Halloween on Orcas Island

Route

Saturday, October 31st. Rhea and I woke up at 6, went back to bed, and finally rolled out at 7 to a spectacular Halloween morning. Marv and Laurian's house looks west across Lake Washington. Fog sat over Seattle but stopped just short of us, the half-moon hung overhead, and Mount Rainier stood tall in the distance. As the sun came up, the fog turned cotton-candy pink and purple. The lake was glassy and still, with steam rising off the water.

I see why people love Seattle so much. The city sits right in the outdoors, and it stays green all winter. The maples and the ferns drop their leaves, but the conifers hold on, so the mountains never go bare. Winters here are mild and wet enough that the evergreens keep growing, while dry summers hold the leafy trees back. That's why the conifers rule the Pacific Northwest.

Laurian made us all smoothies with muesli and coffee, while Rhea chased rabbits from her garden throughout the fenced yard. Then my friend Sydney came over from her parents' house down the street with her dog, Luna, a seven-year-old white Swiss shepherd. Sydney is engaged to their son, Jack, one of my good friends from LA. The two of them, along with a group of friends, bought a 56-foot Swan sailboat and are taking it around the world. I've sailed a couple of legs with them, including the move down the East Coast and in the remote South Pacific. She's home for a month to see family and plan the wedding, which will be right there on the lake. We stood around the yard catching up while the dogs played.

Somewhere in there, I realized I still hadn't booked our ferry. We grabbed a spot on the 11:55 ferry from Anacortes to Orcas Island, in the San Juan Islands, and hit the road, already late for the check-in window.

Heading north on I-5, the North Cascades were showing off under a blue sky, white with fresh snow. The pass we drove over on Thursday may well be closed now. We must have snuck through right between two storms.

West of I-5 on Route 20, we passed another big timber mill, with stacks of lumber and a mountain of bark chips that they may well burn for power, like the mill we saw Thursday. Two Tacoma TRD Off-Roads sat in traffic with us, both with campers, pop tops, and awnings, and one with a little lift and beefier tires. I'm sure we were all headed to the islands for the weekend.

South of the road, whole fields of bushes had turned a deep crimson. I had to ask Claude what they were. They were blueberry bushes, which I never would have guessed.

Near Anacortes, a refinery sits right across the water, with rows of big storage tanks. There are actually two refineries on March Point, Shell's from 1955 and Texaco's, online by 1958. It's such a beautiful, pristine place to put a refinery. I get it, we need fossil fuels to power the economy, but oh man.

We made the ferry. Dawn, one of the flaggers lining up the cars, gave me the best local tip of the day. The ferry crew buys their sandwiches at the island grocery store because they're cheap, and in the mornings, the hot croissants and pastries are behind the register. "You don't go to the hot box."

The ride was hard on Rhea, but it was beautiful. The San Juans rise from the water, with jagged rock cliffs and pines, a lot like coastal Maine, but towering higher above the sea. The couple in front of us, Mark and Susan, live in Seattle and were headed to the east end of Orcas to dog-sit for a friend. Mark and I talked for most of the ride. He's been an engineer and a diver; he's a handyman of sorts, and he paddleboards. He kind of does it all. He took right to Rhea and helped comfort her a good bit. Everyone on that ferry was friendly.

Also aboard was a man in a vibrant purple button-down covered in skulls, with a headset and very dark sunglasses. Mark had been talking with him and filled me in. He's a ghost hunter, a real one, and he says NASA calls him to help look for things. He showed Mark videos of apparitions on his phone and believes there's a lot of activity in the waters between here and Alaska. On Halloween, no less. I love people sometimes.

Once we drove off, we found a little grass airfield and parked in the sun. We ate lunch, laid out the things that got wet in yesterday's rain, and both took a sun nap.

Orcas has more going on than I expected. Driving north, we passed two sheep farms, a lavender farm, and a newly planted apple orchard whose young trees had already filled a couple of pails. Giant driftwood logs lay washed up on the beaches. It's incredible how mountainous these islands are.

In the afternoon, we climbed the switchbacks up Mount Constitution, the island's high point at 2,409 feet. In the 1930s, a Civilian Conservation Corps crew spent more than a year building a stone lookout tower at the top, modeled on the medieval watchtowers of the Caucasus. Moss hung from the trees, and the timber guardrails blended right into the forest. About a mile from the top, the pine needles on the forest floor gave way to moss, a delicate, vibrant green layer over everything. Short stone posts lined the road, so caked in moss I could barely tell they were stone. It's nature's shag carpet, soft, squishy, and forgiving.

On our way back to town, we stopped at Island Hoppin' Brewery, tucked away off the main strip. Everyone in there knows everyone. Two big bookcase walls hold the locals' own mugs, and the bar looks like a giant pine tree cut in half. They keep it simple with food offerings: peanuts in the shell, pickles, and a little cheese plate. Everyone was just happy to be out on a Saturday. Kids came in trick-or-treating dressed as the Berenstain Bears, and two Rhodesian Ridgebacks lay by the bar, totally chill. They had ridden there in the sidecar of a BMW dual-sport motorcycle. Rhea would never last in a sidecar; she'd jump out at the first squirrel.

The bartender had only been on the island for a month, but she already loves it. She said the off-season is the best time to come, because the crowds are gone and things are still open.

Then we drove into town, where they'd closed one of the little main roads so the kids could trick-or-treat. People and dogs in costumes were out everywhere. It was small-town community at its best.

We camped under the pines by one of the island's freshwater lakes. Ten minutes after lights out, just as I was dozing off, the tent and the truck shook. Rhea and I both shot up. Then it happened again. It was a still night with only a couple of other campers in the whole place, so I grabbed my spotlight and my knife, unzipped both flaps, and swept the light around. A black-and-gray striped tail disappeared into the dark. Of course it was a raccoon. It had climbed right up onto the truck, bold as can be. Raccoons are becoming a theme for us.

After that, the night went pin-drop still, and we could hear the lake lapping across the road. Around midnight, a warm wind picked up, probably out of the south, and kept slapping a pine branch against the tent, so I climbed out and broke it off. I wasn't moving the rig. It was a balmy 50F in the tent, and after 1am, we both slept great until 6:30.

Rhea

Rhea started the morning chasing rabbits around the Tolands' yard, then sized up Luna before the two of them settled into playing.

I-5 made her anxious again, and with a ferry to catch, we couldn't stop for her calming dose. The windows went down, and she put up with an hour of it. The ferry was harder. Up in the cabin, she shook uncontrollably; I think the engine's rumble felt like a plane to her. She had also been sick that morning, probably from eating too much right before we jumped in the truck and took off. A homeopathic dose finally settled her, maybe a little too well, and Mark's company helped. We took it easy the rest of the day, starting with that sun nap.

When the raccoon rocked the truck, her head was out of the tent right next to mine. She's a trooper.