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.

Mount Pickett’s enchanted forest

Four miles into the hike we pause for a brief moment to catch our breaths, staring out through the trees to an opening. Though I always pretend to be admiring a view, the moss on a trunk, the softness of the forest floor, the truth is I am usually just resting my knees, my lungs, my feet. I’ve discovered, however, during these moments of quiet observation, we are much more likely to encounter the spectacular — like the owl in flight or the fairytale beast that crosses our path in the stillness of the forest.

Trails in the park are clearly marked at intersections. I always know how far I've gone, how far I have yet to go.
Photo © Susan Anderson

I had put off the 11-mile hike to Mount Pickett and Twin Lakes long enough. The days here are getting shorter, cooler and sunshine is at a premium. The week of her birthday I promised S I would do the hike and keep my whining to a minimum. Armed with lunch, plenty of water and leftover coffee we set out early one morning in October for a 6-hour hike in search of fall color, exercise and a peek at the old-growth forest.

Deciduous trees are not abundant on the ever-green Orcas Island, home to the Cypress, Pine and Yew families. The color we get during the fall is sporadic at best. Unlike other areas of the country where fall arrives in stunning style, color here is not showy. To find it, you have to go looking for it, and it’s not always on trees. The reds, oranges and yellows often poke up from the ground or extend from trees in the form of mushrooms juxtaposed against the richness of the soil, the browning of ferns, the vibrant green of moss in the forest.

Elfin Saddle mushrooms stand out against the moss, their shriveled heads evoking fairy tale characters.
Photo © Orcas Island Photos

Our Mount Pickett trail began at the Cascade Falls trail head in Moran State Park, a geographically diverse masterpiece. The park comprises more than 5,000 acres, five freshwater lakes, cascading waterfalls and streams and 38 miles of hiking trails meandering from bottom to top — culminating at 2,400 feet with panoramic views of the islands, mainland and two mountain ranges. Trails wind along stream beds, over wooden bridges and through paths lined by an enchanting forest.

We selected the Mount Pickett trail this day because it connects to the Twin Lakes trail and, according to park resources, winds through “the largest contiguous tract of naturally propagated, unlogged old-growth forest remaining at the lower elevations of the Puget Sound Trough.” The trail has an elevation gain of over 1,100 feet but is gradual — more hike than climb — and follows for the greatest part a well-maintained service road.

It was while looking for color and a quiet afternoon retreat that we unexpectedly caught site of both the barred owl and fairy-tale beast, which as it turns out is a uniquely spotted deer. I have occasionally seen some of the deer in the lower levels of the island around Rosario, but coming upon this one alone in the old-growth added a mythological quality to the encounter.

Our encounter with the spotted deer was an unexpected treat. We felt like elves in the forest.
Photo © Orcas Island Photos

It is our understanding white – perhaps albino — deer were introduced to the island by Robert Moran, the shipbuilder and previous Seattle mayor who donated 2,700 acres of land to the state. Over the years, this deer crossed with the native mule deer and produced an interesting look. Watch him leap through the forest and you’ll swear he’s Pan the faun.

WE ARE BARELY TWO MILES INTO OUR HIKE WHEN S SPOTS THE BARRED OWL FLY ACROSS THE TRAIL and land in a tree not fifty feet from us — easily camouflaged by the cascading branches.

While I stand perfectly still, S gently unzips the side pocket of her bag, eases the camera out, changes the lens and whispers, “Where is he?”

I haven’t taken my eyes off him since he landed and begin to detail his position in highly precise terms: “There. Over there. Right over there! Eleven o’clock and out five feet. No, below that branch and out two more feet. He’s looking right at us. See his eyes? Now he’s looking right. Now left. See his eyes? You can’t see his eyes? Ok, see the dead limb? Now go up and left. The dead part. Can’t you see the dead part?”

Exasperated, she puts the camera to her eye and uses the long lens to locate him just beyond the branch of a fir tree (with the dead part.) She snaps two photos before the barred owl lifts from the tree, glides across our path and disappears into the enchanted forest without a sound.

© 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.

Commando squirrel, small but brash

I’m working at my laptop in the bedroom when I first hear the rumble-scratch, rumble-scratch — a noise I can’t quite identify emanating from the outside wall. I call out to S, who I thought had already left for town, with no answer. Again, I hear rumble-scratch, rumble, rumble-scratch and look up to see the squirrel on the deck. He passes the sliding door, looks in at me then — as if to goad me — leaps at the glass with his tiny front paws like a schoolyard bully slapping a classroom window. “Yeah? Whatcha lookin’ at?”

I am quite certain this squirrel is the same one S tries to keep from the bird feeder. This guy doesn’t even scamper away; he moseys with the swagger of a western gunslinger. He ain’t ‘fraid of nuthin’. He’s small but confident; he’s an imp in an auburn coat.

The Douglas' squirrel prefers to gather his seed near the convenience of a feeder. © Photo Orcas Island Photos.

I ease out of my chair slowly and creep out of the room to find the camera so I can snap a photo of him at the slider. I need evidence to illustrate his cockiness. By the time I’ve tip-toed across the lower level of the house and returned with the camera, he’s posing on the deck railing, occasionally looking back to confirm I’m still there. When he sees the camera, he slips down the post into the brush. Gone baby, gone.

When S returns home, we assess the situation and decide he’s probably trying to bury his winter food in the flowerpots on the lower deck. “If you really want to get even, I say, dig up his winter store — that will teach him to steal the birdseed.” We investigate the pots and find them empty; apparently that wasn’t his mission. We’re now convinced he was on recognizance to pinpoint our positions.

When you live in a house with as many picture windows and doors as we have, you’re never really alone. Birds watch the kitchen to know when we’re up; they hang on window frames, pace the deck and perform intermittent flybys in anticipation of their morning meal. Deer walk boldly down the pathway only feet from the house to feed on the lawn — fully at ease with the knowledge we are inside looking out at them looking in. The Douglas’ squirrel has stolen a page from their playbook.

Cute? As the devil!

The Douglas’ squirrel is one of the smallest tree squirrels, reaching only 13 inches, which is probably even an exaggeration for an island breed. Active mainly during the day year-round, he eats seeds, nuts, mushrooms, berries and bird eggs. He caches food for winter and emits a bird-like, repetitive (and often grating) chick, chick, chick when we’re around. He’s feisty, vocal and ingenious.

In late August, the squirrel laid low, disappeared from the feeder for a period of time. Then one day we heard what we thought was the sound of a hammer strike. The sound was loud, repetitive. We soon discovered in the firs of the upper forest, the squirrel dropping cones onto the deck of the guesthouse on the property. One-by-one he dropped the cones like tiny bombs at 200 feet — bang, bang. bang! The sound echoed off the deck through the forest like a hammer pang.

The squirrel begins his retreat when he spots the hose. Photo © Orcas Island Photos.

Known as scatter hoarders, Douglas’ squirrels store food all around them. He was either breaking them open or just dropping them down to gather later. (They don’t have cheek pouches to hold stash like other tree squirrels.) Apparently they cut green cones in the fall and store them in the ground; they gather seed and nuts and put them in piles or middens under logs and at the base of trees. Because he won’t find or eat all he’s stored, the Douglas’ squirrel actually fills an important niche in spreading seeds in the forest.

IN MY OFFICE NOW I HEAR SCRATCHING ALONG THE OUTSIDE OF THE HOUSE. I LOOK UP from my desk to the upper edge of one window and see an upside-down tiny brown head looking in at me. Our eyes meet. Rumble-scratch, rumble-scratch, he edges along the frame. He wants to know where we are. It’s no fun stealing food if someone isn’t there to catch you.

I put S on alert, and a few minutes later hear her slip out the side door of the upper deck. I can’t see what’s happening but soon see the squirrel leap to the backside of a nearby fir and hear the familiar chick, chick, chick —which I now believe in squirrel-speak is an impish tee hee hee.

© 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.

Lizard aside, Doe Island romances the kayaker

Three miles up the coast, we stuff our bulkheads with all the essentials for an overnight excursion, carefully matching gear to space — pushing pointy things into pointy places and layering the rest along sloping edges of the kayak hull — until at long last all the necessities, including the two-person hammock and plastic polka-dotted martini glasses, are loaded and set out to sea. Thirteen hundred paddle strokes and sixty minutes later, we’re unloading, climbing the steep rocks and exploring our private paradise.

Barely an ink spot on most navigational charts, Doe Island is still a worthy adventure for day-trippers and overnight campers and especially suited for kayakers in search of the perfect sunset. Situated between Buoy Bay and Doe Bay, the 6-acre island is a designated state marine park favored by kayakers for reasons including its proximity to Orcas (nearly spitting distance), the conveniences of Doe Bay Resort and additional camping and beachfront facilities at nearby Obstruction Pass.

The campsite on the southwest edge of Doe Island offers both sunrise and sunset views — plus a perfect place to string a hammock. Photo © Susan Anderson

The Washington State Parks system has 21 marine parks — designated marine because they are only accessible by water. But you won’t find much good information about Doe Island on the Park’s Web site — unless you’re researching Sucia Island, which is where you’ll learn the park removed most of the dock and pilings on Doe due to storm damage and hasn’t budgeted replacement until 2012. Doe Island isn’t even listed in the Park’s drop-down menu.

Yet the island is worth the crossing as locals apparently know. The evening we were there a couple rowed ashore in a dinghy, drank a glass of wine and watched the sunset, then rowed back home before dark. The next morning, a man motored ashore just before sunrise in an inflatable — which frankly scared the daylights out of two sleeping campers — hiked the 1/4 mile loop trail, then took off before the sun even broke the horizon.

Doe Island may be small but it has more than 2,000 feet of shoreline on the island, much of it easily accessible at low-tide, which we experienced in the morning under beautiful blue skies — after the departure of our sunrise visitor. We walked around a good portion of the southwest edge looking at tidal pools and rocks covered by mussels and barnacles and seabirds looking for breakfast.

The island offers five campsites with varying views and privacy depending on the time of year. On the fall weekday we camped there, we had the island entirely to ourselves (except for the three brief visitors) and spread out on the western-most site. This site sits high on a bluff overlooking a beach and rocky cove, and offers both sunrise and sunset views — not to mention an expansive panoramic of Rosario Strait.

Paddling through bull kelp near the Orcas Island shoreline, north of Doe Island. Photo © Susan Anderson

While only a few miles south of the house — the island gives us a different perspective of Rosario Strait and the North Cascade range, including a view of Mount Baker, which we can’t see from the house. Unfortunately, we could still hear the Stellar Sea Lions grunting and belching from the Peapods. Don’t they ever sleep?

The route to and from the island also gave us an opportunity to see the river of bull kelp, which settled along our coastline in late spring. From our perspective on the water, the kelp is bigger than we imagined. Bull kelp can reach 40 feet in length, with each whip-like stem supporting 4-inch bulbs and 7-foot blades. (Trust me, when it hits your rudder you know it.)

The kelp will die out this winter, but for now they’re firmly attached to the rocks and currently provide good cover and dining opportunities for seals, gulls, heron, otters and similar life currently fishing the beds.

A lizard blends into the tideline debris on Doe Island. Photo © Orcas Island Photos

THE TIDE IS RISING MEASURABLY, OUR LAUNCHING BEACH NARROWING; S AND I WORK QUICKLY TO PACK THE KAYAKS again so we can catch a favorable current back north to Kangaroo Point. I seal my back lid, bungee the safety gear and — out of the corner of my eye — catch the movement, which turns me instantly into the world’s fastest sprinter, skipper, jumper.

S — who has witnessed my 100-yard dash often enough — says simply, “What is it?”

“There’s a snake,” I say. “Why is there always a snake? He’s blended in with the tide debris.”

S walks over to take a look. “It’s a gecko or something,” she says, trying to shoo him away from the gear bags. I’m relieved; sort of.

Turns out he’s probably a northern alligator lizard, which by the way is more commonly found in forest edges and talus slopes NOT on beaches. Someone should tell him. He could have been run over by a kayak(er).

© 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.

Foggy with a chance for rockfish

With coffee in hand, we walk up the drive and cross the slope to check on the status of the garden. The cherry tomatoes we planted in April are bigger but still lime green. S likes to count them (there are 22) — partly to ensure field mice aren’t getting them and partly to validate her efforts, which required a pickaxe, a lot of sweat and weeks of carrying five-gallon buckets of water from the house to the fenced plot. Me, I’m just hoping for a salad before Christmas.

Despite wide-open exposure on the upper slope, the garden didn’t get enough sun through spring and summer. An adjacent hillside of firs, pines and arbutus gave the sun late-afternoon shelter; it dipped before it could dazzle. Now it sits lower, moves more horizontally across the sky. We’ll be lucky to see “cherry” by mid-October.

An oil freighter and pilot boat maneuver around the Peapod Rocks through dense fog, increasingly settling in the San Juan Islands. Photo © Orcas Island Photos.

Days are gradually shortening, fog rolls in more thickly and frequently, and birds are on the move — all signs that the world is turning, our seasons changing. The bald eagles, which had all but disappeared from the area two months ago, are again visible, new and diverse birds are visiting the feeder, and the highly vocal oystercatchers are suddenly no where to be seen.

San Juan County boasts one of the largest eagle pairs in North America. (Washington state is second only to Alaska.) Until two months ago, we saw two pairs regularly on the property, along the shoreline and on the Peapod Rocks. Since bald eagles are known to have two nests, we weren’t entirely surprised by their absence. Unfortunately, turkey vultures — which are MUCH less majestic and look a bit clumsy roosting — took to the eagles’ airspace.

The black oystercatchers went MIA only recently. These funny creatures joined our shoreline in April. The first time I heard them, I thought S had put a teakettle on to boil and I went upstairs to remove it before I realized it wasn’t a kettle at all but birds.

Black oystercatchers pry their meals from rocks at low-tide. Photo © Orcas Island Photos.

At low tide, oystercatchers (apparently misnamed) fly in to feed on limpets and mussels, prying the delicacies with chisel-like beaks. Their vibrant-orange beaks and eyes set against black plumage — combined with their unique vocalization, which sounds honestly like old women screaming “We’re here; We’re here; We’re here.” — makes them all the more cartoonish.

The oystercatchers aren’t known to migrate, but movement is noted in spring and fall. The Seattle Audubon Society estimates there are more than 400 of the birds in Washington state; in winter, the San Juans’ population may gather in three or four large flocks. Did someone say tea party? (The Society has a very nice audio link if you care to hear the whistling teakettles for yourself.)

Meanwhile the wild birds, which frequent the feeder — now filled twice a day because S says, “They’re hungry,” — are growing incredibly diverse. Many are passing through on their migratory route south, but seeing the diversity in size and species at the feeder simultaneously is a recent and rare treat.

S AND I LEAVE THE GARDEN AND HEAD BACK TO THE HOUSE JUST IN TIME TO SEE A BALD EAGLE swoop down toward the rocks, his legs and talons fully extended. Before we can reach the deck he turns, re-tucks his legs and talons and circles several more times. Circling high above him are six to eight vultures.

Close to the shoreline — out of our view — is something of great interest to the circlers. We imagine several scenarios, until curiosity gets the best of us, then hike down a steep and precarious path not far from the house. The path ends on a ledge that juts out from the coastline, allowing us a clear view of the hoopla.

The Western Gull with the his coveted rockfish — even the vultures and eagle couldn't claim. Photo © Orcas Island Photos.

From this angle we can see a sizable bird coveting an equally sizable something. I stay safely on the ledge — in case I’m needed to speed-dial the hospital — while S uses a rope, climbs down the rocks and snaps what looks like 87 photos, which we use later to ID the culprit and prey as an immature Western Gull with a rockfish it probably stole from a seal. The Western can reach a formidable size of 26 inches at maturity — still, we were hoping for an albatross.

Meanwhile, above the ledge, above the relentless pounding of waves against rock, I hear the cooing, singing, chirping of little birds stuffing their fat beaks with seed from a feeder.

© 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.