Back in the San Juan Islands

The sea continues to call to us and we found ourself back in the San Juans for an eight day sailing exploration of the islands and our skills, learning something new everyday and becoming more proficient along the way. Spending the first night in Rosario on Orcas Island, we set out for an evening hike, trying get as high as we could on Mount Constitution, the highest point in the islands, and running back down in the dim twilight. Our next stop was the fabled Sucia Island, one of the smaller remote islands not served by the ferry, completely dedicated to camping. From all that I had heard about it, I thought we would have the place to ourselves. Not so much. The cove where we anchored was very Virgin Island-esque in the number of people anchored there and on shore there were loads of happy campers. Sucia, geologically, is very different from the other islands with its dramatic undercut sandstone shores. With all of it's natural beauty, I can see why it draws a crowd. Prevost Bay on Stuart Island was our next stop. As we rowed our dinghy up to the dock here, we were greeted by a baby harbor seal resting on the back of a boat. She was the cutest thing I think we have ever seen (don't tell the chihuahua). Quick note on seal behavior. After a mother seal gives birth, she leaves the baby for up to three days to go hunting. In the meantime, the baby seal gets really lonely and hungry. As a result, this baby seal kept sucking on the back of the boat and then looking at us with the biggest, cutest eyes ever, breaking my heart every time. I really wanted to bring her home with us and have her live in the bathtub. After we tore ourselves away from this uber-cute distraction, we headed out on our hike past an insane "air-strip" complete with tiny airplanes parked amongst the trees towards our destination, a lighthouse perched atop a cliff. Between us and the lighthouse, however, lies the "car of doom." The car of doom is an old rusted out car crashed below the trail in the woods. Two year ago Captain Robert from Schooner Martha taught us the proper way to appreciate the car of doom, as he anxiously encouraged the boys to gather rocks along the way, in preparation of the rock hurling that was about to ensue. Having to keep with tradition, the boys giddily hurled rock after rock at the car of doom. It was the highlight of their trip. If we wouldn't have torn them away, they may still be there.

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Take two. The show goes on.

Sylvia update: As it turns out, Sylvia, in fact, needs a rebuild. Since the mechanic will have her for an extended period of time, we asked him to look through all of her systems and fix anything that looks questionable as we have hair-brained, crazy dreams of, perhaps, driving her to Maine this fall, an adventure that, I'm sure, has countless possibilities for minor, or major, hiccups. 

As I mentioned before, we headed out on revised plans to the northwest. After a few chocolatine-filled days in Seattle, we drove our most reliable and time-efficient car out to the Olympic Peninsula to Kalaloch Beach, my favorite family vacation spot as a kid, where we met my parents and two youngest siblings. Here we tried out my not-so-well hatched plan of sleeping in our three-person tent, something we have avoided for the last six years due to the not sleeping. I had delusions that it would be different this time since the boys now sleep through the night, and really wanted to try it out as I have backpacking hopes for the future so it seemed like good time to try it. Let me just say that we planned on camping two nights, but we only lasted one. After the fortunate few of us who slept woke up in puddles, we crawled on our knees to my parents' cabin they had rented, desperately asking if we could spend the night there. They were baffled as to why we hadn't stayed there in the first place and graciously squeezed us in. We really, really miss Sylvia. 

After a couple of cups of tea we were ready to roll, through the rain. Upon pondering the possibilities, taking into account where it may be less rainy, we headed inland, to the Hoh Rain Forest located in Olympic National Park, where Aaron happily placed another stamp in our national parks passport book. As one might expect it rained on us incessantly as we hiked through magnificent old growth rain forest with gnarled, moss-draped trees towering over the fern-carpeted ground, past crystal clear streams and milky rivers. I am very thankful for rain jackets and pants which made the day a pleasant exploration instead of a miserable ordeal. Our next stop was the sea-stackful Ruby Beach where we were greeted by a beachside pond perfect for rock-skipping and throwing. My little brother Zander has an amazing arm and can easily out-throw everyone, including the adults. Jason tried his very hardest to best my twleve-year-old brother, and, in the process, almost took out all of the kids and a group of strangers when he whipped a rock as hard as he could, releasing it at the exact wrong time. Thankfully he didn't hit anyone and his ego has mostly recovered since. As we lounged on the beach and the kids romped, played, and explored, the  clouds parted, and we were treated to a little bit of sunshine, a glorious end to the soggy day. After dinner back at the lodge, we headed down to the beach where Zander, Grandpa, Jason, and Isaac threw a football, while Aaron and I explored the huge logs that had washed ashore, trying to estimate which was longest as the sun set. Sigh. Though our time was shorter than we hoped here, it was really nice spending time with my parents back in old favorite places and sharing them with my kids. Thanks for inviting us.  

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So we had this plan......

So we hatched this plan to take 25 days to make a sweeping camping trip across Washington state from Mount Rainier National Park to Kalaloch Beach in Olympic NP on the peninsula to meet my parents, to Anacortes where we hop onto Montana Sapphire again to sail through the San Juan Islands for a week, to Mount Baker, through North Cascades NP and hopefully through northern Idaho to Glacier NP before we needed to be at my brother's wedding in Helena.  We even made reservations at campgrounds, which is distinctly unlike us.  So as we prepared for our latest trip, Jason went through and replaced things that needed replacing, spark plugs, fuel filter, distributor cap, oil, oil filter, etc... Sylvia seemed to be in ok shape. Four days before our departure date with only the three-day, Fourth-of-July weekend between us and freedom, the passenger rear brake started leaking. Ugh. After a trip to Firestone where they could not fix it, Jason took matters into his own hands and gave it a try. Unfortunately, the brake drum was stuck to the hub and it became clear after many different creative attempts that we, indeed, needed professional help. So Tuesday morning, the day of our scheduled departure, Jason called around to see who could get her in. Long story short we ended up having two different shops work on her Tuesday and we were able to leave town around 6:30pm. Our hopes were to camp somewhere around Missoula (in normal car time,it takes around three hours), which I secretly thought was a bit overly optimistic. We arrived in Butte without any incident, brakes seemed to be working fine.

As we left Butte, both Jason and I noticed a curious tugging sensation every-so-often on Sylvia. We  began to worry that she may be spewing out gas again, so we pulled over at the next exit. Jason chose an awkwardly-sloped spot and hopped out to inspect. No gas to be seen. He asked me to rev the engine as he watched, still no gas, but the oil light suddenly came on. Oink! He ordered me to turn off the engine and I protested that if we turned her off she wasn't going to start again and he rebutted that if we didn't turn her off her engine might explode. I turned her off. Jason one, Kirsten zero. Upon checking the oil, Jason found that she was completely full so he tried starting her. She did not start. Kirsten one, Jason one. In enters the insurance company, who graciously sent us a tow truck. After about forty-five minutes, our short, lovable, Butte-Irish driver showed up and hoisted Sylvia up onto the truck bed and back to Butte we went. Along the way, at 9:30pm, he called all of the shops he could think of to see if they had room for us. The tow truck even stopped by one of the mechanic's houses because our driver couldn't remember his after hours number. Alas, no luck. It was quite the tour of Butte. We were on our way to the Comfort Inn where our lovable Butte-Irish tow truck driver could get us a discount when we passed by a KOA where I half-jokingly blurted out that he could drop us off there. Fifteen minutes later, after check-in, the driver deposited us and Sylvia into a campsite. Talk about arriving in style.  We asked him if he would like to join us on our trip through Washington, towing all the way. He just laughed. With Sylvia safely on the ground, Jason tried cranking her up and, with reluctance, she started, belching out gratuitous gas fumes. She still wasn't leaking, just running incredibly rich, as the tow-truck driver declared that he hoped that she didn't catch fire, and the leathery, gravelly-voiced campground worker smoked in the background. After pondering what could be wrong with her, our diesel-driving, Butte-Irish  hero disappeared into the night.

In the morning Jason promptly started calling mechanics to see who could squeeze us in. As luck would have it, the mechanic recommended the night before agreed to help us diagnose her. She fired right up and we beelined to Car Tunes. After depositing the keys, we turned our eyes towards Butte. I have to confess here that I have never had a high opinion of Butte, home to the Berkeley Pit, the largest superfund sight in the world. I realize now, that after all of the years of ignorance and jumping to conclusions, that I was wrong. Butte reminds us of a cross between run-down Lisbon and South Boston and we now hold a certain affection in our hearts for this place. I'm not saying we want to live here, but it has its rundown charm. It is a place of faded glory. During its heyday, it was one of the richest cities on Earth as it supplied copper to world. Now It feels distinctly dilapidated and stuck-in-time. We wandered through the heart of downtown and followed Broadway, lined with historic homes and mansions. We walked through the Arts Chateau mansion, home to one of the copper kings' sons and toured the Copper King Mansion where the big man lived himself. What started out as, "really? stuck in Butte of all places?" turned out to be a very pleasant and introspective, what-else-have-I-misjudged morning.

Back at the mechanic, we were informed that Sylvia, sadly, did not have pressure in one of her four cylinders and may be in need of a rebuild. Not knowing how long a fix would take we asked if he thought we could make it home on three cylinders. He answered yes and off we limped. We drove her straight to the mechanic in Bozeman, worried that if we turned her off at home, she may not start again. So after lots of unpacking Sylvia while I got to know the mechanics, and repacking it into my car, here we are in Seattle, in a hotel, on take two, of a much-abbreviated, much-less-campy, and revised trip to Washington, while Sylvia continues to baffle the mechanics whose best theory at this point is that she is possessed by demons. Get better, Sylvia, we miss you.

Meet Sylvia

Life can be unpredictable when you travel in a camper van. Sylvia is our 1985 VW Vanagon camper van. We love her. She has safely housed and transported us to and from Moab, Vegas, Red Rocks, St. George, Zion, and Mesa Verde supplying more fun than you can imagine along the way. We love how our mindset changes when we step out of our reliable daily drivers and climb into her. Everything slows down, literally. 4,000 pounds and only 75 horse power? That's fine. No air conditioning in the desert heat? No problem. We've learned to relax and realize that each trip will take at least twice as long and that there will always be some kind of mechanical failure. Always. Take one of our last trips to Moab, she started losing serious power, struggled to go downhill with a tail-wind. We pulled over at the nearest exit to see what was wrong. One of her fuel lines had wiggled loose and was spewing gas everywhere. Jason handily worked a new clamp on and duck-taped it for good measure. The fix lasted an entire year until I was picking up trees at a local nursery and stepped out of the camper van to gas fumes and a trail of gas behind me. Upon calling the insurance company to have her towed, they informed me that I had to have the fire department check her out to make sure she was safe to tow. I sheepishly called the non-emergency number for the fire department and told them about my very non-emergency situation. They sent a fire truck out, with lights flashing. A little embarrassing. The fire-fighter glanced under the van and declared her safe for towing to the mechanic, who told me after working on it that some moron had tried to fix it with duck tape. I informed him that the moron was my husband. On the way to St. George, her roof air vent lost a bolt  and blew open, flapping violently in the high winds. We rigged it back "closed" with climbing gear. Unfortunately, we could not close it super tight so I had to ride with my arm behind me pulling on the climbing gear to keep it from flapping. In Vegas, she just wouldn't start unless we opened up the engine compartment and hot-wired her. You get the idea. Despite all of the difficulty, we love her so and have dirt-bag dreams of living on the road in her visiting scenic place after scenic place.

Back to Anacortes

On the last day of the trip we awoke with a noon check-in time on our brains. After enjoying morning tea and misty views bundled in our warmest gear up on deck, we prepared to depart our slip. We were at low tide and, unfortunately, did not have time for it to rise if we were going to make it back to Anacortes by noon so we formulated a plan for backing out of the slip. At this point we only had two feet of water under our keel and rock wall 60 feet behind us. Montana Sapphire is 43 feet long so it was feeling a little tight. Fortunately, the dock worker was out and offered his assistance. As he pulled on the stern line and pushed on our bow, Jason carefully backed us out of the slip and into the narrow channel and we were on our way. When we were clear of all obstacles in Rosario, we raised the sails and slowly started beating our way into the wind making, very, slow, progress. Luckily, I enjoy the workout from tacking, because we tacked, and tacked, and tacked and Isaac is an amazing deckhand when it comes to tailing rope for me. 

After sailing, and sailing, and sailing, through Obstruction Pass to Rosario Straight, the tide turned on us and the angle of our tacks decreased dramatically until we were just sailing back and forth, back and forth on the same line. Though were still having fun, after five solid hours of sailing, we decided to drop sail and turn on the engine before we started progressing backwards, allowing Isaac and I to finally rest. At this point we were already two hours late in returning the boat. Oh well. At least we called and warned them that we would be late. Now are sights were set on what we call the Channel of Doom. (It seems only appropriate that perhaps I should say DUN, DUN, DUNnnnn, here, but I am unsure if that is how you spell it.) The Channel of Doom can only be described at this stage of tide as a river, complete with rapids and whirlpools at the edges, that we were trying to motor against. The water swirled and boiled under us as we pushed through at half a knot and it was Jason's turn for a workout. As the currents pushed us around, Jason had to heave back and forth on the helm to keep us in a straight line while carefully watching the GPS to make sure that the line we were on was not going to park us on any rocks. It was fairly nerve-racking. At the same time it was really awe-inspiring to watch and feel the forces of the water. We watched as the tide literally climbed on top of the water in it's path. It was really wild. After an hour and a half we finally made it through to the other side, triumphant. 

We were greeted by a beaming smile when we arrived safely back at the slip as Mark directed us in. As we climbed off the boat, he said, "Wow, I have to tell you I'm impressed." To which Jason replied, "impressed by what? That we made it back in one piece?" With Mark laughing, "Glad you were the one who said it." 

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Day of Rain

There is something magical about the San Juans. Especially when it is raining. Luckily for us, we awoke this morning to rain. Low clouds engulfed the islands and muffled all sound, the morning was so quiet and peaceful, the water so calm and glassy. Upon checking the weather forecast, we learned that there was a small-craft advisory in effect for the afternoon, so after breakfast we donned our rain jackets and pants as we prepared the boat to head out to Rosario Resort where we knew we could spend the afternoon and night in the safety of slip. Without a hint of wind to be found, we fired up the engine and motored to our destination through the rain, soaking up the moody atmosphere in solitude with its mysterious, low-lying clouds and penetrating quietness with the boys logging a lot of bow-sprit time along the way. Arriving at Rosario, tensions were high as we surveyed the layout of the marina and the tightness of the slips. Jason, however, perfectly swung us around the corner of the marina and parked all 43 feet of us into a little slip.

Rosario Resort was built by Robert Moran, a wealthy shipbuilder from Seattle in the early 1920's. One thing that I have noticed from my experience in Acadia, the Virgin Islands, and here, is that wealthy folks from the 1920's really knew how to pick stunning locations for their private get-aways. After tying up to the dock, we headed up to the much drier historic mansion to wander and explore in warmth. (A side note here, as mentioned before, this is our first solo trip without a captain and there are many things that are firsts for us, like, dealing with the head, or what landlubbers call the bathroom. We were warned that we would probably need to have the head pumped out partway through the trip so we asked about pumping services at the dock. We were informed that they had a manual pump and we were free to use it. Gross. At this point I forbade anyone to use the head for the rest of the trip because we did not know what its capacity was and my imagination for overflow of sewage was running wild. I was thankful to be at a dock with bathrooms that we could use.) After exploring the mansion, we settled into the cabin with hot coffee and spent the afternoon reading while it continued to pour outside. Just before dinner, we suited up in our wet rain gear and went for hike up to Cascade Lake. It was picture-perfect, and I couldn't help but to imagine vacationers from the 20's sitting around on blankets with picnic baskets along the shore. I could almost hear their laughter in the mist. Funny how this muted, wet weather brightens the imagination. 

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Spencer Spit

After successfully surviving our first night on a sailboat commanded solely by us, we awoke after our modest two hours of sleep a little less than refreshed. A couple of cups of tea later and we were ready to go. First order of business, a trip to land to hike up to the top of the mountain to the swing of doom, as it affectionately became known to us from Captain Robert. Sounds like an easy enough plan, but as Jason descended down into the less-than-stable-wobbly dinghy, we thought twice about it. It seemed so unstable that I couldn't fathom putting the boys into it, and it seemed impossible to get us all in. We considered all of our options as Jason sat in the stern next to the questionable motor with Aaron pointing out, "Daddy, it looks like your going to sink it all by yourself." Inexperience strikes again. What to do? Jason climbed out and we almost gave up, our landlubberly nerves fried from the previous night. In despair, we looked at the shore. One of the reasons we wanted to try sailing alone was so that we were free to go ashore whenever we wanted, without having to bother someone to take us there, and here we were staring at the shore again, not knowing if we would make it. Sigh. A very woeful tale indeed. Below deck, Jason and I regrouped, took a deep-breath, and decided we would try again, this time using oars. With Jason centered in the middle of the boat we successfully climbed in and he gallantly rowed us to shore. Success. On shore, Aaron blazed the trail to the top of the mountain where each boy took turns on the swing of doom. The swing of doom is perfectly situated in a meadow on the crest of the mountain so that you feel like you are swinging over the edge of an abyss. Needless to say, the boys loved it, emitting squeals of joy and maniacal laughter with each push. As we headed back through flower-filled meadows, the chihuahua displayed amazing chihuahua speed, bursting with chihuahua joy, bounding over chihuahua-sized cliffs with her ears flat and her tail curled for maximum chihuahua aerodynamics as she ran circles as fast as her little chihuahua legs would take her. Quite an amusing sight. 

Back on the boat, we ate lunch and set our sights on the next destination, Spencer Spit. After Jason plotted a course, he, with his Herculean strength and bulging eyes, I mean muscles, sorry I had chihuahua on the brain, raised the panic-inducing anchor by hand. Meanwhile I whipped up some chocolate chip cookie dough, in hopes of baking while we were under sail, and secured things below deck. Hoisting sails, we headed to Rosario Strait where the boys emitted a constant stream of speed information 5.6! 6.0! 6.8! crescendo-ing when we hit our top speed of 8.7 knots! As our speed increased, we heeled over hard producing much clattering from below as various things and stuff flew across the cabin, including, but not limited to, the cookie dough. Aaron to the rescue. He quickly headed below deck to secure everything that had been dislodged. I instructed him to put the cookie dough into the sink, forgetting that there were dishes filled with water in there. On subsequent tacks, much to everyone's dismay, the cookie dough bowl took on water. Navigating the channel between Lopez Island and Bird Rocks, we lost our wind in an area of tidal turbulance forcing us to motor through Thatcher Pass, allowing me time to scrape off and throw out the water-logged bits of the cookie dough and put a batch into the oven, thus, successfully completing my first cookie-baking endeavor on a sailboat. With warm cookies in our tummies, we entered Lopez Sound, where we raised sails again and tacked our way to Spencer Spit. Here we executed a much smoother anchorage, leaving us both feeling more confident than the previous night. Safely secured to the bottom of the ocean, we hopped into the dinghy and rowed to shore to explore the drizzle. After a short walk, and an epic sword battle, we headed back to the boat for another delicious dinner. Snuggled into our bunks, we all slept soundly that night. I think we are starting to get the hang of this.

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