As I write this, we are 11 days from leaving Orcas Island. The time has flown by, and we still have a lot to do before we leave. Primary among those items is the decision on how to dispose of the RV if we don’t sell it between now and then. (Day before yesterday, we listed it on Craigslist and posted notices on bulletin boards all over the island.)

We know we can store it here for a reasonable fee, but then what do we do? Try to sell it from afar? Come back and retrieve it? In many ways, selling it before we go makes a lot of sense because that would tie up loose ends, but even then, in my daydreams, I’m trying to find ways to come back to the island. (Family reunion? Retirement? This has been an awesome–in the best sense of the word, full of awe–experience.)

Orcas Island is a phenomenal place. The people–undoubtedly tired of the 800,000 tourists who come traipsing through here each year–have been uniformly gracious and friendly. The scenery–no matter where you look– is spectacular. The lifestyle is thoughtful and mindful, rather than the mindless rushing about of regular life. Crime is almost nonexistent. The arts flourish here. There are no chain stores (well, I did see a NAPA Auto Parts) and, compared to most of our lives, that is no drawback at all.

Stationed up here on top of the mountain, the weather is a little cooler and wetter than I’d like–but I hear it’s warmer and sunnier down at the bottom, so maybe that’s not as much of a drawback as it seems. (We’re looking at five days of cold and rain coming up–naturally, on our days off when we’d like to get things done.) I’d like to do more running–flat, road running, not this trail running nonsense that eats up my knees, both inside and outside–and I’ve seen several gravel paths running through and near town.

I feel a sense of community with this place. I don’t know how well it would stand up to day-in, day-out, year-round living, but I sense it would be abundantly pleasant. Even allowing for the “grass is always greener” effect, it’s far better than the mindless existence so many of us settle for.

But I am only one half of a couple, and it takes two to make things work. I think Elliott agrees with me on much of the above, but perhaps not enough to drop everything and move. And moving might destroy the dream. There are tough decisions to make. What I’d like to do is grab all the people I care about and move them here with me too–but that daydream is unrealistic.

Home is where the heart is, and part of my heart will always be here on the island, no matter where I’m living.

After a truly wet and chilly week bracketing Labor Day Weekend, the sun returned to Orcas Island, much as it has been throughout August. The rains were sufficient for Moran State Park to remove the campfire ban, but the season here is now largely over, and the number of campers but a fraction of last month’s count. Cabin fever had me itching for a hike.

On a day trip to Deer Harbor, I’d noticed the trail heads, north and south, for Turtleback Mountain Preserve. This block of wilderness, although somewhat smaller than Moran, is its equal for hiking beauty. The preserve boundaries encompass Ship Peak and Turtlehead mountains, with well groomed trails ascending from the south end trail head past vista after vista. I was hiking with our friend, Darlene, one of the summer volunteers, and also one of the ice cream “wenches” at the Moran Park’s ‘Sugar Shack’.

Turtleback is less well known than Moran, and even in peak season will give one a very quiet experience in the wild, with much less hiking “traffic” than the Moran trails carry. Climbing up the South and West Overlook trails, I was surprised to find madrona trees of much greater girth than you typically see on the shorelines of Orcas Island, and at an elevation much higher. The overlooks encompassed the full length of West Sound, dotted with sails and ferries.

We stopped at Ship Peak for a rest and a spot of lunch. At this point, one crosses a ridge ascending Turtleback, and the views overlook the populated interior of Orcas Island, with a patchwork of farms, hayfields, orchards, forests and vineyards extending all the way to East Sound and North Beach. It’s very different than most of the vistas seen hiking at Moran State Park, which reveal only forest lands extending to the eastern water passages, the mainland, and Vancouver Island.

Had we gotten underway earlier in the day, Darlene and I would have turned west above Ship Peak, and made the climb up to Turtlehead mountain, but the days were getting shorter, and our exit plan from the park entailed walking down to the NORTH trail head, and hitchhiking back to the car, parked at the south end. I didn’t want to be thumbing a ride too close to sunset, so we turned east at the branch leading up the highest mountain at the preserve.

Even so, there are two overlooks with wonderful vistas along the north trail, Waldron Overlook and North Valley Overlook, followed by a steep descent to the trail head.

I informed Darlene that my secret superpower is hitchhiking, stuck out my thumb, and the very first car stopped and gave us a ride all the way back to the south end trail head. Our chauffeur was a lovely lady, the proprietor of the Blue Heron B&B, with a sweet old Labrador retriever. She went out of her way to deliver us to our car, and we shared a fun conversation as we rode.

Turtleback Mountain Preserve, although less well known, is one of Orcas Island many splendid treasures, and must be seen.

Seven Lessons I’ve learned by living in a small space (95 square feet, more or less) for two months (so far) with my husband:

There’s only one cook in the kitchen. Literally. The kitchen blocks both the door to the RV (the big door) and the door to the bathroom, so timing is important, sometmes even imperative. If I need to continuously stir something, communication is important. “Little door, coming through” is a cry you don’t need to hear while your hands are busy in the kitchen, the phone is crocked under your ear, and your nose has started to drip.

A comfortable bed is essential. Ours is a little too hard for me, just right for Elliott, but I’m growing accustomed to it. What’s harder is that I’m used to a king size bed, and I sprawl. Right now, I’m too leery of getting comfortable because if I shove Elliott too far, well, there’s a five-foot drop on the other side of the bed. Despite his snoring in my ear (earplugs don’t seem to work as well at a six-inch range), I really don’t want him to fall out of bed. Till he starts snoring, anyway.

Warmth is also necessary. Maybe someday I’ll get used to cold, but in the meantime, I–the nonmechanical one–have had to learn how to turn on the propane gas, the gas heater, the water heater, and the oven. And they all operate differently. I’m still scared of the water heater, but the others I’ve mastered. I suppose it’s an important skill, should I ever be deserted in the cold isolation of a rural area in an RV I have no intention of driving all by myself. Also, we’ve used up our first tank of propane and will need to get more, which entails driving down hairpin curves on a narrow mountain road because the delivery trucks don’t come this far. I would suck at boondocking.

The world does not end if I don’t shower every day or if I wear the same clothes (more or less) three days running. Unless I go running, in which case (men sweat, women glow), I’m lighting up a five-square-mile area at high noon. But trail running isn’t happening here (not with scraped knees and bruised ribs from my last attempt), so the world is safe from my armpits for a few days more.

Headphones are essential. I like to read–okay, I love to read–but reading while listening to the latest sample of Audible’s Daily Deal at high volume is not conducive to comprehension. Hence, earbuds, headphones, or some other way of muting the noises coming from Elliott’s devices. I’m sure he doesn’t want to listen to my Barry Manilow anymore either.

Stir crazy is directly related to sunshine, and television doesn’t help. We’ll ignore the fact that there is not much on television worth watching (I made Elliott watch Shirley Temple’s Heidi yesterday) and not everything on the Internet is worth perusing, and jump right into the fact that staring at each other over our respective computers after many hours does not lead to endearing looks of everlasting love. More like, “It’s raining and cold out there. I’m bored,” sounding much like small children in need of entertainment. I used to tell my kids, “I’m not here to be your entertainment system. Boredom comes from within.” The words have come back to haunt me.

I don’t need whatI thought I did. I need fewer t-shirts but maybe more sweatshirts, given the recent cold weather. I miss my sewing machine and I miss kitchen storage, but beyond that, pffffft. But what I haven’t spent on kitchen supplies, I’ve probably spent on kindle books. I certainly don’t miss cleaning a big house, my garden (that’s a surprise, really), or mowing the lawn. You win some, you lose some.

We won this one. We’re comfortable with each other–and each other’s foibles. You can’t hide much in 95 square feet.

Yesterday’s hike was a 1200 foot descent from Mt. Constitution (elevation 2409 feet MSL), and thence a slow 700 foot ascent through old growth forest, climbing back up to the peak of Mt. Pickett (Elevation ~1750 feet MSL).

The Twin Lakes trail has become very familiar, with its initial rocky switch backs, crumbly with gravel sliding under our feet like ball-bearings. The footing, thankfully, improves for most of the climb down, but is steep enough to make your knees complain unless one shortens one’s stride quite a bit.

At the lakes, we turned to Mt. Pickett, and made our way up through the old growth forest. The plan was then to do the loop around the south arch, a long wooded loop that would have us returning by Mountain Lake, but we changed the plan when I spotted surveyors’ tape marking a new trail that turned east and north. It was exciting to explore this untraveled part of the park, not knowing exactly why it was marked, or where it was taking us. It led down the back side of Mt. Pickett, toward the shoreline, but ended suddenly below the last ridge lying between us and a very steep descent to the water.

We were at the last of the orange tape markers, when I noticed a black, shiny feature perched atop a fallen log about 20 feet to the right of the trail’s end. I climbed under some limbs, and on reaching it, discovered it was a fragment of a black, earthen jug, with spout and handle still intact. It was next to a geodetic marker, much lower to the ground and harder to see.

It was obviously placed there to make it easier to find the geodetic marker. The pink ribbons marking the trail went no further, and we concluded that it had been blazed to take a surveyor’s party back to that marker when needful.

With no further marked path to guide us, the obvious choice was to turn back, but we decided to climb that last ridge to see if there were any views out to the water. The ridge was steep, but with sound footing in soft mosses, and we were amply rewarded

for our effort with a beautiful picnic site overlooking Barnes, Clark and Lummi Islands and the channels between them. It was time for lunch!

After sandwiches, trail mix and water, we retraced our steps, and returning to the geodetic marker, I placed an animal skull we’d found on top of it, to note our passing. The return trek was even more exciting, in that we decided to take a short cut off-trail over a ridge to intersect the road north and west of Mt. Pickett. This saved a repeat of the climb all the way to the top of that mountain, sparing energy for the climb back up Mt. Constitution.

We circled the eastern lake at Twin Lakes, to be able to say that we did, and Ann checked that off her list. Turning uphill, we made our slow way retracing the switch backs, back up to our camper. The 1200 foot Twin Lakes ascent (actually ANY ascent back up here) is a real cardiac workout. After a cup of soup, and with a book in hand, I conked out for about two hours.

I described our hike the next day to a young park ranger who became passionate about the terrain we had explored. It is an area of old growth and bluffs overlooking a part of the park that he would like to see opened. If a trail could be improved there, it could make accessible a small piece of shoreline which Moran State Park has retained on the Rosario strait facing Barnes Island.

He would like to see that become a rustic campground for backpackers, with marine access too, similar to the rustic campgrounds at Obstruction Pass State Park, a small marine-use sister park managed by the staff here at Moran State Park.

I’d like to see his vision made real too.

Would I be a volunteer host again? You betcha, and for a whole lot of reasons:

• Elliott and I have learned to live in a smaller space, with all of our essentials. Do we need 3,000 square feet? Certainly not. Can we live in 95 square feet indefinitely? Um, no. Among other things, a somewhat larger shower would be nice, as would room for my sewing machine. And having room in the fridge for more than one chilled bottle of wine would be great, though not necessary. Elliott probably misses his computer tinkerings and all of its assorted pieces of equipment. If I were to do this full-time, I’d need two desks: one for my computer and one for my sewing machine. And yes, I like my creature comforts–though fewer of them than I had thought I needed.
• Living isolated has taught us that it’s up to us to get out and move. I can’t rely on my running buddies (though I definitely miss them) to motivate me to run. I miss running–correction, I miss having run–and I’m not sure enough of my footing to go trail running. Hiking is a good alternative, and the uphills keep me huffing and puffing. I still need to make myself go out and hike–the lure of vegging out in front of the computer is strong–but the self-discipline is good. (I think I was a sloth in a previous life. In a warm climate. With plentiful food supply.)
• It feels good to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. (This might be the royal we, as I haven’t really talked about this with Elliott.) Knowing that I can make a difference in every park visitor’s experience is motivation to keep that smile on my face, that “we’re glad you’re here” in my voice. (Though I will admit that’s not always true. There are those rare people who talk down to me as if I were a second-class peon whose only purpose is to fulfill their every park desire. See the vest? It says “volunteer,” not “walk all over me.”) Even picking up litter means that I’m making this bit of the world a little bit better.
• Getting to know a park really well–and the other park volunteers–is rewarding. When someone asks me, “What’s this trail like?” I can reply with personal knowledge and maybe make their visit a little bit rewarding too. As a day-tripper, I could appreciate the scenery from an egotistical point of view (“I like this,” “I find this beautiful,” “I saw an eagle,” etc.) but I couldn’t share a lot about the park itself. Now I can. (And yes, that’s a do-loop of an egotistical point of view as well. I think it’s impossible to escape our ego, but not impossible to let it rule us.)
• And speaking of ego, working in a not-very-well-funded state park means a lot of our focus is on making the park better, and not on ourselves, our experiences, our self-entitled worlds. Everyone here works to make the park a better place. It means some days I find myself plugging mouse holes with 2” circles of wood and a bit of glue, and other days I’m painting ceilings in the bathroom. It means combining Elliott’s trip into town with a stop at the shop to drill holes in the new “welcome, visitors” signs advertising free coffee and tea.

I’m thinking this has opened up a whole new world for us, one that I hope we’ll repeat. I’m not sure I’m ready to give up the sticks-and-bricks home that we’ve built–not yet, anyway–but it has definitely expanded our world.

Length: 5.75 miles. Duration: 2-1/2 hours. Steep downhill, gradual uphill.

While Elliott and fellow volunteer Darlene were off consuming oysters yesterday (fresh, briny little buggers that he reports were delicious), I set off on a hike that was partly already-traversed territory (Summit to Twin Lakes and Cold Springs) and partly new (North Arch area).

Despite being on a 57-square-mile island, the only long-range views of this loop were at the end of the hike. The ripples and currents in the water called for yet one more photo of an ever-changing landscape. These are the views that make you feel like a tiny speck of dust in a giant windstorm, a single mindless drop in an ocean of the same.

The rest of the hike was what I had expected when we decided to head to the Northwest: old trees, mossy landscapes, narrow paths. These views are the more close-in ones, the ones where you are just yet one more example of a

vast landscape of beings and plants. As my hikes get further out from the tourist centers (the lakes, the tower), I encounter fewer people and more mysteries.

Mysteries like the circle of stones with a stone cross bisecting the

circle. Who put these rocks here? Why? When? And mysteries of the two burned trees about ten feet apart–but nothing else had burned near them. [A digression: Some native pine trees require burning to propagate. Unfortunately, controlled burns are discouraged here, for various reasons: There are old growth stands it would be a shame to lose. Some of the second-growth trees are some 150-200 feet tall, and fire would spread uphill rapidly. Fire breaks would be near impossible to create. Rather than even attempt a controlled burn, apparently the state legislature at some time in the past redefined “old growth” to include younger trees, thereby making it politically (environmentally, economically, legally) difficult to get public support for such an attempt. I wonder if it would be possible to select a few trees, cut them off at some lower defined height, station a dozen or so people with fire extinguishers around, and burn the stumps, giving Mother Nature its necessary burn but preserving the trees around them. Maybe? Who knows–not me.]

Part of this hike borders a 23-acre square “hole” in the middle of Moran State Park that is the site of a private antenna farm visible for miles around the area, from Vancouver in the north to the Olympic range in the south (including Mount Rainier). Signs on the trail warn you when you are leaving the park, discouraging unwanted visitors. Deer, however, have no compunction about disregarding the signs, and I spotted one drinking from a pond that was probably just inside the restricted area.

One of the reasons for these hikes is to stay in running shape. I’m not sure it’s working–I’m averaging about 30-minute miles, but I am getting aerobic workouts. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see how I do when I get back to the flatlands.

And a humorous addendum for all of you patient readers who have made it this far:

If I fart in the wilderness, does it make a sound?

Assuredly, yes. Mine must be like bull moose mating calls or something. I stop and listen to birdsong, squirrel noises, and leaves rustling, assuring myself I’m the only one there. But inevitably, as soon as I let loose, someone appears. Yesterday it was a trail runner coming from the switchback path above me. The hike before that, it was at a trail intersection I hadn’t known was there until I reached it–and saw the group of hikers silently parading by not fifteen feet from where I was–silently being the operative word, and which I was definitely not. Deadly is still under debate.

This is extremely embarrassing. I know part of it is due to a healthy (as in lots of beans and rice) diet, some is lactose intolerance, some is age, and some is, well, a lack of muscle control. Being new to this extravagant abundance of gas means that I’ve never figured out how to time such things or how to postpone them. They just happen.

But there is a plus side: If ever I fall off a cliff while hiking in Moran State Park, one toot and someone will arrive to summon the EMTs.

This post is a shout-out to others living as nomads, especially any of you who have done the volunteer park host, docent, or light house “keeper” thing:

So, I glanced up the other day to see a guy with binoculars six feet in front of our motor home, smiling like a jack-o-lantern, and gazing in our front windscreen with his field glasses!

How do you deal with the curiosity of the public near your home? Ok, it’s a camp site, but home is home…is where you hang your hat… and where the heart is…AND, HEY, YOU! THIS IS WHERE I LIVE!! BEAT IT!!!!!

From the very first day here, some visitors to Mt. Constitution have had a tendency to wander all around our camp site, which is the one and only hook-up here. It’s a no-camping, day-use only part of the park, and we’ve got a little sign out there that reads, ‘SUMMIT HOSTS – ANN & ELLIOTT’.  There are also saw-horses, and a polite sign which reads, ‘PLEASE DON’T BLOCK RV SITE’.  Most people do “get it” that, “Hey, that must be a residency”, and they respect the boundary.

But for a certain kind of person, every boundary is a challenge to their special entitlement to violate it. The first few times these dweebs would really raise my hackles, but with the passing days here, I’m considerably more relaxed about it, if no less disgusted by these creeps. I’ve learned to see the humor in their absurd conceit. If I have “the drop” on them, it’s kind of fun to suddenly pop into view.  Like ambush journalist Mike Wallace barging into the corrupt politician’s office, bang! There I am, all alligator smiles, asking, “Are you lost? Can I be of assistance?”.

In fairness, sometimes they really are just disoriented, and in dire need of the restroom. Those people I cheerfully help and guide along.  But the voyeurs will blanch with shame: They’ve been caught peeping in your windows, and they know… that you know… what they were really up to…AND what they are. It’s kind of wonderful to see them stammer, “Uh, no, … good-bye.”  And off they slink!

Well played, Elliott… well played!  😀

This little journey to Orcas Island, and experimenting with unemployment, early retirement, call it what you will, started without much planning. To say that the sudden decision to take three months of unpaid leave from my career was spontaneous is a major understatement. One minute, I was blithely puttering around the house, the next I was searching Craig’s List for a cheap motor home in the Pacific Northwest. How do these changes happen? Or perhaps better to ask, “Why?”.

We have met a number of people who live and travel full time over the past several years, and that life holds a certain allure for me. Many of these modern gypsies are in retirement, but not all. The young people who work and travel constantly are the most interesting of them. When it’s time to retire, it’s easy to think of selling the “farm” and hitting the road, but for younger people the point is that “farms” never held any appeal in the first place. Nomads don’t imagine that they should ever cling to one permanent home, but feel at home as they travel. They are “permanent transients”, to borrow Edward Albee’s phrase from ‘The Zoo Story’, but joyously so. They do bond and form communities, both with people fixed in space, but also with other nomads with whom they crisscross paths over and again.  They’ve acquired skills that allow them to earn and be productive where ever they are.

My work is doctoring people’s eyes, and as such hasn’t lent itself to wandering off so.  I did have earlier careers where frequent travel might have been the normal mode. I might have become an actor, or remained in the military, but those paths didn’t stick. Now I’m very close to setting the clinical work aside. Would I want to live constantly in 90+ square feet, caring for the vehicle and its “life support” systems, and thinking ahead to the next port of call, the next vista? Maybe…  maybe not.

But whatever I learn, it will be from having sampled the nomad’s life for a time. It needed a leap from safety. A bungie-jump, if you will.

Geronimo!

Three days a week–Tuesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays–it is my responsibility to pick up litter in the day use area down by Cascade Lake. This is a recent addition to my duties because two of the volunteer hosts had to leave for medical reasons, and so the remaining volunteers have divvied up all their tasks. Since I have to start my day at the gift shop on Tuesdays and at the learning center on Saturdays and Sundays at 11 a.m., that means I have to get down to Cascade Lake and back up here before that time–and it’s 4.3 or so miles each way, and normally takes four hours just to hike.

I could easily drive to the bottom–but we’re in a borrowed car and are trying not to kill its transmission by going up and down the steep road more often than once a week or so. So I’ve started hitching a ride with the ranger or park aide opening up here at 6:30 a.m., do my litter-picker-upper job, and hike back uphill via the Cold Springs Trail.

Yesterday, Elliott went with me–and since I didn’t have to work in the gift shop, we had all day to hike. We stopped on the way down at a couple of abandoned mine shafts, where someone had gruesomely  placed a rabbit skull (Deer? Human?) on a stick at the entrance. Elliott bravely followed the shaft until it split in three directions and then opted to return to me, waiting at the entrance and ready to flee at any moment for help, life, or backup (depending on what he found). Near the bottom we also found what has to be one of the largest trees in the park, though the majority of them are to be found near Mount Pickett–a hike for a different day.

It takes about an hour to pick up litter at the beach, the parking lots, and the picnic areas. Although most people are considerate and dispose of their trash, there are sometimes those who simply leave their tables littered with used cups, paper plates, paper ice cream dishes, the remains of a dozen or so crabs, and so forth. Grrrr! Cigarette butts abound in the parking lot, presumably where someone waited for errant family members to arrive. The worst litter is the fruit sticker, since it gloms itself on to pavement, tables, grass, etc. Many people do stop me and thank me, and it does feel good to leave the area looking much better, so I guess I won’t complain too much about the few.

After dumping the litter in trash cans, we took the Cascade Loop trail to Cascade Falls, where there are actually four waterfalls: Rustic, Cavern, Cascade, and Hidden Falls, all found within about a half-mile of the trail. Cascade Falls is the tallest, at over 40 feet, and the highest in the San Juan Islands. During the course of our hike to Mountain Lake, the path followed the stream–and we found several other, unnamed but equally enchanting, waterfalls. We also found trail riders and a banana slug.

At that point, nearly nine miles into our hike, we called it quits and hitched a ride to the top with Gary, one of the park employees. Facing the last five miles–most of them a steep incline–on a by-now empty stomach was more than we could bear. Still, we’re well on our way to covering all 38 miles of hiking trails in Moran State Park.