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Night and Day: Kayaking the San Juans

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I can just make out the faint purple illumination from the glow-sticks attached to the other five kayaks’ sterns. We’re far enough away from the campsite that it’s finally quiet—we’ve left the boisterous youth group and angry mostly-in-the-bag motorboater behind. The air and sea are still. My eyes have adjusted to the blackness enough that I can relax in the cockpit without fear of being knocked over by its inkiness. I plant my blade, and the water underneath me explodes into a surreal and swirling barrage of blue electricity. As quickly as the light ignites at the end of my paddle, it fades away. I add to the stillness by becoming speechless.

Somehow, in my 35 years of existence I’d failed to learn—and no one had mentioned—that paddling in the cold, dark, northern waters of the San Juans at night produced magic. I’ve always wanted to see the northern lights. Now I’m not sure I need to.

Our guide, Andrew, whispered that should I flick some water onto my sprayskirt. I do, and for a moment it looks like I’ve cracked open one of his glow-sticks. Curious, I paddle hard to add speed to the equation, and I’m led by twin bioluminescent rails emanating from the bow wave, and trailed by deep pocketed vortexes of blue behind; I’m a Tron character without the need of the arcade.

Around the corner and out of the small bay, it’s quieter and darker. I float motionless, looking down into the water, and I’m transported to my east coast childhood with its fields and forests alighted with thousands of fireflies. I wonder when they learned to swim.

Sitting there, staring into bioluminescent fairy dust, I thought about how I’d almost talked myself out of the night paddle. I had the same reasons to sit out as the others in the group: It was late and cold. I was tired. My gear was wet and who wants to put wet, cold gear back on? Fortunately, I chose to fear regret more than the chill. We paddle and play and experiment for about an hour before returning to our warm campfire. It’s well past midnight, but I’m wide awake and in awe of the show we’ve earned from nature.


Just like the night paddle, I’d almost talked myself out of this entire trip. Four days paddling with Alder Creek on a guided trip in Washington’s San Juan Islands isn’t the biggest, grandest, or most logistically challenging adventure in the world, but I had the usual complement of reasons for being tempted to bail: There were projects at work that could use my attention. That chunk of our tax return would be better served in our savings account. Guilt over leaving the kids for days. Et cetera and so forth. Thankfully, I’m starting to learn to interpret those nagging thoughts telling me not to do something new as confirmation that something fun is on the horizon. Plus, my wife and I could really use the time away; with three rugrats, four recent house moves over two states, and one mortgage, we needed more than just dinner and a show. Kayaking the San Juans it was.

The ferry ride from Anacortes allowed me to relax, breathe in the salty air, and proudly replace my harried breadwinner cap with my touron1 tuque. Landing on Orcas Island felt like I’d swapped New World for Old. The slight island-induced claustrophobia I felt in my chest was a good reminder of just how long it’d been since I’d been anywhere new and outside my element. Arriving well after dark and trying to dodge raindrops, Christina and I threw our tent together on a patch of grass at West Beach Resort and called it a day.

(An aside: If there’s a place on this planet that’s a better stand-in for Camp Runamuck than the West Beach Resort, I wouldn’t know where to find it. Right up until the appointed quiet time, bands of unaccompanied and roving kids played, families huddled around the bonfire, and the office/store/unofficial-town-square handed out free popcorn.)

We met the remainder of our paddling companions, as well as the Alder Creek guides Andrew, Steve, and Dennis, the next morning down by the shore. It became quickly apparent that, as a group of humans that didn’t know each other, we’d get on just fine. Gear was stowed, boats were assigned and (over-)loaded, and cars were shuffled. After a simple lunch, we pushed off for a drizzly six mile paddle to Jones Island, a tiny island that’s 100% state park and served as our base camp.

Great trips often blur into amalgams of memory and experience; they feel both too short and too densely packed with fresh experiences to keep details organized. So it was on this trip into the San Juans. We took shorter jaunts to explore The Nature Conservancy’s somewhat ironically named Yellow Island2, lunched on Little McConnell in the Wasps, paddled and played around the shallows, photographed starfish, and were gawked at suspiciously by several seals. We hiked every inch of our host island, steered clear of the too-boisterous redneck families, wondered how so many determined deer could live on such a small rock, and marveled at the San Juan sunsets. There was a memorable lumpy water 2.5 mile crossing to San Juan Island, a quasi-mutinous stop at Posey Island State Park for its bathroom facilities en route to Roche Harbor, and the beautiful blue skies that appeared out of nowhere to usher us to the conclusion of a 15 mile day. The highlight, without a doubt, was the night paddle.


Sunday morning’s return paddle to Orcas Island wasn’t particularly long, but I found myself coasting at the back of the pack in a vain attempt to soak in as much as I could. Soon enough it’d be time to break down personal and group gear, load boats, make the mad dash for the ferry back to Anacortes, and endure the seven hour drive back to Idaho. From where I was sitting, though, I couldn’t fathom a reason to rush.

Much later that night, after many miles of playing rumble strip ping pong on dark and empty roads, we arrived regret-free to a house full of sleeping family. Exhausted? Sure. Invigorated? Absolutely.


1 “Used by tourist trade to describe bumbling visitors; compound of ‘tourist’ and ‘moron.'” Indeed.

2 We were informed, repeatedly, that there’d be no bathroom facilities, and going rogue (so to speak) wasn’t an option. Methinks people went a little lighter on the coffee that morning.