Northwest Ruminations: We Create an Idyll to Greet Spring and Open Summer

Summer for Ann and me is shaping up crazy-busy: Dresden, Leipzig, and Berlin this month; the Seattle Chamber Music Summer Festival next; then in August, summer school at Cambridge University and a brief post-school stay in London. You’d think we’d welcome spring here at home enjoying the azaleas and rhodies.

But no, we decided to trade city life for five days on our favorite other island, San Juan, keystone of the San Juan Islands of the Salish Sea. There on Haro Straight so close to the border that your cell phone signal comes from Canadian cells and Comcast bills you for international roaming and one has to protest to get it rectified and you know how cable companies are. . . whatever.

The island was its peaceful, bucolic self, almost empty in this week after the Memorial Day rush and with schools still in session. We had the hills and beaches to ourselves and restaurants were sparsely booked.

We stayed again at Lakedale, in a second-floor lodge room with jacuzzi, fireplace, and balcony looking out over the lake. The water’s edge all around was aflame with Flag iris.

Lakedale

Lakedale is ten minutes from Friday Harbor, the largest of the islands’ towns, and six minutes from Roche Harbor with its posh marina, restaurants, the venerable Hotel Haro, historic Roche Lime and Cement works, a marvelous sculpture park, and kayak and camping outfitters. Just down the road lies English Camp, with its trails and blockhouse and officer’s graveyard. (Where are the Tommies buried?)

After breakfast, Ann volunteered to row while I fly cast for bass. But nothing. Not even a rise from the lilypads, vivid with yellow lilies opening up, where a lunker had gulped in my favorite deer hair frog a couple of years ago, and then lodged herself in the iris so firmly that I had to break off, losing both it and her. But nothing, I switched to casting wet flies for trout and got only three soft takes from very small guys. But, great to be on the water in the breeze-less sun.

Merlin, the cell phone bird song identifier from Cornell’s ornithology labs detected all sorts of residents. Don’t have it? If you care about birds, get it (App store, it’s free.) It’s frustrating fun because it tells you what bird is there though for the life of you, you can’t see it. Merlin and we heard the usual suspects but he also picked up unusual ones – for us – as western flycatchers; warblers, including the yellow, the yellow-rumped, and the orange-crowned; red-breasted sapsuckers; and red crossbills. No barred owls, though, as we have here at home. (Mustn’t tell Trump that Cornell is for the birds.)

We dined well (and drank well, too.) After cocktails and backgammon on our deck or down on the water’s edge deck, we’d head out: Vinny’s, for Italian, the Downrigger for clams, mussels, chowders, and bisques; McMillins for fancy dining with great service and audacious prices; Westcott Bay for a briny oyster lunch; The Bluewater for lunch of black bean soup and calamari; and – best of all – Roach Harbor’s Madrona Bar and Grill with its imaginative Asian-fusion touches to most entrees.

We celebrated Ann’s birthday at McMillins, with great service and care from Lauren and Grace, Alabama sisters by way of Booth Bay Harbor (go figure) and a grand nine-year-old Heitz cab courtesy of George and Annie L. The meal itself wasn’t that special, but the evening was despite two hinkies. First, my gift was too close to jewelry Ann already has. I had inventoried her jewelry cabinet while she was out at a WUC meeting, but it turned out she was wearing the pieces so I didn’t catch the match.

The second comes with Roche Harbor, like it or not – and I don’t. I object to being pandered to with their daily, faux-patriotic, evening retreat ceremony: dock-hands marching out four-abreast to lower flags – Canadian and US – to scratchy recorded tracks of Oh Canada, Retreat, and Sousa’s Washington Post March which has nothing whatever to do with military ends-of-day. Ann isn’t offended by all this condescending kitsch, but then she wasn’t in the military and also doesn’t attend, busy with timing the sun's disc from touching on to disappearing below the horizon and wondering why it appears slower here than in Costa Rica. Who knew?

Saturday showers: we walked Friday Harbor’s thin farmers’ market; it needs Steve E’s help. Then we took refuge in the San Juan Museum of Art, a lovely pocket-size museum with three shows. We were blown away by Andy Eccleshall’s studies of light on Northwest lands. Stunning oils at reasonable prices. His studio is in Edmunds. Despite Ann’s “NO MORE ART!” resounding through my skull, I intend to visit him.

We walked South Beach, below American Camp. Ann vigorously climbed the hill above Cattle Point for her three-mile hike while I took my three-quarter trudge along the shore. Afterward, a picnic behind the ramparts of driftwood wrack. A picnic with a very good First Sight sauvignon blanc from Brandon A’s and his Dad's collection of wineries.

From atop the hill we spotted a whale holding position and spouting regularly; probably a grey but too far out in the Straight to be sure. S/he broached for us, first time I’ve ever seen a real broaching, albeit through binoculars. We kept tags on it while spotting seals closer in. At Lime Kiln Point State Park harbor dolphins cruised offshore. On the drive back to Lakedale, a fox crossed ahead of us and signs cautioned kits were about. Curiously, we saw only a single deer in five days on the island; we’ve got more than that here on our island.

Never turned on the TV. We read the papers over breakfast, talked, read books, and happily bickered (our favorite sport) while luxuriating in affectionate companionship. It was an idyllic way to welcome spring and summer. Northern lights were predicted but past our bedtime. Snuggling into the king-size bed was akin to the luxury of having the playground all to yourself but then, getting lonely for a playmate. We wriggled across the empty space to cuddle together in warm duality.

One disturbing observation: the prevalence of the obese, whether locals or tourists. They’re everywhere! I’m not body-shaming; this is a health crisis. We no longer have restaurants, airplanes and office buildings filled with smokers. Over two generations, through public education, regulation, and promotion, the US has driven our smokers to under ¼ of the adult population. More still to go: Sweden is 10% points lower. So, why can't we do the same for obesity? Fat is no less a health issue than tarry smoke, both for the fat ones and for the rest of us we who pay for Medicare and insurance. Query: are political positions correlated with body mass index just as they are with educational attainment?

Monday: quiche at the Bakery, a wait for the ferry which smoothly crossed and didn’t falter. We took the long way home, stopping in Le Connor for lunch in the Pub, with the locals. The crabbing fleets, both Swinomish and Anglo, were gearing up for their 36-hour season of commercial crabbing. Thirty-six hours: that’s it. Then individual citizen have a few days at them. Short season? Dungeness are scarce this year. Are we over-heating the oceans?

Nevertheless, spring has sprung, the grass has riz and we know where the birdies is -- right here in our precious Northwest.

A gallery: you have to read the text to make sense of it. Click one to enlarge the group.