After the storm, a moment of perspective

Motivation is difficult to muster when clouds fill the sky and rain soaks the landscape, draining my spirit of adventure. Like a taunting bully with a pea-shooter, rain pings our metal roof, drips from eaves and fills my days with a sadness that seems unbearable, even endless. If there is light at the end of this tunnel, please dear God, let it be in the shade of February.

It’s hard to be inspired when you feel mired. Our driveway is filled with patches of mud and grooves worn by streams of water, which traveled a great distance — through woods and orchards and fields — to spill down our steep embankment to the sea.

This time of year we can use only my 4×4 to leave the house, to find the road. Winter moisture has been particularly unkind to the little Miata, which S babies daily to prevent mold from growing along the canvas lid again. It seems a never-ending battle, but she fights it religiously. (On those rare sunny days, you’ll find her in the drive with a towel bending over a tiny angelic car with wings outspread and lid uplifted.)

SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND (GO ON, GET UP)

Thanks to a healthy amount of rainfall this winter, Rustic Falls is indeed flowing full in Moran State Park. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

What I’ve discovered living away here is that beauty is everywhere, but you have to go looking for it — even when you don’t feel like it. While nature often peeks in the window, it never comes to the couch. So, last week after a rare appearance by the sun, I fought my negative, self-pitying attitude, and with S climbed off the couch, into the 4×4 and left the house to seek what nature had to show us.

For the effort, I was reminded that ironically moisture has two sides: a disagreeable side, which dampens spirits and molds convertible rooftops; and a reconstructive side, which lifts daffodils from the soil and feeds majestic waterfalls over rock.

One of the jewels of Orcas Island is Moran State Park, which features — among other countless natural beauties — a number of waterfalls. Lucky for us, one of the best times to see them flowing fully is in winter following a period of significant rainfall.

S and I decided to take a quick hike into Rustic Falls, which is accessible via the Cascade Falls trailhead. The shortest route (always my favorite) begins from a small parking lot off Mount Constitution Road just beyond the Olga cutoff.

A rare winter day of sunshine reflects the beauty of Cascade Lake, Moran State Park. Photo © Susan Anderson

A muddy but manageable trail (with more than a few slippery roots) meanders downhill to the fall. The hike is fast and almost instantly rewarding. S and I have hiked to the falls several times — but never in winter. As we hoped, the fall was flowing full and crystal clear.

With noise and spray, the falls compete for attention with the equally spectacular monster-sized cedars and firs. There we stood — thanks to a gazillion raindrops — just two tiny specks in a forest of giants.

I LOOK AT TODAY’S FORECAST, WHICH PREDICTS COLDER TEMPERATURES BUT EXTENDED PERIODS OF SUNSHINE for the next several days. I’m so weary of gray that I’m resigned to accept the good with the bad – as long as it’s dry, as long as it’s blue. At least the mud is frozen.

Daffodils in a neighbor's garden. Photo © Susan Anderson

Around us we are beginning to see a few signs of spring: a neighbor’s daffodils, deer returning to the slope, fishermen testing the waters. Bit by bit I’m adjusting my attitude, tuning it with sun rays.

I hear they’re getting blizzards across the Midwest today. I’ll take the rain any day.

© 2011 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

A truth about inconvenience

Unexpectedly, a boat pulls near the shore below the house, and soon a diver slips from its cockpit into the water to harvest sea cucumbers clinging to the rocky ledges beneath. Meanwhile, something on land catches the attention of a crewman, and I watch his eyes survey our carport — where this day colorful fabric flaps against the breeze on a makeshift clothesline. I look up at the line then sigh. Going forward, S and I agree, we’ll be more selective in which items we hang seaside.

When we left the mainland to live a year in island solitude (or apparent solitude), we knew there would be some tradeoffs in conveniences — like not having a dryer for clothes. Living away here would mean living without many of the products and services we’d grown accustomed to as urban consumers — things like a furnace, garbage disposal, dishwasher, curbside trash pickup, and a standard washer/dryer.

Because we chose to live so far from Eastsound Village, S and I wanted to depend more on natural resources, like the sun and wind for drying clothes, a woodpile for heating, worms for composting food wastes — affordable alternatives to the more costly conveniences we’d taken for granted in the city

The reality is distance has a cost. The price of gas on Orcas often approaches $4 per gallon. The distance from the house to the nearest gas station is 16 miles. The distance to the nearest laundromat (conveniently located in the gas station/convenience store/wine-tasting complex) is also 16 miles. The distance to the solid-waste facility is 20 miles. Being clean, trash-free and fully stocked with Lay’s jalapeno chips can be expensive.

We reduce the garbage we produce by composting food waste in the garden. The lid is attached with bungee cord to keep raccoons out. Photo © Susan Anderson

One way we reduce the garbage we produce — thereby the trash we haul to the facility — is by composting our food waste. Last March, we buried a 30-gal. metal trashcan inside our fenced garden area. Before setting it, we drilled a series of holes in the bottom and sides to allow worms to enter and begin the compost process. The tight-fitting lid is further secured with bungee to keep raccoons out.

Over the last 10-plus months, we’ve filled it with food waste – excluding meat, fish, bones or cheese. Eggshells, fruit peelings, coffee grounds, left-over leftovers are interspersed with occasional organic material, like ash from the woodstove and dried grass clippings to keep the fruit fly population in check. To our credit, it’s now two-thirds full. Including two fewer bags to the dump per year — minus the cost of the can and fuel to the facility — I calculate we’ve saved almost $2.

Still, we have to consider the inherent benefits of compost to future gardens. A few months from now the contents of the bin can be applied to a deserving garden. Perhaps not this garden, which last year yielded only 20 cherry tomatoes and a handful of strawberries scavenged mostly by field mice.

Over the past year, laundry has contributed to our biggest savings but been our most significant tradeoff in convenience. The house — while spectacularly positioned — is not wired or plumbed for a washer or dryer, so we faced three choices early on:

Shimmy down to the rocks at low-tide and beat our laundry against the rocks;

Go to a coin laundry in town; or

Buy a portable small-capacity washer and deal with the inconvenience of it.

Sixteen miles from the nearest laundromat, we depend on sun and/or wind to dry our clothes even in winter months. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

Only S can shimmy successfully up and down the embankment, but she wasn’t keen on the idea. So, that was out.

We tried the coin-laundry route – once. We spent $23 for three loads, plus $8 in gas to and from the facility. Despite the allure of doing four loads up, making the road trip didn’t make financial sense in the long run.

In the end we purchased a portable washer, which has performed surprisingly well — considering the fact it washes, rinses and spins only an average of six pieces per load. But instead of watching S shimmy up and down the cliff, we only have to shimmy the unit to the kitchen sink to do our laundry. It’s a full-day affair, but we’ve grown accustomed to the process.

The truth is, doing without certain appliances is inconvenient, but it isn’t the end of the world. Besides we’re much less judgmental now. Clean enough means “I can wear this again; who’s going to see me anyway?”

IN THE SAN JUAN ISLANDS, WINTER DAYS ARE SHORT, CLOUDS ARE LOW, RAINFALL IS PREDICTABLE AND STEADY. WE CAN’T RELY consistently on sunny hours much less days to help dry our laundry.

But the small-capacity 110 dryer we purchased in November has been — from the beginning — a disappointment. An engineering friend of mine recently described the unit as a “blow dryer with a drum.” It’s a fairly accurate assessment.

We’ve learned in winter, under gray skies and constant drizzle, it’s better to stoke the fire and string laundry along ledges and banisters and chair backs in the safe and warm confines of the house. It’s messy, but it works.

Thank goodness fleece dries quickly.

© 2011 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

Why the caged bird sings (with the Douglas squirrel)

From inside the house, I hear the desperate rattling of metal, a sound which grows increasingly louder in frantic measure until I get up and go to the window and confirm what I already assume. The noisemaker is a large, eastern gray squirrel, which alternately swipes through then gnaws at the narrow cage-like bars. He doesn’t want out; he wants in. “It’s not like you don’t have food hidden all around this place,” I yell through my window. “Move on!” But he pauses only long enough to give me the look.

The position and design of our house doesn’t provide access for hanging and filling a birdfeeder in traditional fashion. No convenient in-ground pole, tree branch or overhang exists from which the feeder can be suspended safely away from predators. Until recently, our feeder — under periodic supervision and only occasionally raided by a lone Douglas squirrel — sat openly on a bench.

All but the stellar jays fly easily in and out of their meal cage. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

When we received what seemed like 30 inches of rainfall in three days last month, I moved the feeder temporarily under the shelter of a potting bench, where I believed the birds could feed more quickly and conveniently under the dry overhang of a surface. It seemed a good idea at the time.

Eventually, however, one thing led to another and another — until S and I found ourselves in complete battle-mode from sunup to sundown with two insatiable squirrels.

A short time after I relocated the bird feeder, I noticed one beaver-sized, eastern gray squirrel scouting the deck. The first time he approached the feeder, I opened the sliding door, made outrageous noises, (which I believe startled even the seals,) and he disappeared down the side of the deck into the bushes. What I didn’t foresee was the beginning of a full-scale war, which eventually escalated to include window patrols, rocks and eventually wire.

It began with the sighting of the first squirrel — three times the size of the tiny Douglas. Then we noticed there were two of them working in tandem, like a wrestling tag team from the bushes. One would scram from the deck into the bushes while the other approached the deck from below.

When S observed, “They’re as big as beavers,” we started stashing rocks outside the door as a scare tactic. It didn’t work. They were amazingly fast for fat ones.

The beaver-squirrel is too fat to fit between the bars but has once slipped through the top. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

As an early plan of action, I decided to cut off their approach by using a section of a collapsible dog kennel, partitioning off three sides of the feeder, effectively wrapping the potting bench in safety. This way, the beaver-squirrels had to approach the feeder only from the front, which I assumed (wrongly) they would be afraid to do.

Over several days, the beaver-squirrels grew increasingly bold and simply waited us out. If S or I were out of sight, they approached the feeder and sucked down the seed. If I saw them, I’d open the door, chuck two or three rocks at the feeder until they took off running. The rocks didn’t work for long.

Over the course of weeks, the battle plan constantly evolved. In a (sunflower) nutshell, here’s how it worked:
Plan A. Position rocks inside the house at the door to improve response time.
Result: Beaver-squirrels modify their reaction time by listening, monitoring the door.

Plan B. Position rocks at windows, so no matter what room we’re in, we can respond quickly.
Result: Beaver-squirrels modify reaction time, monitor windows as well as doors and calculate risk by realizing we’re a poor aim.

Plan C. Change armaments from rocks to pebbles, which can be “spray-thrown,” increasing our chance of actually hitting our target.
Result: Beaver-squirrels undeterred. Pebbles-schmebbles.

Plan D. Locate the remaining sections of the dog kennel. Frame in the potting table to further secure the feeder. Assume squirrels will not trap themselves by climbing over top.
Result: Beaver-squirrels climb over top, trap themselves, freak out, but eventually escape anyway.

Plan E. Dig up two pieces of lumber from the garage, two rugs and fully enclose the “cage.”
Result: Beaver-squirrels angry but finally deterred.
Unexpected result: Tiny Douglas squirrel notices the feeder, squirts easily through the bars and eats all seed — now safely protected from his nemesis, the beaver-squirrel.

S REMOVES THE TWO PIECES OF LUMBER AND TWO SMALL RUGS, WHICH SECURE THE TOP OF THE CAGE. SHE OPENS THE PANEL LAYERS ONE-BY-ONE until the feeder is exposed and fills it, spreading extra feed along the ledge and the deck inside. Then she reverses the process to secure the feeder, which has become in all now a 12-step, 30-minute process each morning.

Unfortunately, unlike the other birds and the Douglas squirrel, the stellar jay cannot squeeze between the rungs of the cage, so S sprinkles his seed along the top shelf, well outside the protection of the cage. The irony is the beaver-squirrels are so focused on getting into the cage and at the feeder, they don’t noticed the stellar’s allotment, sitting in the open and well within reach.

© 2011 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

Dear Santa, bring sunshine

My mother phones with advice. “You need more Vitamin D,” she says. “Take some cod liver oil. You won’t get enough sun.” I can’t argue with her prescription; D is after all the sunshine vitamin. And I’ve already learned how hard it is to keep the winter doldrums away when I’m bathed more consistently in shadow than light. Personally, I don’t look good in gray.

I’m not there yet, but seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is certainly a viable threat to anyone living in the Pacific Northwest. In the winter, the fewer daylight hours — mixed with more rainfall and persistently overcast skies – are toxic to the generally upbeat.

People with SAD can experience real depression, but who isn’t affected in some way by the seasonal changes? It’s nearly dark by 4 PM now, and though our agent warned us of the perils of living so far out, we’re practically hermits. Our social interaction has dwindled to just a few animal friends, who seem mostly preoccupied with keeping warm, dry or fed — and mostly somewhere else. If we didn’t feed the birds, and indirectly the squirrels, they would have abandoned us long ago.

Rainy weather is less than exciting to explore in. It puts a real damper on long hikes and safe driving. I may not be SAD, but I’m certainly unmotivated to get out and about in it.

Just a week ago the Pineapple Express dropped in and — without so much as an aloha — dumped nearly 3 inches of rainfall in five days. (It felt like six months.) I enjoy a good rain once in a while but this one, accompanied by high winds and milder temperatures, left behind as many clouds as it blew away.

While I’d prefer this to snow, snow at least brightens the scene. Gray is flat. Even evergreens look dull in unflattering light.

We used sandbags, rocks, even driftwood to redirect the stream of floodwater headed for our front door. Photo © Susan Anderson

The Pineapple Express refers to the meteorological phenomenon characterized by heavy rainfall and warmer temperatures often associated with places like Hawaii. In some cases torrential rains plummet the region causing massive flooding and mudslides.

On the island, we don’t have a lot of rivers to flood, but Orcas is geographically diverse and all things above sea level flow to the sea. We’ve learned that apparently a major artery to the sea is our driveway.

On the second morning of the recent downpour, several inches of water rose to our doorway. The rainwater had loyally followed the winding drive to the carport then weaved its way down the walkway, cascaded over the steps and filled the stoop. (Our winter emergency preparedness, including candles, soup and flashlights had not prepared us for flooding.)

Fortunately we had on hand several garbage bags, a pile of wet sand, a pickaxe and a disposable skillet. While S used the pickaxe to make a deep groove in the landscape away from the steps and bailed the water, I filled every garbage bag we had with sand and redirected the racing stream away from the entry steps.

The seasonal rains are far from over, but we’re now better prepared to deal with some of the issues. The encounter at the front step, for example, taught us several things about flood control:

1. It’s easier to fill garbage bags with sand than it is lift garbage bags with sand;
2. Beyond 3-4 shovels full of sand, garbage bags split — no matter what brand you use;
3. If you run short of bags, use the plastic wrapping from a multi-pack of Charmin. (Like the econo-size from Costco.) It’s durable, can easily be moved – though admittedly doesn’t have the finest curb-appeal. (The pastel colors do draw attention.)

In addition, we’ve discovered a unique upside to the gloominess of our rainy days: almost anything can brighten your mood, including an unexpected sunburst, a full moon over the ocean, the emergence again of snow-capped peaks in the North Cascades, the discovery of a neighbor’s Christmas tree tucked amongst the shadows.

OUR STOOP IS DRY, THOUGH DARK, AND WE’RE STARTLED TO HEAR A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. I switch on the light to see in a red Santa hat someone we know only as our island delivery man. He has been here many times in the last nine months and knows the drive even in darkness. Tonight we’re happy to see, he’s bearing gifts from afar.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he says, handing me two boxes, one of which I know for certain includes wine — yet another thing which brightens a dark day.

S and I exchange a few holiday greetings with him, sign for the boxes and as he turns to go, he motions to the sandbags, which include one brightly colored Charmin bag. “Had a little problem?” he asks. We laugh and offer him a brief rundown of the events — underscoring, of course, the importance of our ingenuity under pressure.

“Next time you’re delivering out this way,” I say, “bring sunshine.”

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

We’re not in Kansas anymore?

The sun is out, a celebration in itself, so S and decide to island hop and catch the morning ferry to Friday Harbor and drive out to South Beach to soak up sun and try our luck at spotting orcas whales from the bluff. The view from the edge is quintessential Pacific Ocean — deep blue, expansive and breathtaking — but to access it you have to hike through a prairie. Imagine that!

Sun, wind and the rain shadow provided the perfect environment for the early prairie to thrive. Photo © Susan Anderson

The 600-acre prairie at American Camp in the San Juan Island National Historic Park is one of the last remaining natural prairies in the region and, thanks to the National Park Service, is currently in restoration. Although we’ve visited the park many times, S and I hiked this camp for the first time last month.

In the spring the prairie is abloom in wildflowers, but in the fall the juxtaposition of dried grasses against a blue background is stunning. It’s a unique place in the islands where even a Midwestern girl can feel at home.

I imagined prairies were invented by Kansans, but turns out I’m wrong. Prairies were actually common in the Puget Sound and Salish Sea region after the great thaw. In fact, the island prairie is dramatically similar in appearance to the Konza Prairie in the Flint Hills of northeastern Kansas — minus the ocean backdrop, of course.

A hiker stands out in stark comparison to the fall-colored prairie grasses. Photo © Susan Anderson

When glaciers retreated, forming the San Juan Islands, sun exposure, winds and the Olympic Mountains rain shadow provided an ideal climate for prairie grasses and plants to thrive. Though still undergoing restoration, the prairie at American Camp is a perfect example of what can be accomplished when people commit time and resources to it.

This prairie landscape was impacted drastically over time through human impact, including the introduction of invasive non-native plants and animals by early settlers. The settlers brought the European rabbit, which chewed and burrowed its way through the delicate wildflowers and terrain — eventually transforming it into a barren landscape.

Other invasive plants, like the Himalayan blackberry and Canada thistle, choked out native prairie varieties and eventually upset the delicate ecosystem, which native peoples had nourished for centuries. When settlers entered the picture the landscape began to change.

More than 95 percent of Puget Sound’s native prairies have disappeared or been altered, leaving only about 20 remnant prairies. At 600 acres, American Camp is one of the largest remaining pieces of prairie and the Parks’ efforts are noteworthy. By removing invasive plants, planting native plugs and prescribing burns, the prairie is slowly returning.

A small path leads down to Grandma's cove. Photo © Susan Anderson

From camas to camp

A hike through the American Camp prairie is both historically entertaining as it is naturally breathtaking. From the parking area at the camp entrance, the prairie gently slopes toward a high bluff overlooking the ocean, beaches and bays, perfect sites to watch for whales. A narrow path meanders through the prairie and along the bluff line and includes a short side path down to Grandmas Cove.

Still remaining on the upper prairie are two buildings, including the Officers’ Quarters and Laundress Quarters. (Recently, a second Officer’s Quarters was being returned to the site.)

Natives used the prairie well before the camp was established to harvest camas bulbs, a staple of their diet. They were known to practice prescribed burns, which ensured the bulbs and prairie thrived.

Roots of the camp date back to mid-1859 when the British and Americans both claimed the San Juan Islands as their own. The argument escalated when an American shot and killed a Brit’s pig in his garden, escalating the disagreement in military proportions; soon 460-plus soldiers and three warships manned the island and erected two forts, aptly named American Camp and English Camp.

Eventually the two nations agreed to a peaceful joint military occupation, and 10 years later ownership was arbitrated and awarded to the United States. Other than the pig, no other lives were lost.

I LOOK AT THE SIGN DIRECTING US UP TO THE REDOUBT AND VOICE MY OPINION. Despite the fact I have no idea what a redoubt is, I know it is up. I prefer to go sideways along the prairie, look at the Officer’s Quarters and head back to the car, Friday Harbor and more importantly eat. S wants to see it — which really means she wants to see the view from it. I give in, climb the hill anyway and actually learn a few fun facts about this redoubt.

A plaque marks the site of Robert's handiwork. Photo © Susan Anderson

A redoubt is a fortification — usually earth-formed — from which the soldiers would have been able to see and defend themselves from ships to the west. This redoubt was built under the supervision of Henry Martyn Robert, an officer who served as Engineer of the Army’s Division of the Pacific and was later made brigadier general.

Through history, Robert will be widely remembered — not for his work on San Juan Island or even for his engineering projects — but for writing the renown “Robert’s Rules of Order,” one of the most recognized guides ever written for running meetings and conferences.

Armed now with this information, I take a picture of the redoubt plaque then head for the steps. “I make the motion we eat now,” I say. “Do I hear a second?”

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

Early snowstorm leaves us anxious but prepared

S and I check the weather forecast relieved to see our favorite icon, the orange sun ball, is accompanied by warmer temperatures and 0 percent chance for precipitation two days in a row. This means we can finally get up to our own property, cut some more wood and fill our dwindling supply of firewood, which has been twice restocked. ¶My gut feeling is this is the lull before the storm and I’ve already begun to ration the daily starter wood for the stove. “Do you really need six pieces,” I say. “Can you get by with five?” I’ve become a heat hoarder.

Long-range meteorologists are predicting a tough winter for the Pacific Northwest, which for San Juan islanders means — despite the protection of Mother Rain Shadow — freezing temperatures and snowfall are likely. Our recent pre-Thanksgiving snowstorm with single digit wind chills certainly added credence to the forecast. Those of us on the east side of Orcas Island received at least 4 inches of the heavy stuff, which promptly set S and I into a state of emergency preparedness.

Our first snowfall on the island; the scene took our breath away. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

In our house we are driven by three overarching but basic survival instincts: don’t starve, don’t freeze and — if all else fails — don’t run out of gin. To ensure our food supply, we stock plenty of black beans and soups, which can be heated on either the woodstove or the propane-fueled grill on the deck. To ensure we won’t freeze, I hoard firewood, junk mail and cardboard to burn. (Gin, as it turns out, may be harder to ration in a state of emergency.)

Snow coats the lower deck of the house. Photo © Susan Anderson

In preparation for the first storm, S and I set aside several gallons of water, pulled out every tea candle we owned, borrowed batteries from old remotes to fill small flashlights and the S.A.M.E. weather radio — then spent 47 minutes figuring out how to program the S.A.M.E. weather radio. We split firewood, split more firewood, made sure the cars had gas and filled our four-wheel drive vehicle with extra clothing, candles, flashlights, sleeping bags, tire chains and the chainsaw. (We may not have had anywhere to go, but we sure as heck wanted to be ready to go there.)

I’ve owned tire chains for years but have never had to use them. I think the best time for learning how to put them on is during a raging snowstorm, up a hill, over ice, with a wind chill of -3 degrees and 35 mph gusts slapping my face — while shouting to S, “Up a little more. More. More. I said ‘MORE!’” And probably on our way to get emergency gin.

Snow lessons

I’m not naïve to weather hazards. I grew up in the Midwest, home to tornados, blizzards, torrential downpours and thunderclaps so loud they would send the dog to the closet. In Kansas City, temperatures can freeze or melt you—dropping below 0 or reaching above 100. In the Midwest pipes freeze, your face freezes, snow piles, schools close, black ice renders four-wheel vehicles useless. I have spent many sleepless nights listening to ice-laden tree branches snap like toothpicks, hitting cars, roofs and occasionally pets.

But three things I could count on in the Midwest were salt, sand and efficient snow removal.

Two years after I moved to Seattle, that city experienced one of its worst snowstorms in history. Seattle was poorly equipped to deal with the amount of snowfall and the issues surrounding it. Our own suburban street was never cleared, and we weren’t alone. Residents never forgot or forgave; the mayor lost his job in re-election in great part due to the city’s bungled effort.

During those days, I shoveled sometimes twice a day just to keep the snow off the 22 steps leading to the front door, a path for my golden retriever and the neighborhood storm drain clear. In a gallant gesture, I even shoveled my senior neighbor’s steps twice, which was certainly ironic because I learned several months later he had died and the family had moved his wife out before the storm.

Our concerns on the island include both snowfall and ice. Icy patches don’t just send you careening into a guardrail, they send you into the ocean, Cascade Lake or down a cliff. And until you reach Eastsound Village or Crescent Beach, cell phone reception is non-existent, so forget calling for help. In our experience, the best plan is stay home, tuck in and open the gin.

A junco fluffs his feathers for protection against the cold. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

THE MORNING SNOW SCENE IS SO POSTCARD PERFECT, IT TAKES OUR BREATH AWAY. We have weathered our first snowstorm without loss of electricity or water supply, but the woodpile is buried under a blanket of snow, and the birds are waiting for food fluffed up like skiers in puff jackets. For some odd reason the house is not equipped with a snow shovel, so I use a dustpan to clear a path to the feeder, then S uses a spatula to dig it out and fill it with seed.

Everywhere we look evergreens glisten in an outline of white; the morning sky unfolds in pink now set against a silvery blue ocean. Before footprints can mar the beauty, S goes outside to take photos while I start a fire.

Anxious to share the scene with my own family, I use my cell phone to capture a high-quality shot, then text it to my son back in Kansas City. “A winter wonderland.” I write.

Moments later I receive, “That’s wild! I just got back from the dog park and I’m wearing shorts and flip flops.”

I put another log on the fire. She’ll never know.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

That was then, this is now

Against a gray horizon, waves and wind pound, the house shakes, doors and windows rattle. I slide my wrist through the strap of the camera and go out to the deck to photograph the storm stirring the sea. I balance my knees against a bench and switch on the camera, which ironically still displays a surreal scene of wispy clouds, blue sky, a red-roofed lighthouse against a vibrant sea. Oh, but that was Friday.

We relished blue skies and calm seas Friday at Lime Kiln Point State Park on San Juan Island. Photo © Susan Anderson

One of the unique challenges of writing a blog about outdoor adventures is it requires a combination of experience and good fortune — often at the mercy of the weather. Adventures take time, and the process can consume several days — even weeks. Each new experience requires planning, research and active participation.

Another day, another sea. Under the pressure of gale-force winds, waves crash our shoreline in fury. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

The problem is I can be fully committed to writing about yesterday’s adventure (or last Friday’s) but when the scene changes, I find my attention waning, redirected by the latest drama now unfolding.

The frequent and often significant shifts in weather here can play havoc with a writer’s concentration and imagination! Stop. Rewind. Where was I? I’ve got a sunlit prairie on my desk and a raging storm in my face. I have writer’s whiplash – one of the common hazards of living in the Pacific Northwest.

Weather in the San Juan Islands can change on a dime and all the doo-dah day. We’ll stoke up a fire to heat the house only to have the sun break out 30 minutes later in an unexpected chorus of warmth. (Remove fleece; separate logs, open windows.)

We’ll unfold the deck chairs, pour coffee and head outside for some sunshine, only to have the wind pick up, sending us back inside for fleece, a blanket or both. (I think my own personal record for adding or removing layers in a single day is 11 times.)

A typical week? Friday was picture-perfect. Sunday we felt a tremor. Monday’s storm produced gale-force winds, which knocked out our power but blew away the clouds, exposing a perfectly starry sky to light our evening by.

Weathering the weather

Weather conditions can also vary widely between islands and even between island villages. Our house can be steeped in fog while Eastsound Village is basking in sunshine – and vice versa. S once called me at home from a trail near Turtleback Mountain complaining about the wind. ”What wind?” I asked.

The weather variation partly explains why there are so many webcams on the islands. Real-time images are helpful in evaluating conditions at the main ferry terminals, villages and especially atop Mount Constitution, which is pointless to visit if the cloud layer is lower than the overlook. It happens.

Since the weather influences many of our daily adventures, S and I probably consult weather sites more often than most people, using a combination of apps and bookmarks to access sites on the TV, our computers and my iPod. We like to be in-the-know though we feel a bit like retirees with cable.

“The Weather Channel says we’re getting 4-foot waves and 20 mph winds,” I say.

“The marine site reports 6-foot waves and up to 35 mph winds subsiding this afternoon,” says S.

“A weather alert mentions a half-inch rain tonight and maybe snow flurries.”

“What do they say about Thursday?”

And so it goes. By the time we’ve bantered back and forth about the accuracy of one report versus the other, consulted various feeds from the National Weather Service and National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration — including predicted temperature highs and lows, wind speeds, sunrise/sunset times, weather alerts and marine forecasts — the entire scene might well have changed.

Thank goodness for digital cameras, good notes and a highly vivid imagination.

As waves beat South Peapod, a morning ferry from Anacortes heads to the north side of Blakely Island to gain some protection from the pounding gusts. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

ON THE DECK, WE DISCONNECT THE HOSE AND WINTERIZE THE EXPOSED FAUCET WITH STYROFOAM. S MANEUVERS CERAMIC POTS AROUND in a windbreak for the bird feeder while I check the fasteners on the hot tub cover and retrieve from the grass a blue pot, blown and broken by the storm. We go inside to stoke the fire and check the weather.

On another day I’ll write about the lovely day trip we took last Friday to San Juan Island to walk the beaches, visit the lighthouses, to look for whales under the warming rays of an afternoon sun.

Today gale-force winds slow ferries and tugs, waves roil into 12-foot swells, surf boils between the Rocks. Through rain-streaked windows I stare out across the Strait and ponder where the harbor seals are. Do they haul out or ride it out? Are they cold?

It’s hard to write about sunny days when there’s a storm on your horizon.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

70 boats, umpteen islands and two days

From the upper perch of the house, I catch sight of the blue hull angled gracefully against the sea and bearing out from Kangaroo Point with such velocity and precision, I half expect to hear a recording of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony begin to play as she passes. With a full complement of skipper and crew, the boat edges our shoreline in surreal elegance — so close we can hear stays moaning under the pressure of sails trimmed tightly to the wind.

When you live away from town at the edge of the sea, events have a way of passing you by — sometimes literally and often without warning if you forget to read the local news. Until we saw the boat Sunday, we had no idea there was a race in progress — that the 65-foot Icon was only the first of dozens headed our way to a finish line only a few miles south of here.

Nearing Lydia Shoal, Icon leads the competition. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

Excited to see the array of color, size and fleet, S and I watched until even the smallest vessels rounded the Point and — using what little light and wind remained — tacked their way slowly but surely south to Lydia Shoal, a dipping sun casting dark shadows against their white sails.

The annual race, “Round the County,” was hosted by the Orcas Island Yacht Club and the Friday Harbor Sailing Club. In two legs of the event, more than 70 sailboats in six divisions competed by navigating through and around dozens of our islands, including San Juan, Lopez and Orcas — covering in two days about 65 nautical miles of the archipelago.

Sailboats fill Rosario Strait during "Around the County" competition. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

Sunday’s leg (35 nautical miles) started by Battle Ship Island just outside of Roche Harbor at San Juan Island and sailed north toward Stuart Island, around the light house at Turn Point, up Boundary Pass, outside of Patos, Sucia and Matia and Clark islands before shooting south along the eastern shore of Orcas Island to finish at Lydia Shoal.

The course is particularly challenging to sailboats because the winds are unpredictable and varied (the islands themselves can block wind) and tidal currents often directionally confusing. We’ve witnessed this first-hand many times. Depending on the combination of wind direction and speed, tidal flow and currents, we’ve seen sailboats zoom by the Peapod Rocks like luggage on a conveyor belt. At other times, we’ve seen captains time the passage poorly during unfavorable winds and currents only to gain half a foot, give up, start their engine and motor on. It’s all in the timing.

As someone once told me, sailing in the San Juan Islands is challenging. It’s not the easiest way to get from A to B — especially on a time line; there are so many variables to manage to.

West of the Peapod Rocks (and a barge), two boats jockey for wind. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

S introduced me to sailing almost 10 years ago when together we purchased a 22-foot Hunter sailboat, which still resides in the Midwest and won 1st place in the one and only event we entered — a boat parade.

I learned to sail on lakes where tacking is not only a necessity it’s an art form. Mostly I learned to crew and the value of a tight sail, snap-shackle and hat.

When I relocated to Washington, I never moved or replaced the boat and still find myself yearning to sail again. I can recall the first time I heard the whoooosh of the sail against the wind and felt the boat begin to move; the first time we dipped the rails and yelled, “Whoo hoo,” — but thought, “Uh oh!”

I don’t think you ever outgrow a love for sailboats. On a boat or from the shore, sailing is one of the most exhilarating experiences, enrapturing all our senses in the simple act of moving man through water with wind.

I CAN HEAR S ON THE DECK SNAPPING PHOTOS, WHILE I WATCH THE BOATS FROM THE LIVING ROOM PERCH. A white-hulled boat sails near our shoreline then makes a quick tack toward the Rocks again. I hear the sound of the sails and observe captain and crew loosen, switch, tighten and trim all in the space of an instant. The moment she turns I see it — her name in large letters across the back, Artemis.

I’m so excited I yell down to the deck. “Look, look! Quick! Did you see it? Did you see her name?”

Somewhere back in Kansas City a 22-foot sailboat would be proud to know a sister ship in the San Juan Islands shares her name.

Artemis the 53-footer didn’t finish first, but she looked absolutely stunning. And sometimes that’s enough for any sailor.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

On the brink of winter, home is where the hearth is

When I hear the rain beating on the deck and my bare feet connect with the cold floor, I know instinctively it’s a “stove” day. Today S will methodically fill the stove’s belly with shredded pieces of cardboard and junk mail — torn to a precise dimension known only to her — form her signature tepee of wood scraps, limbs and bark, then ignite the presentation, blowing steadily on the flames until the cardboard burns brightly, the wood catches fire, two logs are added, its red mouth is locked shut and the cold room warms.

The stove is a critical accessory to a house with more windows than walls. Photo © Susan Anderson

When you live at the edge of the sea in a house that seems to have more windows than walls, a wood-burning stove is a welcome ally in the war against the chill and damp. The San Juan Islands average 247 days with “some” sunshine, which means the sun will be front and center — or at least make an appearance — but the other 118 days it hides behind cloud cover.

The San Juans also average 27 inches of rainfall annually, with four months, November through February, accounting for nearly half of all the precipitation. Add to the scenario shorter days, longer nights, a few gale-force winds and our own isolation, and it means we’re in for a long, dark winter. (In preparation, we’ve put away all our sharp knives, bulked up our woodpile, pulled out our winter fleece and stockpiled 14 varieties of soup.)

No doubt winter will bring us some new challenges (like the power outages the islands are noted for), but at least the San Juans experience milder winter temperatures than the mainland. This thanks to a rain shadow provided by the Olympic Mountains, which like a wall protect the islands from the south, and the Cascade Mountains, which block freezing temperatures from Canada. Combine this with warm ocean temperatures and a truckload of firewood and we should at least stay warm.

The old truck lived up to it's promise. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

The little truck that could — finally did

Last week we began preparing the little truck for the trip to the top of the property, where we had cut and stacked firewood waiting. The truck hadn’t been tested since it failed to climb the hill back in June, and I was running out of excuses for S, including, “Don’t worry. She’ll make it when she’s ready. She just needs new paint, a window decal, more local driving, two sandbags, maybe cement instead of sand, another approach, a second chance.”

I finally told Dotty straight out, “You better get in gear, get up that hill and earn your keep!”

At the bottom of the property, we loaded the bed for traction with two bags of sand, a few heavy logs and two giant rocks, then (with all the confidence I could muster) I drove like Mario Andretti — jettisoning from the blacktop at the road, spinning through the first of two switchbacks, gunning it up the steep inclines, racing Dotty the Blue Datsun up the remaining stretch to the top — where she did indeed earn her keep by carrying a full load of firewood back to the house. (We were so proud S took pictures with her cell phone.)

Now I’m trying to earn my keep, too. We emptied the truck at the house, divided the wood into two piles, stove-ready and needs-splitting and now I try to split four or five logs daily. It’s rewarding watching the size of the stove-ready pile grow a bit bigger every day. I know it will take more than that to get us through the winter, but I’m still perfecting my swing.

Winter dictates a woodpile here. November through February can be rainy if not cold, and a fire can brighten your outlook. Photo © Susan Anderson

The fact is, I actually enjoy the physical and mental exercise of splitting wood — though I’m not as proficient as S. Still, I like the sound of the axe grabbing the wood, the sound of the first crack and the smell of the split bundle in my arms when I gather it up and transfer it to the stove-ready pile. When a log doesn’t split easily after four or five tries, I put it at the bottom of the needs-splitting pile and will one day tell S, “I saved these for you.”

THIS MORNING I RISE EARLY, SWITCH ON THE COFFEEPOT AND FEEL THE COLD WOOD FLOOR AGAINST MY FEET, which inspires me to start a fire on my own. I expose the belly of the stove, open the flue and begin the fire-starting process.

I pull cardboard from the recycling sack and tear shreds from an old REI mailer, form my own tepee then strike the long match, which immediately pops off at the head and flicks the lit, hot ember onto my wrist.

When S gets up, I show her my lovely fire and point at my wrist, wincing. She says simply, “Put some Neosporen on it.”

But I don’t. Instead I spend the week wearing it like a war wound, showing it off occasionally to S, who knows now that I, too, have mastered the art of fire-starting — made especially easy with well-split wood.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.

 

Worlds apart but close at heart

After we board the evening sailing from Anacortes, I feel a sense of calm — knowing the ferry will dock at Orcas and S and I will soon wind our way on a dark but familiar blacktop road into Eastsound village, through Moran State Park, along Buck Bay and finally down a narrow, tree-lined drive to a tiny house at the edge of the sea. Out of the glare of florescent lights, away from the company of others, S and I sit in the car listening to the steady chug of the ferry cutting through the ocean — passing in darkness the shadowed forms we know are islands.

Ten days have passed since S and I left the island to attend my daughter’s wedding in Kansas City, a centered piece of land against which the Salish Sea can’t ebb or flow — a place where daily cycles are measured instead by the ebb and flow of rush hour traffic, which floods predictably twice a day at 8 A.M. and 5 P.M. through multiple interstates, loops and exchanges.

The sounds there are in stark contrast to our life now on Orcas, an island filled with sounds of a different working class — tugboat pilots lugging giant barges, seals chasing daily meals, birds scratching seed from a feeder, men and women with chainsaws cutting, stacking and covering wood in preparation for a rainy winter.

In Kansas City, a whirl of celebrations with family and friends replaced island solitude. Photo © Susan Anderson

In Kansas City celebration replaced solitude. Our days and nights were filled with clinking glasses, laughter, the rustle of wedding satin moving gracefully by violin down an aisle. In Kansas City, I felt the warmth of my grandson’s breath against my cheek, traded hiking boots for high heels and fleece for formal wear. I watched my son-in-law place my own wedding ring, my mother’s wedding on my daughter’s hand and felt the tears roll down my cheeks. Tears of happiness and sadness at the knowledge these moments are rare and wonderful and yet so far and few between when you live 1,983 miles away on an island.

The event was joyful and memorable, but I missed the quiet movement of the island, the sound of the wind through the trees, the slap of waves against rocks — sounds that remind me, too, of my current place in the world. Though I grew up in Midwest and raised my own family there, it doesn’t seem to fit anymore. And the city is filled with a different kind of life that has grown over the years more foreign to me.

On a busy day on Orcas, I drive to town at top speeds of 40 mph, pausing twice at stop signs and parking easily without the potential for aggravating another driver who believes I’ve stolen his spot. Other than the sound of geese overhead, there is no honking, no waiting at intersections with left-hand turn signals, orange construction cones or people racing through yellow, which turns to red. On Orcas I experience life in a different measure.

By living away here, we've become more attuned to the simple joys, like the smile of a grandson. Photo © Susan Anderson

The Pacific Northwest is alluring and inspiring to me and I believe makes me a better person for my family and for others. Still, there is a price I pay for the trade-off. Others don’t always understand how brave you have to be to live away from a grandson’s kiss, Sunday cookouts with friends or family. Yet, being away here on Orcas makes me better appreciate moments others often take for granted.

AT FIRST LIGHT, S AND I GET UP TO LOOK OUT AT THE DECK AND FIND TO OUR RELIEF THE CHAIRS are still intact. Despite high winds and rain, which plummeted the island in our absence, the chairs and pots are secure, upright and only an umbrella and stand are upended.

The bird feeder was emptied long ago, and the birds — which have either found new food sources, migrated south or are simply torturing S — are nowhere to be seen or heard. Apologetically, S fills the feeder to the brim and sprinkles additional seed along the bench in hopes they’ll return.

We make coffee, start a fire and look out at the sea, now at high tide and stirred by the wind; we hear it slapping at the rocks below the house. We download pictures from my camera of smiling faces, family embraces and days of strolling a baby boy with two new teeth down a cold Midwest sidewalk.

After an hour or so, we hear a towhee in the bushes and at last one lone nuthatch ventures to the feeder. By nightfall the junkos and sparrows return. Within 24 hours even the squirrel is back stealing seed.

“Get it while you can,” I say. “My son’s getting married in May.”

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Additional photos © Orcas Island Photos.