last meal together, James pulled out the camp stove and whipped up some grilled cheese and jalapeño jelly sandwiches. Out. Of. This. World.

After lunch, we pull around the south end of Guemes Island where Anacortes is suddenly dead ahead on the mainland (directly above Ter’s hat). We’re coming into the home stretch.

Cruising along the Anacortes docks and relishing the last mile of the journey. We had paddled about forty-five miles in five days, far exceeding any distance Terry or I had traveled in a kayak before. We explored nine islands in the San Juan archipelago, made new friends along the way, and somehow, managed to dodge the rain and escape the wrath of the Raccoon Mafia. Sadly, we did not see a single killer whale, which, we were told, is unusual. The best we had going for a “Wild Kingdom” moment was two bald eagles killing a baby seal. So what was the best thing about the San Juans? Besides the terrific people who shared the journey with us, we would have to say it was the awesome sunsets. We’ll never forget those sunsets.

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There are 172 islands in the San Juans, ranging from 50+ square miles to an acre in size, to which we set foot on only nine of them. Here they are…
  
SAN JUAN - Second-largest island in the archipelago, but largest in population (7,000). Still very rural, and the best way to explore the island is on a scooter, which you can rent from Susie Doyle, proprietor of Susie’s Mopeds. We stayed in Friday Harbor for two nights before the trip, and also came ashore for lunch in a cove on the east side of the island on our second day of kayaking.   

POSEY - A tiny, one-acre isle off the north coast of San Juan Island. We stopped here for lunch on the first day. There are two or three campsites. 

STUART - The northern-most island of the chain, with a population of around forty who live off the grid. We camped here the first night. 

JONES - A small, wilderness island  off the southwest coast of Orcas Island. Incredibly scenic. We camped here for our second night.

BLIND - Three acres of rock and trees at the entrance to Blind Bay on Shaw Island. Four secluded campsites; excellent views in any direction. We stayed here for our third night. 

SHAW - We came ashore for ice cream and beer (not consumed at the same time).  

BLAKELY - Sparsely populated, similar to Stuart Island. We pulled in at the marina on our fourth morning for coffee and donuts.  

CYPRESS - Picturesque mountains and forests, mostly wilderness. A gem. We camped here on our last night, and also came ashore earlier that day for lunch.

GUEMES - At the east end of the island chain, just three-quarters of a mile off Anacortes on the mainland. We stopped for our last lunch on a vacant beach.  

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If you'd like to see all of the  photos from this trip, click HERE. 

We also spent several days in Seattle, before and after the kayak trip, visiting my sister, PJ, and Ter’s brother, Mike. If you'd like to see the photos of us knocking around the Emerald City, click HERE. 

Kayaks in the San Juans - (Pt.1)

Terry found the trip online: "Five Days in the San Juan Islands". In a kayak. On water. With killer whales under the water. In a nutshell, my wife grew up sailing on Long Island Sound, so perishing at sea is in her blood. At least that’s my perspective. I can count on one hand the times I’ve been in a sea kayak—and those were day trips on docile waters. But five consecutive days of paddling in the Salish Sea?

“Come on, what’s not to like about this trip?” she posed.

Okay. Up to a point, she had a point. We would be navigating through a stunning archipelago off the Washington coast, exploring enchanted isles, sleeping under the stars, communing with eagles and seals and, yes, possibly even those humongous orcas that lurk under the waves. It did sound enticing. From the time I first laid eyes on the San Juans three decades ago from the railing of a Canada-bound ferry, I was hooked on their mystique and rugged beauty. Terry and I had visited Orcas Island in 2008. We had hiked to the summit of Mt. Constitution—the highest point in the island chain—and stood in awe over the panoramic view of all those islands spread out before us. We both felt compelled to return some day. And here we were, nine years later, ready to do some in-depth exploring.

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We booked the trip with Anacortes Kayak Tours, which Ter had selected due to their unique trip itineraries and stellar Yelp reviews. AKT would handle all of the logistics, gear, and food. All we needed to do was show up at the point of departure with our clothes and sleeping bags. Our journey would begin on San Juan Island, out at the west end of the island chain, and end five days later at the ferry/seaport town of Anacortes on the mainland. In all, we would be paddling about 45 miles. Rain or shine.

We arrive in Friday Harbor on San Juan Island on a Saturday afternoon, taking the ferry out from Anacortes. Our kayak trip doesn’t begin until Monday, so we have tonight and all of Sunday to explore the island before we depart. Friday Harbor is a quaint little town of 2,300 people, the largest town in all the San Juans. It was named after Joe Poalie Friday, a native Hawaiian who herded sheep here for the Hudson Bay Company in the 1870's. Just sixty air miles from Seattle, it is a bustling place at the peak of summer, but sleepy and tranquil in the winter—at least that’s what a local told us, who prefers the town in its off-season sleepy state.

Dining on the Friday Harbor waterfront.

On the road to Cattle Point at the south end of San Juan Island. We rented scooters for Sunday. Ter had never operated a motor bike of any kind before, and she was a little apprehensive at first. I told her it was no different from her mountain bike, other than this had a throttle. Piece of cake. The island is 55 square miles, so touring the countryside on scooters was definitely the way to go.

A red fox saunters over to where we’ve stopped at a turnout. He was looking for a handout, practically doing handsprings to get us to feed him. Dude. Go catch a vole.

The Pelindaba Lavender Farm was one of our stops, where the San Juan Island Lavender Festival was in full swing, complete with a trippy marimba band. We roamed through the fields, listening to the music, and sampled the homemade lavender/vanilla ice cream (pretty good) and lavender brownies (tastes like soap). There are 25 acres of Lavandula of numerous species being cultivated here.  

This stainless steel sculpture, called Pi in the Sky, sits in the middle of a lavender field. Several local artists were showing their work at the festival. Cool stuff.

A century-old lighthouse stands vigil on Lime Kiln Point on the west side of the island. Off in the distance, on the other side of the Haro Strait, is British Columbia, Canada. In the mid-19th century, the San Juan Islands were claimed by both Great Britain and the United States, with settlers from both countries beginning to move in and homestead parcels of land. Things escalated until an American farmer shot a pig that was rooting in his garden—a pig belonging to a British subject—and thus sparked the Pig War. It took years to straighten out. Ultimately, it was negotiated that the Canadian/American border would run down the middle of the Haro Strait, giving the San Juans to the United States. As for the dead pig … it was the only casualty in the conflict.  

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JULY 16th –
Enjoyed a great day touring San Juan Island on motor scooters. We did a full loop, about 40 miles. Beautiful coastline! Afterwards, we had dinner again on the Friday Harbor waterfront. Now we’re in our motel room, sorting gear and setting aside what will go on the kayak trip. The things we don’t need will be given to AKT, who will then ferry it back to Anacortes and store it in their office until the end of the trip. Ter is fretting about getting cold at night. Finally, she tosses another layer of warmth onto the “kayak” pile. On the TV, the weatherman predicts a chance of rain by mid week. Reality sets in: We’ll be paddling for five days, rain or shine. But we’re ready for it. We’re stoked. 

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There’s a flurry of activity on Smallpox Bay in the morning as kayakers prepare to launch. It’s a popular put-in site on the west side of the island. We arrived on time, but there had been a snag: the ferry bringing our kayaks and guide out from Anacortes had broken down. When they finally arrived (the three nearest kayaks are part of our group), we quickly loaded up and shoved off.

After a 2½-hour delay on getting started, we are on the water and paddling north, up the coast of San Juan Island. There are four kayaks in our AKT flotilla: two tandems and a pair of singles. Terry and I got the yellow tandem, where my wife jumped in the forward cockpit and appointed herself captain. I’ve got the aft seat, which operates the foot pedals that control the rudder. It took some time for me to get the hang of steering, for I was constantly over-correcting, or my foot would pop off one of the pedals, and Captain Bligh would snap: “More to the right! …Left! …You’re off course! …No, right!” It was all new to me: synchronizing our paddle strokes; maintaining a fluid rhythm; staying balanced and on course. The cross-wind and sea currents certainly didn’t help matters, either. But as the day progressed, my piloting skills improved. Otherwise, there would’ve been a mutiny.

Our AKT guide, James, leads the way across the glassy surface of a kelp forest off Spieden Island. These underwater forests along the shorelines dampen the waves and sea currents, making for a mellow paddle over the top of them. Seals and salmon use them to hide from killer whales.

Zenzi cruises along the shoreline of Spieden Island. She’s one of the four clients on the trip, and the only client who has any kayaking experience. As for Spieden, it had this "Mysterious Island" allure going for it. In the early 1970's, it was used briefly for hunting big game. Exotic animals, including lions, tigers and rhinos, were brought in, where game hunters then paid for the privilege of shooting them. From a van. The proprietors of the operation called it Safari Island. But the general public, once they discovered what was going on, called it an outrage, and before too long, it was shut down. Today the 500-acre island is owned by James Jannard (founder of Oakley), and nobody lives here but the resident wildlife, which includes Mouflon sheep from Corsica, and Sika deer from Asia.

James stands back as his guide apprentice, August, shows off his culinary skills. We made camp for the night on Stuart Island. We’re sitting around the table here, hors d'oeuvres and Glenfiddich close at hand, watching these guys whip up an incredible dinner. Camp chefs, extraordinaire.  

A short hike up the hill from camp is the Stuart Island School. Pictured are the old classroom (left) and library/office. A more modern building—with indoor plumbing—was added nearby in the meadow in 1980. Even today, only about forty people live on the island year-round, and hence the school never saw more than a handful of students. In fact, it closed down in 2013 because there were no kids to teach.

Looking across the Haro Strait into British Columbia. At sunset, we all hiked up the steep, faint trail to the summit of Stuart Island, and caught this magnificent view along the way. Stuart is the northern-most island of the San Juans, and it’s not very big (less than three square miles). To live here means living completely off the grid. There are no restaurants, stores, or markets. There is also no ferry service, which is how the island has managed to preserve the pristine, wilderness ambiance that many of the others in the archipelago have lost. And that is precisely the way the residents here like it.

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JULY 17th –
Our first day on the water was a long one. We paddled around 11 miles, getting a late start and arriving at camp later than anticipated. James and August cooked up a great pasta dinner. There are six total in our group, giving the trip an intimate feel. The two other clients, Zenzi and Allison, are wonderful ladies. Zenzi is from Austin. Allison comes from St. Louis. We make a good bunch, with lots of gaiety around the camp table. After dinner, we went for a hike and scaled the island's summit at sundown. Spectacular! We came back down through the woods at nightfall, owls hooting in the dark. Now we’re in our tent, rubbing sore shoulders and backs—and taking more ibuprofen. We are total newbies at this kayak thing, but loving it. More miles to pull tomorrow. 

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Day 2: After breakfast and breaking camp, we all lend a hand to carry the gear down to the beach, where James meticulously stows it away. I am amazed at the amount of cargo these kayaks can carry.

Departing Stuart Island, across a windless, Salish Sea that's as smooth as glass.

We stop for lunch in a driftwood cove on the northeast side of San Juan Island. Warm and sunny, it’s a perfect beach day.

Our campsite on Jones Island is possibly one of the best in the universe. It even had a tree swing!  But oddly, James was very averse to ever camping on this island again.

“Raccoons,” he warned. “They’re out of control.”

“It's the Raccoon Mafia,” August added with a perfect Sicilian godfather accent.

James expounded on how the wily critters raided your camp after dark; tore into packs; tried to steal your food; kept you up half the night. However, we had already paddled nine or ten miles today, and the next potential campsite was several miles further along. That didn’t sound very appealing, either. So, James left it up to us, the paying customers. And we chose to take our chances on Raccoon Island.

A poster on the Jones Island message board.

photo by Zenzi Griffin

A dining table with a view. Sitting across from me is Allison from St. Louis. She had just graduated from college, flew out to Portland, bought a used truck with a camper shell, and then drove up to Seattle for this kayak trip. Afterwards, she’ll drive up to Squamish in BC to go rock climbing, and then meander down to Yellowstone and Jackson Hole, and who knows where else in the West. She’s on an adventure.

After dinner, James brought out his chart and we gathered round. As our guide, he had invaluable knowledge for navigating through this maze of islands. On the chart, he had marked small arrows, red and green, at key channels between the islands. The red arrows indicated the sea current’s direction during ebb tide. The green arrows showed the direction during flood tide. Using an app on his iPhone, he could then synch with the latest tide tables and interpolate the speed and direction of the current at various locations over the next 24 hours. This was important, because the peak-tide velocities in the narrower channels could be significant. (Case in point, Deception Pass, which we would NOT be going through.) After he had the tides dialed in, James then checked the latest weather forecast, and from all of this information, he plotted our intended route for tomorrow, seeking the path of least resistance. “Threading the needle,” he called it. Bottom line: A front was moving in, and we would be paddling into a headwind first thing in the morning.

Day’s end on Jones Island. This serene isle is much smaller than Stuart (about 180 acres), and a Washington state wilderness park in its entirety. There’s nothing here but campsites, secluded coves and hiking trails.

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JULY 18th –
Another splendid day—though the shoulders are sore again. We left the rainfly off so we can gaze up at the stars tonight. The latest forecast calls for a chance of rain the next two days, but it's remarkably clear right now. The wind is sighing through the trees. Waves lap rhythmically onto rocks. The campfire crackles and pops. It’s utter enchantment. Haven’t seen any raccoons lurking about, but still ... to allay the worries, I helped James and August suspend all of our food from a high tree branch (including our good Scotch). It’s bomb proof, no way can they get it. Pretty sure. 

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TO BE CONTINUED...