Bellingham or Bust Episode Five: Further into the Future

The fifth episode recounting a summer skin-on-frame kayak build and solo 130 mile kayak journey. 
From the start - read the first, second, third, and fourth episodes.

it is a short journey

a brief race

we each one take

upon the planet's spinning face

though viewing each day

as blessing

or curse

the rain as dreary

or poetry

in liquid verse

the sun as wilting

or warming

glow

failures

as devastating end

or new routing

on which to begin:

a boat flipped

may yet be righted

and paddled again.

26 - 30 of June 2014 | Meadowdale State Park -to- Burrows Island

Early rise from my blue tarp tent and scurry through breakfast before slipping boat back into the waterway. Covered about 4 miles in the first hour, then pulled off the side of the watered highway. Sat on a sandbar for an hour watching waves build with the incoming flood tide, churned up by a waxing southwest wind. Spent the next hour portaging 1 to 2 miles up the beach, wandering through the waves and tidepools dragging boat behind like a toy trailer full of dreams.

Slacktide calmed the shallows with its fullness, yet the wind raged on. The elements mocked me (said my little human mind), calling out that this ain't nothing when compared to the exposed coast, boy, you a chicken? To which I answered, yes, and thank you, and I'd not consider you an enemy, for then I might seek to beat you. That's a trip to the coroner, if they even find your foolish form in the slate-toned eternal depths of this molten, maddened mess.

Today, for the first time on this trip, I felt so very alone. A visceral sense of complete powerlessness against the forces of nature, the knowledge that my life and its longevity rest entirely on the mercy of my next route decision. This sobering elixir washed through me in a surfing swell as I powered against an incoming tide towards the end of today's 20+ miles. 

Unsure of whether I've missed Camano Island State Park, I paddle into a shallow bay and up a flushing creek. Climbed a short steep bank of driftwood to discover a freshly mown grassy square with picnic bench and chairs off the side in the weeds. Though I've searched a number of places in the five hours since arriving, no one appears out of the shadows to bid hello. Toolshed open, moped bearing a helmet sat in the driveway with key in ignition. Nearest cabin with a screen door all that is shielding it from my entry, shoes just inside the frame and apples on the table. I've set up camp in this large, grassy yard between the houses and inlet.

Nearly dark and still not a soul has come to inquire on the intent of the bedraggled fellow squatting on their land. Climbed the hill to check the 4 other cabins perched on the slope. Not a soul, not a soul. This gravel lane runs a bit further along the bank, to where I can see a house from up here, bonfire going full-blazes, two female voices crackling with the flames in boisterous discussion. Earlier, they or someone else from their compound, were out in a sail-boat dory, laughing like they were in love with life on the water, faces in the wind.

Laying down upon terra firma, the motion of the waves continues to modulate through my spine, the wind's grasp reaches for and clings to my frame. Even after hours upon the stilled land, the body responds like a tuning fork, or single string struck in harmony with the great instrument playing out this landscape, and I slip away from the wind into a sleeping bag vibrating a thankful tone.

Morning and I rise to find an occupant has returned to the deserted island retreat. A pricey and brand-spanking-new Dodge truck sits in the driveway. I hope these people are not wealthy, knowing the nervousness of the have's to be suddenly faced with unlanded gadabout's behind their fortress walls and community gates. I don't need a mirror to know the now two weeks of sleeping in a tent have not molded my image in the form of a College Republican banker's apprentice.

I walk toward the house and the gently rotund man in his late 50's visible through the picture window. Thinking he did not see my wave, I walk on to the door to gain his attention and permission or forgiveness before setting off. He comes to the frame, screen door between us. While not abrupt, he makes it clear this is private property, strangers are not allowed and I will have to pick up and get out ASAP. He does concede my one begged-for allowance - twenty minutes to eat breakfast.

By the time the meal is over and camp packed, he is out of the house and offering to haul the earlier unwanted immigrant and his goods over to the state park. "The tide's going out," he said, "so you'd have a long walk from here over sinking sand before you ever get to the water again." Thanked him profusely as it seemed wise to do. Turns out to be a real estate broker from Seattle, whose family owns this gorgeous property. He offers it's shared nature as explanation for why "we can't just have strangers showing up around here."

On the way out, he stops off at one of the many structures, with a shining all-wooden Casker-designed boat parked beside it. This beauty was made to run over the bars at the mouth of the Columbia, he tells me, pointing out the nearly symmetrical front to back shape of the stout machine's swooping lines, with an inboard motor to achieve a more level riding stance.

Hearing I was from Alaska, John spoke of his daughter, a social worker in Anchorage. "She lived up there for one year before coming home for a short time, then went back." Likes it up there then?, I asked. "Yeah, some boy up there she went back up for, doing that deal." I spared him the quip about the 49th State's gender distribution - ladies, the odds are good, but the goods are odd. 

After a long and confused search for the designated kayaker campsite, John drops me near a small building used for events. Pitching my tent between bushes, with kayak closing off the end for some wind shelter, I wander the grounds, unsure of what to do with myself with this much time off the water. Light rain is tempered with sporadic sunshine; fierce wind threatens to flatten my tent when it hits peak force. Impatience bristles on my skin until I look inward and recognize this as a well-chosen day of rest, or "The Sea's Day" as it will surely be known hereafter.

Found a sign on the nearby events building, a small square window-filled wooden white-washed hut indicating a reservation for the "Fryer Family Wedding." I soon discover that the reservation is for this very day, and that the father of the bride finds my presence within the area undesirable. "It's MY daughter's wedding," I hear him say in frustration to a young man in his late 20's, who arrived with him in a new Toyota Tundra. The young man says hello and asks about my kayak and travel. A phonecall is placed, then they two walk back to the truck. The young man bears a sorrowful expression, while father of the bride appears smugly triumphant.

Within 20 minutes, Vernon, Park Aide, is pulling up next to me. Vernon wears a large shop apron, multi-colored bandana about his head, and a work shirt open four buttons down. Bushy white beard and eyes the same color as the sea that I have been tossed to and fro upon for the past few days. "I'm sorry, but you're in the wrong spot," he says. Does that mean I have to move? I ask. "There's a wedding going on here," he says in some frustration, seemingly more at the situation than at me. "Look, I can put all your stuff in the back of my truck and take you right to the kayak campsite." Wonderful, that'd be great! I exclaim. "That's the nicest I can be," Vern says smiling.

He inspected my boat, and warmly approved of my drysuit and it's life-saving qualities, then apologized for being a worrying grandpa and went off to other tasks. With spoon en route to mouth for the first bite of lunch, a mid-50's woman with intense, flashing eyes strolls into camp. I soon find out she is president of the association that maintains these kayak campsites, and works in the realty office owned by last night's landlord. She wanted a picture of my boat, the campsite and me to put on the water trail's facebook. Feeling constrained by the sudden appearance of social media, I acquiesced to all she asked for, except my own visage. After moving the boat beneath the campsite sign to be preserved in her post, she asked to see John's card and took a photo of it as well, marveling that I had met the boss man and under such strange circumstances.

Evening of this rest day, wandered the 3-4 mile loop trail around the park's perimeter. Could see John's place from one corner of the state land, and the house where the girls had been sailing about the bay the evening before. Finished the loop with a stroll across the drift-wood scattered beach, where tide, time, or the humans have stumbled pieces together to form little huts and hideouts. Sat in one after the other, until bidding the wave, winds and water farewell until the morning.

Early Saturday morning Vern stopped by to shake my hand and wish good luck. Thanked him for his hospitality and help moving the day before, then paddled 20 miles to Ala Spit. It is a dreadful campsite, in terms of condition. Even noting it as dreadful gives me a jolt of guilt for denigrating this brief home in the stunning Skagit Bay. But it did desperately need a severe trim of the five foot tall grasses it was covered in. I pitched in the narrow area between the grass and the concrete breakwater, atop a tilted backfill of duff and other woody debris, sharing my bed with a variety of cockroaches and sand fleas.

Scrambling atop the boulders flung here to temper the waters course from stealing away more sand from Ala Split that it already has, came across a grave marker, engraved in Memoriam to Nathan, 25 years old, celebrating his favorite landscapes, snowboard and mountain bike beneath a snowy peak, a boat on the water christened Freedom. Surely placed here, as its weight couldn't bear travel by water alone and would likely have rested along the floor of the Bay had it ever attempted the course without flotation. Contemplated the brevity of breath, the joy that this boy's family showed for the life of their loved one, and resonated with thankfulness for the time that he had to flourish and for whatever time I have, for this time, this moment, how fortunate to have the ability and desire to go out into nature in solitude.

The twenty-ninth of June, awoke with an eagerness to see and experience the fabled Deception Pass. The double-spanned bridge hovering nearly 200 feet above the tumultuous passage came into view, marking my goal. With it firmly in my sights, I pulled over on a gravelly beach to watch the variety of vessels ply the waters towards the famous pass-through, while awaiting the appropriate time to do so myself. Resumed paddling until 1/4 mile out, then pulled into an eddy in an off-lying rock to wait again. A jetboat roars past, its wake swamping me, sending the boat and me up the rocky bank and settling it back down, dried out on a barnacle-encrusted rock. Still afloat!

In the pass, dodging traffic. Waving at a family atop the bridge, looking down from on high. The water swift, but not frighteningly so, though the currents were still confused in places, the boat skipping oddly where it swirled in non-linear lines. Exiting, the wide world of Juan de Fuca strait spread out ad infinitum. A gentle swell steadily rolled in. After sneaking between Allan and Burrows Island, the abandoned Burrows Island Coast Guard Boathouse appeared, perched high on the cliff.

After unloading and toting gear up the cliff then over to its edge, set up with a staggering and panoramic view out towards Decatur and Lopez in the distance. Back down the cliff and off upon the water for a few miles to Flounder Bay and some provisions. The unloaded boat perplexed me at first, so light, bobbing about as if made of styrofoam. The wild current halfway to my destination spun me about while crossing its outgoing flush, from the reverse lane circulating adjacent. 

A half mile walk to the marina gas station netted sandwich, beer and ice cream. Walked back to shore to eat, leaving phone to recharge. An hours contemplation and digestion rumbled by. Retrieved charged phone and filled water jug, then paddled back to my cliffside accommodations.

I sit exultant, and dance with glee in the setting sun. Blessed with fair weather, I am in awe of the beautiful expanse spread out in every direction.