Bicycling the San Juans
by Dorothy Stephens
Copyright 2007, Adventure Cyclist magazine. Reprinted with permission.
To read about our San Juan Islands-6 Day tour, click here
Imagine green wooded islands in a vast blue expanse of water. Pods of killer whales feeding on harbor seals and salmon. Bald eagles hunched in the trees, their white heads in stark contrast to the dark green branches, like snowballs on Christmas trees.
These are the San Juan Islands, scattered along the coast of the Pacific Northwest in Puget Sound. You can experience them with sail or paddle, tour them by car via the inter-island ferries, or see them, as I did, the best possible way — up close and intimately, on a bicycle. From a car or a boat, I wouldn’t have smelled the rich fragrance of sun-warmed Douglas firs or the damp smell of a field of lavender in the rain, I wouldn't have heard the harsh kak-kak-kaks of the eagles, or tunneled on a bike trail through the thick green gloom of a forest. And speaking of rain — yes, we did have three and a half days of rain on this September six-day bike trip organized and run by Bicycle Adventures of Olympia, Washington. But, surprisingly, I found I liked riding in the rain. At least I did in the San Juan Islands where, except for one afternoon when we gave up biking in a downpour accompanied by high winds, the rain was gentle and intermittent, with the sun trying to peek out now and then. It also didn’t hurt that I was comfortably dry in my new rain jacket and that the visor on my helmet kept the raindrops off my glasses.
We were an eclectic group of ten cyclists with two guides, our ages ranging from early forties to my own eighty. Besides my biking pal Louise, with whom I was traveling, the “guests” included a neurologist, an orthopedic surgeon, a young woman CPA, three insurance brokers (two of them a father and son), a retailer, and a dairy farmer from upstate New York. One of the guides was my daughter Laurie — the frosting on my San Juan cake. We had come from all over the States—the South, Midwest, Northwest, and New England — but in spite of our varying backgrounds and ages, we were a congenial group. There were few complaints (well, maybe occasional moanings about the hills and the rain), but most of the time laughter was the order of the day. At one point, Ben, one of our members, feeling some pain from the hills, set us all laughing when he called to an astonished jogger passing by, “Hey! Wanna buy a bike?”
We were at various levels of fitness, although most of us had done our best to train for the trip. Only Art, our dairy farmer, complained that he was so busy with his cows all spring and summer that he had only cycled sixty miles all year. Art was given to some exaggeration, however, and he turned out to be one of the strongest bikers in the group. We believed him about the cows, though. Laurie said when she called him prior to the trip, she was startled to hear a loud noise in the background. “Art,” she asked. “Was that a moo?”
“Yup,” he answered. “One of my cows.”
On this trip we had the luxury of a support van and a guide riding “sweep,” but it could have easily been a self-supported tour as well. There are a number of pleasant inns and good restaurants to choose from and a variety of loop rides from the inns to keep you from loading yourself down with panniers and backpacks. We stayed three nights at the Lakedale Lodge on San Juan Island and two nights at the Deer Harbor Resort on Orcas Island, which spared us having to pack and unpack each day.
We had gotten on our bikes in Anacortes, Washington, and had ridden to the ferry terminal nine miles away. A three-and-a-half-mile detour en route took us through Washington Park, where the trail swooped up and down through a tangle of wildflowers and tall trees, with magnificent vistas from the rocky cliffs of the surrounding islands in Puget Sound.
During the hour’s ferry crossing that followed, I had a welcome opportunity to visit with Laurie, who lives in Oregon — 3,000 miles away from my home in Massachusetts. On these trips, the guides work hard, but Laurie and I managed to ride or eat together occasionally, and at night, in her room or mine, we shared stories of our separate daily adventures before collapsing into bed. Throughout the trip, I watched with interest her interactions with the other guests and later warmed to their glowing comments about her.
At Friday Harbor on San Juan Island, sailboats crowded the harbor, and people overflowed the outdoor cafes or strolled along the waterfront licking ice cream cones. We hopped back on our bikes and rode the five miles to the inn through a rolling landscape of woods and green pastures where cows and sheep grazed. Those “rolling hills,” as they were described by Laurie and our other guide Bill, became a standing joke among us. They seemed to roll mostly up, and steeply at that. I admit to walking my bike up a few. This should not, however, discourage anyone who is reasonably fit and has trained moderately for biking. If I, who only started biking after age seventy, could do it, anyone can.
From Lakedale Lodge, a luxuriously rustic building set beside a quiet lake, we did a loop ride the next morning to the Pelindaba Lavender Farm, where the hillside fields were a haze of misty purple and the air was filled with the clean sweet fragrance of lavender. We explored the gift shop, full of everything lavender — lavender oil and sachets, lavender vinegar, lavender lemonade, lavender cookies and scones. The oil and sachets were refreshing, but most of us agreed that lavender does not translate well as a flavor for food.
Our picnic lunch that day had to be moved to the inn as this was the day of the heavy rain. I was just getting comfortable with the rental bike I was riding and was beginning to hit my stride, so I resisted my daughter’s request that I stop riding, along with the others, and get in the van. Only her shout of “Moth–er!! Stop!” and my friend Louise’s “Come back!” persuaded me to turn around, relinquish my bike, and reluctantly climb aboard.
Back at the inn, after changing into dry clothes, we warmed ourselves by the fire with hot tea, soup, and one of the gourmet lunches our guides prepared for us each day. Today it included pesto tortellini, a salad of greens and fresh pear, and warm crusty bread. I restrained myself, after another order from Laurie, from jumping up and helping my daughter serve and clean up.
The rain had stopped by afternoon when Louise and I biked from the inn to Roche Harbor, a tiny village-like resort five miles away. Its white-painted wooden Hotel de Haro, vintage 1886, faces the harbor, with gorgeous flower gardens leading down to the water. Small shops, art studios, and cafés line the wharves. Behind the hotel the dark arches of three limestone kilns, set into the cliff, are reminders of the thriving nineteenth-century limestone factory that once existed here. With one of the few limestone quarries in the West nearby, industrialist and businessman John McMillin built the kilns and factory to convert the limestone to lime, which was used to make cement for the construction of buildings and sidewalks in San Francisco and other western cities.
Mr. McMillin had a vision of a memorial that would symbolize all the things he and his family believed in. He was a man of his time and place — a Mason, a Methodist, and a Republican, all of which influenced the design of the building that his wealth created, making his vision a reality. Known as the Mausoleum, it occupies a central spot at the end of a pine-needle–strewn path through the woods, only a stone’s throw from Roche Harbor. A set of cement steps — what else? — leads up to a circular slab ringed by massive columns. In the center of the circle a set of heavy cement chairs surrounds a large table. It is creepy, verging on the macabre, to discover that each chair contains the ashes of the family member whose name is engraved there. According to a pamphlet I picked up in the hotel gift shop, everything in this bizarre structure, including the table, symbolizes something — God, country, family, mankind. The table represents the family dinner table where they will gather in the hereafter, the winding stairs the mental and spiritual life of the world as a whole, the one broken column hanging in midair the broken string of life and the unfinished work man leaves behind. Strangely, in spite of the eccentric nature of the Mausoleum, the surroundings project an aura that is soothing and peaceful.
Not far away, on the outskirts of the village, the work of local sculptors is displayed in the Westcott Bay Reserve Sculpture Park. Over eighty-five contemporary wood, metal, stone, and cement sculptures occupy nineteen acres of open fields, with trails winding among them. The sculptures range from a life-size, realistic boy on a reddish wooden horse to one that vaguely suggests cannonballs and rifles and another sculpture of a nude reclining woman. Some are so abstract that it is hard to discern what the artist was trying to show, such as the three headless stone statues — or are they vases?
We took a break from cycling the next day and instead boarded a small whale-watching boat that headed out of Roche Harbor in search of orcas, the thirty-foot long, black and white killer whales that live along this coast. Beyond the last island, on a choppy sea in the Juan de Fuca Strait, we found a pod of transients. They were traveling fast, their black dorsal fins slicing the water like dark sails as they cruised back and forth in search of seals. Transient pods are those that migrate up and down the Pacific coast in search of their favorite food, the harbor seals. Three pods of local orcas also inhabit these waters year round, feeding on the salmon that are in such generous supply, but on this day we saw only the transients. The naturalist aboard our boat told us that just the day before he and another group had watched an orca lunge for a baby seal that was sunning on the rocks and bite it in half before devouring it. The orca, incidentally, is well equipped in its hunt for food, with more teeth in its mouth than any other mammal on earth.
Our captain sped up in an effort to follow the swift parade of black fins until they disappeared beneath the waves. Turning back, we cruised along the edge of Spieden Island, where harbor seals lolled on the banks, cormorants dove for fish, and a river otter swam nonchalantly close to the boat. On shore we spotted no less than six bald eagles perching on the twisted red branches of the madrone trees.
On our fourth day, after eating an early breakfast and loading our suitcases into the van, we biked to Friday Harbor and took the ferry to Orcas Island. Our ride on Orcas started with a long uphill, then included more of those rolling hills in the Crow Valley, one of the most beautiful parts of the entire trip. Horses grazed in neon-green fields, with red-roofed farmhouses and barns as backdrop, and in the distance mountains were draped in streamers of white mist. When our route descended to the shore once more, we passed hundreds of rows of black stakes poking above the water — an oyster farm, whose sweet harvest we would sample later at dinner.
Our picnic spot in Moran State Park lay at the end of a four-mile (up) hill, and most of us chose to get a boost in the van. Only four valiant bikers, including the intrepid Art, pumped the distance. In the camp’s shelter, beside a blazing fire, we lunched on hot beef and barley soup, bagels and cheeses, salads and fruit, and chocolate cookies. The park includes thirty miles of trails and the pretty lake and sandy beach we lunched beside. Had the weather been warmer, we’d have been tempted to swim.
After lunch we all passed on biking up Mount Constitution, a demanding twelve-mile round trip with an elevation gain of two thousand feet. By now a light rain was falling, and we opted to ride up in the van for what turned out to be a nonexistent view. The mountain was socked in with fog and clouds that obscured a panorama of islands, mainland, and sea, from Mt. Rainier and Seattle all the way to Vancouver in British Columbia. At the top of the mountain we met two hardy cyclists, loaded with tents and gear. One of them, rain sliding down his beard, smiled happily and waxed eloquent about how much fun they were having, riding the mountain in the rain. He wasn’t joking.
Our seventeen-mile ride in weak sunshine (the rain, fortunately, had stopped) to the Deer Harbor Resort took us along the water through forests of Douglas firs with long views across the Sound. At the inn, Louise and I had our own two-room suite in one of the cabins along the hillside. A cozy fire burned in the living room, and our own hot tub stood outside on the deck, with a view of a harbor full of boats below. After a hot bath and a session with a good book by the fire, we walked to the nearby Deer Harbor Inn for dinner, with tasty homemade pea soup for a starter.
Our next day was another layover day and began with hot cinnamon buns at breakfast. Thus fortified, we trekked down to the dock and had a sea kayaking lesson before venturing out among the islands. Jake, our naturalist and guide, had us practice how to get in and out of the boat, how to don spray aprons that would keep errant waves from spilling into our laps, how to manipulate the paddles, and how to stay safe: stay low, and don’t lean over the side to point out exciting sea life to your companions. Above all, if you capsize, pull hard on the cord that releases you from the spray apron and boat. It was a possibility none of us cared to consider, especially in view of the cold seawater surrounding us.
With Jake in the lead, like a flotilla of bright-colored exotic sea creatures in our rainbow of kayaks and orange spray aprons, we paddled from island to island along jutting rock walls and wooded shores, bouncing over waves and facing gusty headwinds in the open water between islands. After an hour or so, Jake gave us a welcome break by letting us go ashore in a protected cove on tiny, remote John’s Island. We stretched our legs, snacked on energy bars, and followed Jake around the island while he pointed out some unusual fauna. Japanese oysters as big as my hand clung to the rocks, their hold so tenacious that they cannot be pried off but must be harvested on site by smashing their shells. Jake demonstrated by chopping one open with a rock but said they were inedible at the moment because of a toxic alga bloom that had affected them. Nearby, dozens of Lion’s Mane jellyfish lay dead on the sand, enormous dark red masses a foot across, the largest jellyfish in the ocean, with long stinging tentacles. Not something you’d care to meet while swimming.
The paddle back to Deer Harbor was easier with the wind and current at our backs. Along the way we saw Bonaparte’s gulls, marbled murrelets, a great blue heron, and cormorants diving for fish. A huge orange Brittle Star lay at the bottom of several feet of clear water, and harbor seals cruised along with only their nostrils and round black eyes showing above water.
Back in the harbor, where Laurie and Bill awaited us, we stopped at an open air café on the dock for hot chocolate. It had started raining lightly again, so after lunch we all piled into the van for a trip to the Crow Valley Pottery Gallery. The work of over seventy artists is displayed here in a classic “old Orcas” log cabin plus another rustic building, both chock-full of art. Outside the gardens are bursting with flowers and everything conceivable that can be made out of clay. Pots and platters, mugs, bowls, and plates hang on trees and on the sides of the buildings. Others are propped up on tables or on the ground, such as the whimsical “yard art” of a line of ducks and a collection of owls. The colors of the garden flowers and the glorious combinations on the pottery were dizzying. It was like stepping inside an artist’s paintbox.
Our last day began with an eight-mile bike ride under blue skies and warm sunshine to the Orcas Island ferry dock. With breakfast croissants from the local hotel in hand, we wheeled our bikes aboard for a short ferry ride to everyone’s favorite destination, Lopez Island. Rural and relatively undeveloped, it has little traffic and lovely back roads between dark evergreen forests, brilliant green meadows of hay, and pastures where cows and sheep graze. We paused to let deer cross the roads before melting into the trees and surprised startled rabbits which scooted into the underbrush. Our destination was Agate Bay State Park on a pretty bay with a view of other islands and mountains on the horizon. We refueled on a picnic lunch beside the water, then continued our ride of about twenty-eight miles around the island to Lopez Village, where Bill and Laurie were waiting. The van took us from there to the ferry back to Anacortes and home.
As has happened to me before, after being on a bike for all or part of six days, instead of being tired and ready to quit, I was feeling fit and raring for more, reluctant to have the trip end. It is one of the many rewards of touring on a bicycle. As the training effect kicked in, I felt stronger at the end than I did at the beginning. And, of course, had I taken this trip by car, I would have lost the opportunity to spend the better part of each day outdoors, breathing the fresh scent of the sea, stretching my muscles, and feeling the lift that comes with being in command of my body, knowing that my legs and heart and lungs will respond when I call on them to climb another hill, to push those pedals around just a few more miles.
It is a small physical triumph, but especially at age eighty, a soul-satisfying one.
Dorothy Stephens is a former teacher and a freelance writer whose work has appeared in national magazines and newspapers. She co-authored Discovering Marblehead, and her memoir, Kwa Heri Means Goodbye, has recently been published (November 2006). She and her husband live in Marblehead, Massachusetts, where her favorite form of exercise is riding her bicycle along the ocean.