Our 1985 biking trip to the San Juan Islands.

Love Dad

One spring day my wife says to me, "You should take a trip with your son this summer.  Just the two of you.  Together."  I listen to her.  She is usually right.

I ponder.  What do a seventeen-year old and his father have in common?  Physically, he is close to his prime; I feel a bit past mine.  I think of the things he likes to do - surf, skateboard, ski.  I ski.  Recently he's gotten into cycling.  I recall a friend's favorable comments about bicycling in the San Juan Islands.  Summer is the time to do it.  I ask Terry if he is interested.  He is.  I am relieved.

I plan.  We have one week, insufficient time to drive to Seattle and bike the Islands.  Airline reservations are easy.  We can fly nonstop from nearby Burbank.  I decide to rent a car in Seattle, drive to Anacortes, take a ferry to the Islands, rent bicycles, and stay in motels.  I cannot find a rental agency that rents bike racks and, not knowing exactly what kind of vehicle we will get, demur taking one of our own racks.  I reserve a car anyway.  A bike-rental shop in Friday Harbor, on San Juan Island, has appropriate bikes.  As for lodging, I understand motels are not plentiful, particularly on some islands, and reservations are advised.  It is difficult to obtain information about some of the accommodations.  After talking it over with Terry, I decide to wing it.  As a precaution, we will take sleeping bags and hope it doesn't rain.

I try to learn something about the San Juans, but it isn't easy.  The local library, though large and well-stocked, has little.  I am able to locate a couple articles in a cycling magazine.  I contact friends in the area and tell them of our plans.  They haven't biked the Islands either, but do invite us to stay during the time we're not on the San Juans.  One offers the use of his pickup truck, which contains an ingenious homemade bike rack.  I gratefully accept his offer.

On the jet, I turn to Terry and ask, "You know what we forgot?"

"No, what?"

"The sleeping bags."  Life seems full of forgetfulness.  Remembering and forgetting.  Yin and yang.  Balancing forces.

I decided not to rent bikes at Friday Harbor, in case we prefer not to return there at week's end.  There are no bike rentals available in Anacortes.  Two bike shops in Seattle don't take reservations.  A third does.

The day after our flight we pick up two Japanese-made mountain bikes in Alki, a suburb northwest of Sea-Tac Airport.  Heavier and sturdier than 10-speeds, with upright handlebars and wider tires, mountain bikes are suitable for a greater variety of terrain.  One is 15-speed, the other 18.  More gears than we need, but better too many than too few.  We buy plastic water bottles and are given bike locks.  Each bike rents for $25/week, less than the cost of transporting our own bikes ($40 each, round trip).

My friend asks if we have considered tent camping.  Full of good ideas, this friend.  He offers his two-man vinyl tent as well as sleeping bags.

It takes somewhat more than an hour to reach Anacortes.  We buy a round trip ticket to Friday Harbor for $22.10.  No receipt is issued or needed.  So long as we make our way eastward from San Juan Island, the westernmost major island, toward Anacortes, there is no further fee.  We make the 3:45 pm ferry.  I buy a map of the islands in the snack shop.

A few words about ferries.  They shuttle between the various major islands (San Juan, Orcas, Lopez, and others), the Washington mainland, and Sydney, Canada, from early morning to evening, and are usually punctual.  The largest can take close to 150 cars, 2000 people, and many bicycles.  They ply the waters at close to 12 knots/hr. and have a snack shop and inside and outside seating.  Their personnel are efficient and accommodating.  It takes a pleasant and scenic approximate two hours to go from Anacortes to Friday Harbor.

Island telephones are interesting.  Ten cents is required once the called party on the same island answers.  However, despite the short distance (all 172 islands are clustered in a relatively small area), inter-island calls may cost up to $1.50 for the first minute.

We drive through the small, bustling town of Friday Harbor to Lakedale Campground, a facility with a small store, coin-operated hot showers, and space for RV's and tents.  We find a secluded spot by the edge of a pond, sheltered by conifers.  There is a picnic table and fire pit.  We set up camp.

Terry wants to swim in the pond.  Though the water is murky, there are other swimmers, and he dives in.  I am more cautious, waiting to see his reaction as well as my own upon putting my foot in the water.  As I stand watching him, a voice asks, "How old are you?"  I turn and see a chubby girl, with a wide grin, clinging to a log.  I am reminded of the time my daughter, age maybe three, asked a neighbor lady her age.

"It's none of your business, little girl," was her reply.  I cannot answer thusly.

I say, "I'll tell you what.  Let's guess."

"OK.  You go first."

I say, "Twelve."

"I'm eight.  You're twenty-five."  She'll never know I shall love her forever for making my day.

We drive the several miles back to Friday Harbor and pick out Hector's, an Italian restaurant, for dinner.  I know little about this restaurant, but notice the same picture on the wall as I have at home.  I decide any place that likes Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World" can't be all bad.  It isn't.

Upon returning to camp and readying ourselves for sleep, we discover we have neglected to bring pillows and buffering material to separate sleeping bags and ground.  We use rolled-up sweatshirts for pillows.  I estimate the ground hardness to be somewhere between that of concrete slab and carpeted floor.  We sleep poorly.

We break camp early, pack, and drive to Friday Harbor, where we breakfast at a small diner on eggs, potatoes, toast, and juice.  Terry suggests we order a take-out lunch of tuna and egg-salad sandwiches.  I compliment him on his foresight.  We park the truck, containing suitcases, sleeping bags, tent, and other gear, outside a bank.  Backpacks, stuffed with granola bars, raincoats, sweatshirts, windbreakers, and map (I also include 6X pocket binoculars and extra socks; he carries swimming trunks and portable tape player), we secure behind the seats with bungee cords.  Our water bottles are full.  My camera, a compact point-and-shoot 35 mm, is slung over my shoulder.

We decide to cover as much of the roughly 56 square miles of San Juan Island as possible.  Of the major biking islands, it is intermediate in difficulty (Orcas is hillier, Lopez flatter).  This day will be a good test of our capability.

We head southwest on San Juan Valley Road, then cut south on Douglas Road and Cattle Point Road.  The gently-sloping hills are much steeper than they seem by motorized vehicle.  Visor slung low on my forehead to shield the morning sun, camera occasionally banging into my side, I vow that tomorrow I will wear shorts instead of long pants, leave my heavy Kryptonite bike lock in the truck, and speak to Terry about maintaining a slower pace.  Often I stand up going uphill.  A major reason is that the saddle soreness I experience is generally inversely related to the size of the bicycle seat.  Our seats are only slightly larger than, and as firm as, conventional 10-speed bike seats.  Terry has a slight advantage in that his biking shorts are padded.  I wish for sheepskin or foam rubber but would settle for a few sheets of newspaper.

We stop at American Camp and refill our water bottles.  The plastic taste from these bottles will stay with us throughout the trip, rendering otherwise-good water barely palatable.  We endure the taste to stay hydrated, later switching to Gatorade briefly.

American Camp dates from a mid-1800's dispute between the English and Americans over where the international boundary lay.  The closest the two countries came to blows occurred in 1859, when a British pig destroyed the potato crop of an American.  In 1872 Kaiser Wilhelm arbitrated by ruling in favor of the Americans, and both military forces withdrew.  The Camp, situated on the southeast end of the island, covers 1222 acres, primarily beaches and grasslands, whose denizens include rabbits, ferrets, eagles, and skylarks.

We continue east to Cattle Point (named for a shipwreck site, where cattle swam to shore) lighthouse, refill our water bottles, and oblige some fellow bikers by taking their pictures with their cameras.  Terry declines having our picture taken.  He prefers candid to posed shots.  I do, too, but am not intransigent.  I do manage to take a few of him during the trip, but it's no cinch.

We retrace part of our course and head west on West Side Road.  Much property is private.  I am amused by some of the signs ("No Hunting, No Trespass, No Excuses").  I stop to record some scenes on film, calling to Terry as I halt.  I apologize for slowing him down, but he doesn't seem to mind.  I curse the bike manufacturer for omitting a kickstand (Terry's bike has one); every time I stop I must lay the bike down, taking care that the backpack stays in place.

The body expends considerable calories as well as fluid during a trip such as ours.  We consume a granola bar each before beginning a long ascent, heading northwest toward Deadman Bay.  Wild blackberries grow freely and we stop on occasion to savor them.  Even though a bit dust-covered, from being so close to road's edge, they are delicious, and help assuage our thirst, which is almost constant.

We stop at Whale Watch Park for lunch.  We walk down to the Watch point, from whence four different species of whales are sometimes visible.  None is today, but the scenery is nonetheless magnificent.  Lime Kiln Lighthouse interrupts the coastline without obtrusion.  A cooling breeze refreshes, and I'd like to stay awhile, but we do not dally.  Many miles lie ahead.  Robert Frost comes to mind and I wonder if he were ever here.  I doubt it.

We replenish ourselves and bottles with water, use the toilets, and resume our northward course.  The road steepens, twisting among high, rocky buttes.  I'm tempted to dismount and walk but Terry doesn't and something within me resists.  I imagine the lactic acid content of my leg muscles to be near saturation.

We pass Smallpox Bay (where an Indian village was decimated by the disease) and stop at Mitchell.  In the interest of time and my physical condition, we decide to skip Roche Harbor (one of my few regrets about the trip), and head east toward Friday Harbor on Mitchell Bay Road and Beaverton Valley Road.  We pass many bikers going west, some heavily-laden with gear designed to make them self-sufficient.  Much as motorcyclists do on the road, we wave.

We drive out to Lakedale Campground, luxuriate briefly in hot showers, and return to Friday Harbor for the next ferry to Orcas Island.  We remember the discomfort of the previous night, and, after parking the truck in the ferry line, buy pillows, cases, and two foam rubber pads at a Sprouse-Reitz store.

While waiting in the ferry line, a pleasant grey-haired man in the car behind me tells me he lives on Orcas.  I ask him what the people who live on the Islands do.  He smiles.  "About a third of them are retired, and the others take care of them."  I laugh.  At least the first part of his statement is true, I suspect.

It takes about 45 minutes to reach Orcas.  Immediately upon disembarking, I try to find a telephone.  Phones are scarce.  I call Moran State Park, only to discover all campgrounds are full.  One of the calculated risks in not making advance reservations.  The girl does give me the names of three private campgrounds, though.  The closest has one spot left and I take it.  We arrive five minutes before the registration deadline.

West Beach Resort accommodates both RV's and tent campers, but the facilities are disappointing.  Our spot is in an open, unsheltered field adjacent to a fence demarcating some private property.  It is crowded, smoky from many campfires, and lacks sufficient hot water.

After setting up camp, we drive to the pleasant hamlet of Eastsound for dinner.  Our first choice, the Outlook Inn, is understaffed and/or inefficient.  After waiting more than ten minutes beyond the time we were assured we would be seated by, we move on to the Bungalow Restaurant, where we have a lovely view of Eastsound Bay at sunset, and are served much more food than we can comfortably consume.

We awake to droplets of water on the tent; some has soaked through, but we are dry.  I pity the bikers who slept in the open without any covering save their sleeping bags.  We breakfast at a small diner in Eastsound, whose "Good Food" sign is not braggadocio.  Their fare is reasonable and quick.  They sit right across the street from the Chamber of Commerce, which was never open the several times we passed by (then again, we were never there between 10 am and 2 pm).  I am still sore from the day before and so inform Terry.  We decide to drive around Orcas, at 57 square miles the largest of the San Juans.   Its shape reminds me of a thyroid gland cut in horizontal section.  Eastsound is situated in the isthmus.

We break camp and drive to Doe Bay Resort, on the southern end of the eastern lobe.  Remote but nice, it runs us $7.50 per night (similar to other campground tariffs).  We find a reasonably-level campsite near the bathhouse.  We drive to Moran State Park (named for one-time Seattle mayor and millionaire shipbuilder Robert Moran), a wondrous area of nearly 5000 wooded acres, five freshwater lakes, nearly thirty miles of trails, four waterfalls, and the highest peak in the San Juans.  Facilities include camping, fishing, boating, swimming, and picnicking.  We swim in cool, clear Cascade Lake and rent a rowboat.  I crave arm and torso exercise, largely lacking in cycling.  We see paddle boats and wind surfers; happily, no motorized boats are allowed.
 

We drive up the steep road to the summit of Mt. Constitution, 2409 feet above sea level, and climb the 50-foot stone tower modeled after a 12th century Russian fort.  The 360 degree panoramic view, said to be among the three best in North America, includes Canada, the Olympic and Cascade Mountains, the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the San Juan Archipelago.  Snow-capped Mt. Baker is partly obscured by haze.

We drive to Deer Harbor, on the south end of the western lobe.  We see a number of private farms, and several joggers for the the first time on the trip.  One place raises bison.  Other farms, here and elsewhere, have horses, sheep, and cattle.  We see one deer.

We return the width of the thyroid to Doe Bay, dip in the hot tub, then retire.  We have a ritual in which, after the tent is zipped shut, Terry shines the flashlight around the interior and I deal death blows to any detectable insects.  On the entire trip, we each get one bite.  Any place with few bugs and no poison ivy has the inside track, in my book.

We decide to stay another night, but Terry wants to move; he felt as if he were on a slant board the night before.  We find another spot, then breakfast at Rosario Resort, a renowned spot on the east side of Eastsound Bay.  In 1904, 47-year old Robert Moran was told he had only a year to live because of a heart ailment.  He sold his shipyard, bought 20% of Orcas, and built a 54-room mansion with foot-thick solid concrete walls.  The roof used 6 tons of copper and it took two years to lay the parquet flooring.  The lower level included a heated swimming pool, game room, and two bowling alleys, surrounded by Italian mosaics.  Incidentally, Moran lived to the ripe old age of 86.  So much for predictions, even professional, of anticipated longevity.

We return to Doe Bay, rent an aluminum canoe, and head east for about an hour before turning back.  I teach Terry the J-stroke, which allows a single rear paddler to travel a straight course.  We alternately sit and kneel on pads as we paddle, to give various parts of the anatomy periodic rest. 

An American bald eagle flies close by, less impressive in flight than in pictured repose.  We encounter a number of sea birds floating on the water.  Gulls fly off at our approach.  Others, resembling coots, dive underwater only to surface some distance from our craft. 

The ocean is cold, considerably more so than Cascade Lake.  A few boats, mostly motor, cross our path.  Impressive is the ease with which distances at sea are underestimated.  We come across driftwood and kelp.  Blue heron stand, then fly off in cacophony.  An occasional fish jumps, but we are too distant to identify its species or size.  I imagine the tranquility of this place would have appealed to George Caleb Bingham.  Probably too halcyon for Winslow Homer.

We lunch at Olga's cafe, a barn-like structure at the corner of Doe Bay Road and Horseshoe Highway.  One of life's pleasant surprises, unexpected in such a locale.  A neat boutique and small art gallery are housed adjacent to the small restaurant, where good food is cheerfully served.

We leave the truck at the cafe and bike through Moran State Park.  Terry tells me we can take it easy and I can stop to take pictures if I want.  I consider this no small concession.  It is a touch few miles to Eastsound.  I have not fully recovered from the first day of biking.  My visor flies off on one particularly-long downhill, and time and energy are lost retrieving it.  Terry's response (he doesn't wear a visor): "Dad, turn your visor around when you're going downhill!"  Of course I don't.  I do occasionally remove it and slip it on my arm, however.

We swim in Cascade Lake on the return trip.  The invigorating break is just what we need.   We dine at the Famiglia Ristorante in Eastsound.  We have yet to have a bad meal on this trip.  Terry points out a television actor at a nearby table.  I do not recognize him.  I do not watch much TV. 

Early the next morning, we rise, breakfast at the cozy Eastsound diner, and retrace our tracks to the landing in time to catch the 9 am ferry to Lopez Island.  We want to arrive early for a campsite (there are no private campgrounds and the county and state parks do not take reservations).  Odlin County Park campground is close by the ferry landing and has vacancies but no flush toilets or hot showers.  Spence Spit State Park has no hot showers.  Terry would like a place with hot showers.  I think he is tiring of camping.  We decide not to stay overnight.  We drive to the Islander Lopez, a motel with coin-operated public showers, park the truck, and ready ourselves for the day's cycling.

Terry gets a head start but soon stops.  His rear tire is nearly flat.  We return to the truck and find a tire pump but the tire refuses to hold air.  I recall passing a bike shop on the way to this spot.  We drive there.

A small, dark-haired woman with crooked teeth, hirsute legs, and an easy smile, greets us.  She hoists the bike onto a metal stand, expertly removes the rear tire and tube, and patches the tube where a tack had punctured.  I ask her how she likes Lopez.   "Just love it.  When the owner of this shop asked me to come run the place, I wasn't sure.  I used to be an interior decorator in Seattle.  But now I'm here, I wouldn't leave for anything.  I make a fraction of what I used to, but I live in a trailer, and it doesn't cost me much."

"I hear Lopez has a water shortage."

"Yeah, they get their water from wells.  Sometimes, in the summer, the wells run dry."

"What do they do then?"  I ask.

"They haul it."  She grins.

I think for a moment that maybe life in the slow lane might not be so bad.  I'm not so sure about the water situation, though.

Terry is anxious to get cycling.  We find, as described, Lopez to be the easiest to bike of the major islands.  The scenery is not dissimilar to that of the other islands - grain fields, farms with livestock and barns, some inland fresh water, conifers, and the sea.  Always the sea - never far away, pervasive, a constant reminder of being, more so than at many places, at nature's mercy.

It is an easy ride from Fisherman Bay to Richardson, on the south coast of Lopez.  By serendipity, we find a small grocery store, where we buy sliced cheese, dried beef and fruit, English muffins, and Gatorade.  Lunch was never better.  I notice Chevron gas is pumped here (on San Juan and Orcas the only stations are Union-76; the contrast is curious).

We make a southeast loop on roads with names like Vista, Aleck Bay, and Mud Bay, then head north several miles on Center Road, which bisects the island.  At Betty's place (she sells homemade edibles) we head west on an unnamed road and then south to Lopez Village, which consists of hardly more than a few stores.  We return here for supper at a deli after showering and repacking the truck.  We leave Lopez in time to arrive at Anacortes by dusk.

On the ferry deck, bracing wind fore and setting sun aft, I put my arm around Terry and ask, "How is it, son?"

"It's been a good trip, Dad."

I ask no more.  My cup runneth over.