Beginning a 3,000-mile drive, I was the consummate water sport
commercial, breezing through OC and LA, with a bright yellow Avocet sea kayak
and red Fanatic SUP strapped to the roof. Thankfully, I breezed through LA where
KRTH was resuscitating Supertramp. Further fortified by coffee in Oxnard with
uber-paddler Kim Hayashi, the Fanatic found a new family amidst her many ocean
toys. I was off again while Kim went in search of a new SUP paddle.
North of Santa Barbara the coastline becomes more intricately carved. Wind
waves at El Refugio and Avila Beach were torched white by the low sun. Still in
radio static zone, I was saved from pretending I'd found some interesting thoughts
in my head, when forced to concentrate on the tight curves on Hwy 101 snaking inland.
Massive oaks dotted the dry hillsides, a magnificent arboreal buffalo herd of indigenous
California trees, sadly fragile and stressed by consecutive years of drought.
Finally, I was in the lands of the PIG: radio worth listening to. Democracy
Now, Lucinda Williams, Johnny Winter. The PIG stayed with me through Salinas
and the coastal mountains, through the cool Impressionistic fog: a grey-green
landscape accented by bright red, blue, yellow jackets and scarves bent over
cabbage and onions. In Hillsborough I lost the PIG. In Prunedale I hoped the
residents had a good sense of humor.
The Avocet was relinquished temporarily into Judy Walgren's garage while
I stretched my legs for about 7 miles through hilltop community gardens, the SFSU
campus, around Lake Merced and up Ocean Avenue. I passed one beauty salon
called Pretty Lady. Two blocks later was another salon called Grace and Mercy,
likely for those that couldn't be saved at Pretty Lady.
They say SF has the lowest density of trees per urban mile. Hard to
fathom, considering Golden Gate Park. But who would care? Everyone I passed on
Market Street was urgently buried in a cell phone.
Two nights with Judy Walgren, son Theo and Stella the Burmese Mountain
dog, were a much-needed infusion of visual storytelling righteousness and puppy
love. Even the publisher stopped in to pet Stella while I waited in Judy's
office at the Chronicle.
The Yak Friendship Tour had to bypass Ft. Bragg since the Liquid Fusion
crew was kayaking on the Lost Coast. Next time Jefe & Cate!
Instead I was swept up by tractor-trailer rigs into the mountains towards
Medford. I found myself in a nightmare of environmental fragility. The red clay
walls of Shasta Lake uncloaked by drought screamed “forever… from now on… the new normal”. In Talent, Oregon a man
emerged from a dusty trailer to inspect my Avocet for Quagga mussels and hand
me a certificate of clean. "Excellent choice," he said of my next
destination:
Oceanside.
The Oregon coastal pine forest smelled like mushrooms. A strong
Southerly wind tried to unpeel the fingers of a dense, low fog clinging to tree
tops. The forest spit me out at a tall sea cliff in fading light above people
and dogs wandering across a vast sand spit.
Randy Olson helped me unload his Avocet into the mountain of construction
materials that will be a warm, welcome den of creativity on a mountainside for
he and Melissa Farlow when it’s completed. It was hard to leave the Olson
family compound after a night of local produce and conversation. They chose
wisely, and I can’t wait to go back there.
SUP-ers from Portland passed me, heading for the coast as I
sped towards the city to see my brother working a convention, then up to
Seattle for breakfast with Alan Berner, with tales of his most recent exhibit
and new book Gone West, his extensive collection of images, in collaboration
with a German poet.
A violinist serenaded ferry passengers with Celtic tunes as
we pushed off from Anacortes, Mt. Hood looming off to the east. I studied the
swirling currents below, wondering which ones would trip us up in a few days.
But in the meantime, my mission in Friday Harbor was feeding the chickens,
pulling weeds in my potato patch and shopping for wine in a grocery store where
the check-out line single-word magazine titles are Bacon, Chickens, Tricycle,
Community.
Conversations on the LeBlanc patio beneath the giant sunflowers revolve
around the latest Sarah Palin family bar brawl, of course, and recipes for
ratatouille and currant cordials. Peggy and Jim have built Shangri-la on a
quiet inlet, complete with island foxes and talented friends.
So when Barb Tomita and Ken Fry joined us, to live in the LeBlanc’s
elegant Shaqteau cottage, the party included more hikes and a shakedown paddle.
Crabs walked up from the beach to bathe in the LeBlancs’ stovetop bathtubs
while Ken and I reviewed the charts for our island excursion.
I was the lucky one who had just dropped a log on the Saturday night bonfire,
looking up just in time to see a falling star explode. A handful of people
heard me yell in time to see its last burst. I considered the meteor a good
omen.
Peggy saw us off at dawn: Friday Harbor Gothic with paddles not pitchforks,
skirts not suspenders. We followed the morning wave of squawking Canadian geese
out around the freckled sea lions lounging on Danger Rocks before crossing the
channel with a dolphin escort to Shaw Island, where Ken spotted the lone eagle
sentry on a bare snag waiting for breakfast.
Barb masterfully picked the least turbulent line across the strong
eddylines in the channel. We took a casual beach break on Shaw before landing 12
miles later at Obstruction Park on the southeast arm of Orcas. This glorious
sandy beach and shaded campgrounds on the cliff above are accessible to day
hikers after a mile walk from a parking lot in the woods, so we were not
completely alone. Indeed, a pack of 20-somethings arrived soon after dark with
unknown quantities of alcohol and a loud German shepherd that gave me
nightmares about rude people.
Since we were not scheduled to launch until 1 pm according to shifting
currents, we took our time rolling up tents, eating breakfast, getting into
neoprene clothing. The air temp was 68, but the water was 48, so we needed to
dress somewhat thoughtfully. I made no apologies for tying our kayaks to roots
and logs the night before, even though the tide didn’t quite reach our boats. Better
safe than sorry. We shared our morning beach with three young people: a woman
in a skirt and sandals quietly folding blankets, a blond man with a Fitz (and
the Tantrums) haircut in yoga pants shyly shifting through asanas in the smooth
stones, and a second man with a round babyface framed by a dark beard reading
from a book heavy with neon green plastic page tabs.
Then began our tango with ferries. Catching a downwind swell on the west
side of Blakely Island, we rolled along at 6.5 mph in loaded sea kayaks across
Thatcher Pass. Not bad! We waited for ferry traffic to pass before crossing the opening to Decatur Island. Both islands had steep cliffs, difficult even for deer
to navigate. And despite the push from current, it felt long before we rested
in a cove. Decatur has long spits of sand, small forested hills, tiny beach
communities well protected. This is a nice island to escape to. Baby cormorants
serenaded us on the open water making us smile before pushing the last mile to
James Island.
We had our choice: camp with a view of the sunset, the sunrise, or both.
The island is so small, anything was possible. We opted for the sunset, but in
the morning brought our wet clothing and coffee mugs to the east side,
welcoming the warmth of day and warily watching freighters heading north towards Canadian waters. Lodgepole pines masqueraded as redwood saplings. Kingfishers swooped down on us, diving and
rolling. This was my favorite island. Beautiful trails into the woods,
sheltered beaches, excellent views, even newly constructed bathrooms.
Thankfully, Barb and Ken had paddled this route to Anacortes before, so
between them we navigated the shipping channel and found our way to Washington
Park on the mainland successfully evading collision with tugs or ferries or
freighters. Retrieving my car from the long-term lot up the hill, we loaded the
kayaks and gear, arriving at the rental house in Anacortes at happy hour. At
sea for three days without a fresh water shower is about max for most people.
‘nuff said.
Our well-coordinated shuttle involved Peggy driving Ken’s car over from
San Juan Island in the morning on her weekly foray to Anacortes, loading my
kayak on said car, unloading it onto rollers at the Anacortes ferry and walking
on, walking off in Friday Harbor where Jim and I loaded it onto his truck so it
could return to his woodshop rafters. I walked back on to the ferry
after a quick cup of Joe. Ken and Barb picked me up in
Anacortes. We had dinner in town, getting one meal to-go before picking up
Peggy at work and dropping her at the 8 pm ferry back to San Juan Island, hot
food in hand. Phew. Are we good or what? And then it rained ever so slightly.
