Even in the San Juans, I need time to rest up from retirement

Galley Cat recuperates in the island sunshine. A trip to the vet can be a marathon when you live on Center Island.

WHEW! It’s been a week.

The good news: WeLike, the much-adored, well-restored 1957 Skagit Express Cruiser that is my island fun boat, is once again spic-and-span and back in the water after a long winter on a trailer.

The boat’s canvas is all mended. The bottom paint is fresh. The decks are scrubbed. In addition, the rocky knoll has had its weeds whacked and moss de-mapled. And Galley Cat is on the mend. More about that in a moment.

Bringing WeLike back to glory has been almost two weeks of intense labor on the part of yours truly. After my wintertime health issues and a long, wet San Juan Islands spring, instead of getting my beloved turquoise tub out on Lopez Sound by March, here it was June already.

The first task was remedying a, um, self-inflicted injury. Last summer when I went to clean her canvas top, I used a handbrush that I found in a gear locker. The brush came with the boat but I had never pulled it out before. As I had the top soaped and sudsy, I scrubbed away like a dedicated washerwoman taking a stain out of the king’s robe. Too late, I realized the brush’s plastic bristles were so stiff they were almost like wire. As I rinsed away the soap, I saw that I’d decimated many rows of stitching.

Luckily, the canvas held together for the summer. But I knew I needed to repair it. Originally it had been sewn on a machine but all I could do was stitch it by hand.

A leather sailor’s palm helped push the needle through canvas as I repaired the top on WeLike.

I ordered sail needles and UV-proof thread from Sailrite, and 10 days ago I got busy. I unzipped the canvas from its frame and for three solid days, stood in the boat’s cabin, all alone under the sun, and stitched. I told myself it was peaceful. Satisfying, rather than tedious. Listened to a lot of Jimmy Buffett.

Just to break up the routine, one day I knocked off early, came home to the cabin and worked for three solid hours with my weed whacker, cutting huge swaths of yard-high grasses on the rocky knoll. Yes, it was a wet spring, and everything grew. Besides weeds, it appeared that every maple seedling ever to drop from my trees had taken root and sprouted on the mossy rocks. A few inches high now, the tiny maples were easy to pull. In another month or two, they’d have real roots. So I labored away, yanking or whacking hundreds of them.

Back to the boat this week, I spent a day rolling new bottom paint, which isn’t so easily done when the boat sits on a low trailer. For one thing, you miss the spots where the hull sits on the trailer pads, but it’s the best I can do without hauling out in a boatyard. Only once did I begin to panic when I momentarily managed to get sort of pinned beneath the trailer axle as I scooted around on my back trying not to drip paint in my eyes as I applied it. One of those fun boat jobs!

The next day I fired up the island tractor and hauled the boat down by the shoreline where I could spray water about without making mud puddles around other trailered boats. On a warm and sunny day, I worked from 10:30 in the morning until 5 p.m., scrubbing every inch of the deck, the hull, the detail work. I used a deck brush in some places and a toothbrush in other spots.

I had consulted the tide chart to see when water would be high enough to use our community launching ramp. Five o’clock it was. So once again in the tractor seat, I backed my newly glittering Express Cruiser down the ramp and into the water.

Before unhooking from the trailer, I needed to be sure the engine started. After sitting untended since October, my beloved (this week) 90-horse Evinrude fired up on the first crank. (Some freshly added non-ethanol gas in the tank probably didn’t hurt.) There was only one catch: After returning forward to unhook from the trailer winch, when I climbed back up onto the boat’s bow and managed to limbo from the side deck into the cabin without falling in the bay, I perched in the skipper’s seat and applied reverse throttle. The engine responded, the water churned. And nothing happened.

I’d backed the trailer deep enough. WeLike should have floated off. I applied more reverse. The outboard roared. Water swirled like a Deception Pass whirlpool. But WeLike wouldn’t budge. After sitting on the trailer’s carpeted pads for eight months, it seemed she was literally stuck.

Happily, the tide was still coming in. I waited five minutes and tried reversing again. No luck. I wondered how many neighbors were now peering toward the harbor, curious at the sound of my roaring outboard on the launch ramp.

Finally, I clambered back out of the cabin, on to the bow, and gingerly stepped down on to the trailer’s tongue. Paranoid now, I first checked that I had indeed released the winch hook from the bow eye. No, I hadn’t made that mistake. So what to do?

As a last resort, balancing on tiptoe on the trailer tongue, I put all my weight into shoving the bow seaward. I shoved, I bounced, I muttered curses. And WeLike finally began to inch deeper into the water.

I quickly climbed back aboard, and all went routinely from there as I found a spot for her at the dock. It was dinnertime after a long day’s toil, so I wasn’t going anywhere on the boat that night. But maybe take her out for fun the next day?

Not to be. By late evening, Galley Cat convinced me she had a problem. For several days she’d been lingering oddly in her litter box. I finally got the message and analyzed the litter scoopings. For several days, she had hardly peed at all. A Google search convinced me that could be serious. Bad Kitty’s Dad for not picking up on it earlier.

I texted Island Express, who kindly offered an earlier-than-usual 7:30 pickup the next morning. By 8:45 Galley was getting an initial exam at the Pet Emergency Center near Mount Vernon. The initial triage by an aide indicated a possible urinary tract infection, but the veterinarian was just going into emergency surgery. The wait for official prognosis would be long.

My homemade sign for No Kings Day on Lopez.

It was very long. We gave them my cell number and drove to a shady park in town. To make this story shorter, I’ll just say that at 4:30 that afternoon we were finally departing the clinic with a UTI diagnosis, meds in hand and $500 added to my Visa bill. We were home around 6.

Sadly, I’m having to cancel my Father’s Day visit with daughter Lillian in Seattle. Got to take care of my kitty cat.

Galley and I both had a lazy day today. Boy, did we need it.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back at it. I’m taking the boat to Lopez with a friend to get rid of trash and pick up lumber for my deck renewal. Saturday, I’m returning for the No Kings Rally in Lopez Village. Today, I made a sign to wave.

This is my relaxing retirement, on a remote little island nobody’s heard of. Summer’s almost here. I hope yours holds promise.

Good company helps fill gap in remote island life

Our Road Scholar contingent by one of our tour boats at dock in Friday Harbor. Your loyal correspondent is the tall drink of water in the back row below and left of the first “S” in Salish Sea. Tour-goers came from as far away as New York and Florida. Kelley Balcomb-Bartok photo.

I’M JUST BACK FROM ROAD SCHOLAR trip Number One, and I think I’ve found my tribe.

This week-long outing was dubbed “The San Juan Islands by Land and Sea: Hidden Anchorages.” It was my first outing as a guide trainee for Road Scholar, the globe-trotting tour leader that is celebrating its 50th year as an education-oriented not-for-profit organization. Locally, it operates in conjunction with the Friday Harbor outpost of Mount Vernon-based Skagit Valley College.

With 30 travelers from across the United States, we skipped across the San Juans by charter boat for three days, plus two days on land exploring our base around Friday Harbor. Our at-sea days included a day trip to remote Sucia, my favorite of the archipelago and home now to my late wife Barbara’s memorial bench. Stops included the historical town of La Conner, where my neighbor the Mad Birder lives when he’s not on my little rock, and where Barbara was once town librarian. We transited three of my favorite scenic-keyhole water passages: Hole in the Wall on Swinomish Channel; the famed swirling waters of Deception Pass; and squeaky-narrow Pole Pass between Orcas and Crane islands. These were places my family and I had navigated again and again over the years on our own sailboat. Virtually everywhere this tour went, I had a story to share with our visitors. With a sizable contingent of retired teachers and librarians, they were eager listeners.

It was gratifying at trip’s end when one of our group kindly proclaimed, “You’re a great storyteller!”

Our tour vessel, Salish Express, transits Hole in the Wall on Swinomish Channel south of La Conner.

Road Scholar specializes in travel for people 50 and older, but the typical age is early 70s. Our group ranged from early 60s up to one participant who was a fit-as-a-fiddle 86. They came from as far away as Florida and New York, along with Midwest contingents from Minnesota, Kansas, Illinois, etc., plus Californians aplenty. Some were on their first Road Scholar trip. One had been on more than 50.

This group traveled under a lucky star. On our first day on the water, between Bellingham and Friday Harbor, we encountered a sizable group of transient killer whales feeding off the northern tip of Cypress Island. For more than a half hour our 100-foot vessel idled as we watched the whales breach, tail slap and generally cavort to the “oohs” and “ahhs” of our visitors, most of whom were first-timers in these islands. In all my years poking around the Salish Sea, this was one of my best orca sightings.

In a trademark red Road Scholar vest, your correspondent takes to the mike aboard a tour vessel. Cathy Holley photo.

The second day we meandered past Whale Rocks at the southern entry to Cattle Pass to get an eyeful of dozens of Steller sea lions, the largest of sea lions. This band included a handful of mammoth males, which can grow to 11 feet long and weigh almost 2,500 pounds. As we paused, one of the incredible hulks scooted to the top of his rocky islet and reared high in what was clearly an “I’m King of the World” pose atop Pride Rock. (Sea lions don’t know better than to mix their Hollywood metaphors.)

At Sucia, we got an eyeful of eagles, as bald eagles circled and swooped a half-mile into the sky above us at Shallow Bay. All in all, this was a wildlife-blessed journey.

Clearly, Road Scholar is a good fit for me. I needed more human interaction than I get on my little rock. This is a good way to fill that need. And I even get paid.

Meanwhile, I’m remembering lost loved ones this Memorial Day and sending warm thoughts to friends and family. I feel I’ve found new friends to help fill the gaps in my life. Best wishes to any of you seeking the same.

Keeping island wheels turning

Mr. Toad, my 29-year-old golf cart, sits on jackstands in Center Island’s community workshop. The new steering gear shows a silver gleam, with pesky tie rods below.

IT’S BEEN THE SEASON OF THE TOAD on Center Island. And boy am I glad to have it done with.

This isn’t a story about cute hoppy amphibians. This is about basic transportation and how to keep the wheels turning on my remote little island in the San Juans.

Mr. Toad is the name of my 29-year-old toad-green golf cart, named for the demon-at-the-wheel protagonist in author Kenneth Grahame’s classic “The Wind in the Willows.” Unless you want to walk, even when toting a month’s worth of groceries back from the mainland, electric golf carts are the primary means of getting around my island. Two reasons: (1) Our narrow gravel roads definitely aren’t suited to a giant RAM pickup truck, and (2) Forward-thinking community founders back in the 1960s or so chose to prohibit privately owned internal-combustion vehicles on our community roads. So most property owners have battery-powered golf carts. It makes for a quieter, more-peaceful island with fresher air.

A caveat or two: We do share three community-owned, gas-powered Ford Ranger pickups for times when you’re bringing a new sofa or a replacement refrigerator to the island. And with the world’s trend toward electric vehicles of every shape and size, our restriction on gas power has been broadened to include a size limit. “Small is beautiful” seems to be the watchword.

I bought Mr. Toad, a 1996, 36-volt E-Z-Go golf cart, from an island neighbor for $1,200 in the summer of 2020. Not content with average, I added a stained-cedar baggage platform with finned side panels and asked daughter Lillian to help gussy things up. She gathered swordferns and leaves of salal, Oregon grape, and maple, daubed them with paint and printed the cart with nature’s images.

Galley Cat visits the revitalized Mr. Toad.

Since then Mr. Toad has been a reliable helper for the most part. But as I’m learning every day, time marches on and every body needs upkeep. Including a motorized toad.

A few months back, that became clear when Mr. Toad got shy about turning left. If I drove sedately, all was fine. But the moment I emulated my golf cart’s reckless namesake and tried a quick left turn at anything like rambunctious speed, the steering wheel shuddered and clicked and Mr. Toad continued in a straight line. It could get exciting.

As with many challenges life throws at us, I learned to compensate. I rarely informed a friend hitching a ride of my conveyance’s guidance-system peculiarity. As long as I went slowly or circled the island clockwise, it was no problem. It went on the “got to fix this someday” list.

Before I had a chance at that, Mr. Toad threw me another challenge. On a day of endless and soaking rain in early April, I was returning from a long day’s outing to Friday Harbor. As dusk approached I was glad to be nearing home in Mr. Toad, peering through the rain-spattered plexiglas windshield that does not feature wipers. A half-mile from the cabin, I approached what we call Little Cardiac Hill (the full-size Cardiac Hill is on the far side of the island). Mr. Toad’s batteries had been showing signs of anemia lately (in sympathy with me, perhaps?). So, I switched on the voltmeter to see how my battery bank fared as I floored the accelerator and started up.

The voltage immediately sank like a skydiver with no chute. Toad got halfway up the hill and stalled out. Cursing blue-blazes hot enough to defrost the foggy windscreen, I let the cart roll back to the base of the hill to rest a minute before trying again.

The rain spattered in on me from the cart’s open sides. I didn’t want to sit for long. So I floored the pedal and again climbed a few feet up the hill. Pungent electrical smoke puffed from the battery compartment directly beneath me. If I kept trying I would literally be in a hot seat. This time I rolled backward into a neighbor’s front path, where Mr. Toad promptly got mired in mud.

I’d had a long day. I had groceries in plastic totes on the luggage carrier. I couldn’t walk home alone. I had to call a friend to come out in the incessant rain and give me a homeward lift .

So replacing Toad’s ailing batteries was the first order. The same friend who came out to rescue me in the rain suggested it was time to convert to lithium-battery power. The new style of battery was known to be powerful, fast to recharge, and long-lasting if well-monitored. And for Mr. Toad, one 63-pound sealed 36-volt battery (requiring no maintenance) would replace six 80-pound, 6-volt lead-acid batteries. Mr. Toad would have more power while hauling 420 fewer pounds of battery! Woo-hoo! Speed-demon time!

The clincher came when I looked on Amazon and found a suitable Chinese-made battery for $600 (pre-tariff), including a new charger. I’d pay double that to replace my lead-acid batteries.

But life in the islands is tricky. The new battery could be shipped at no cost, but not to my island. United Parcel Service, the shipper of choice for most Amazon goods, subcontracts Center Island deliveries to little San Juan Airlines. The small planes cannot carry anything classified as hazardous, which includes lithium batteries (as well as boat paint and a long list of other items). And I could find no nearby brick-and-mortar stores that sold similar batteries at a low price.

My creative solution: Ask a friend in Friday Harbor if I could have the battery shipped to her home. Shipments to the bigger islands of the San Juans arrive by truck on a state ferry.

I would be staying in my friend’s guest room three times in April for training sessions with Road Scholar. So when the battery arrived, I took my pickup truck on the ferry and brought the battery back to Lopez Island. On the final stretch to Center Island the big battery was strapped to a hand truck aboard the Island Express water taxi.

The lithium battery being installed in Mr. Toad: One battery replaced six.

Installing the new lithium battery meant modifying and rebuilding the battery platform under Mr. Toad’s seat, along with some new wiring and installation of a battery meter. That took a week of trial and error, considering that the few installation instructions were either in Chinese or barely intelligible English. (Yes, cheap goods come with tradeoffs.) In the end, I learned that my battery was Bluetooth-enabled and I could monitor its charge status using an app on my phone. Easy pie!

That accomplished, I gave myself a day off before moving Mr. Toad to the community workshop where I put him on stands and went to work replacing the steering gearbox. At $170, this was another Amazon acquisition, but this one came right to me. Here’s where I thanked the digital genies that provide YouTube instructional videos on how to do almost anything. A nice gentleman on the DIY Golfcart YouTube channel gave precise step-by-step instruction on how to replace the steering gear on my exact make, model and year of golf cart. I have some mechanical know-how, but I will just say this: Bless you, DIY Golfcart man.

The only catch: In his demonstration, all the nuts and bolts came off and went back in with ease. Not so in real life, on a cart like Mr. Toad that has never had anybody fiddle with some of those bolts. Not since Toad left the factory when Bill Clinton was president.

But I yanked and grunted, twisted and turned and managed to get the first round of old parts loose. When it came time to release the tie rods from the worn-out steering gear, I watched my video friend casually pop the rods loose with his little finger. Then I spent two unsuccessful hours with wrenches, hammers, WD-40 and a brief moment with a propane torch. I got the nuts off, but the tie-rod bolts wouldn’t budge from the steering bracket. Not for love, money or colorful language.

Gloom-ridden at the prospect of failure, I decided to call it a day and tackle it fresh in the morning. I went home and — why not? — Googled “how to get tie rods off a steering gear on a 1996 E-Z-Go golf cart.” The digital wizards chuckled merrily as they revealed Amazon’s listing for the Astro Pneumatic Ball Joint Separator, a specialized little tool made for precisely this purpose. Apparently I’m not the only mechanic to have rammed my head into this brick wall.

I hit the “order” button, pausing only briefly to grumble about the $28 price. Amazon informed me that this item was in a nearby warehouse and would arrive the following day. It was my turn to merrily chuckle. They didn’t know about my island and just how long it takes things to get here. One day? Ha!

But I could hope.

The next morning I was back at the workshop by 10. The caretaker who handles our mail stopped by with a box that had arrived from Amazon. It was a big box. My hopes momentarily soared, until I yanked the box open to find six rolls of Scott paper towels I had ordered days earlier.

For another 20 minutes I went back to poking and prodding at the reluctant bolts until the caretaker drove by again and handed me a small package from Amazon. It rattled as if it was something metallic. Could it be?

Sure enough, it was my ball-joint separator, which I have to say sounds vaguely like an instrument you’d find in an urologist’s office. It kind of looked like an alarming medical device, too. Metallic jaws flexed in the middle, driven tighter by a screw big enough to hold the fender on a giant RAM pickup truck.

It took a bit of hammering to get it into place, but once I’d figured it out a few turns of the screw head neatly popped the bolt out with a noise like a pickup fender falling off.

I won’t say it was all a cinch after that, but I followed my video friend’s instructions to the letter, sweated and cursed a bit more, and before 6 p.m. I was lowering Mr. Toad from the jackstands and sweeping out the workshop. The front wheels turned right and left on demand, behaving like a charm.

I loaded up my tools and headed home in triumph, zooming up Little Cardiac Hill.

Last night, I was still relishing two big jobs done well (with a little luck). Ready to head for bed a little after 10, I looked out the window at Mr. Toad, parked under the limbs of my 15-foot high sequoia tree. A yellow moon shone from high in the sky.

I wasn’t ready to sleep. I pulled on an insulated vest and my Elmer Fudd hat, stepped into the cool darkness and climbed into Mr. Toad’s driver seat. I turned the key, flicked on the headlight and zoomed up my back driveway for an invigorating 10-minute joy ride around the island.

As I’ve said before, take joy where you can find it. I turned left anytime I darned well felt like it.

Center Island’s May flowers

Dainty Starflowers are carpeting the forest floor outside my cabin.

IT’S A BIT OF A MYSTERY why one of my island’s native plants flourishes one year and another spreads like gangbusters the next.

Last year, my neighbor the Mad Birder noted, Ocean Spray shrubs absolutely took over the gentle slope in front of his cabin.

This spring, one of my favorites, the dainty, low-to-ground Starflower, has spread like the dickens. Now is its bloom time.

The effect is charmingly as if constellations fell from the night sky to cast tiny white stars throughout the forest duff.

Creeping rhizomes in the forest soil spread this cheerful harbinger of May.

The U.S. Forest Service website tells me that Starflower (Trientalis borealis) is a member of the Primrose family. The genus name Trientalis is from the Latin meaning “one third of a foot,” which corresponds to the plant’s average height. The species name borealis refers to being from the north.

Starflower is a perennial herb that grows from slender, creeping rhizomes, which apparently found good conditions to do a lot of extra creeping on Center Island this year. Leaves are simple and occur in whorls of 5 to 9 at the tip of the stem. Flowers are snow white, sometimes with a subtle blush of pink at the edges, with 5 to 9 petals and approximately 1/4- to 1/2-inch in diameter.

Appropriately, considering the blooming time, another common name for this woodland gem is the Mayflower, which conjures up images of a whole different season. So far, I’ve seen no big-hatted pilgrims in the area. Lopez Island does have wild turkeys.

Sharing smiles where I find them

The Prince of Whales whale-watching boat zips past my lunchtime viewpoint on Upright Head, Lopez Island.

IT’S BEEN TOUGH keeping up with the blog in these troubled times. We all have plenty of worries as the Trump Regime does its best to bully the world, trash our constitution and cripple the economy. Almost every one of us has seen our life’s savings swirling down the toilet.

But I resolved to help support my community in the face of the onslaught, so I’m here to tell about the good things in my island life.

Tiny calypso orchids are blooming with gusto on Center Island this spring. This flower is about 3 inches high.

Spring weather has finally arrived and we have a bumper crop of calypso orchids, aka fairy slippers. Buttercups are in bloom and ferns are uncurling new fronds like the gentle beckoning of an octopus tentacle. When I tap away at the keyboard in Wee Nooke, the cedar writing hut on the rocky knoll behind my cabin, I might still crank up the heater at first, but by afternoon I’ve opened a window to admit soft and salty breezes.

My big news is that I’ve landed a gig with Road Scholar, the not-for-profit tour operator that offers educational trips catering to travelers 50 and older worldwide. My Friday Harbor friend Barbara Marrett, retired from a career as communications director for the San Juan Islands Visitors Bureau, went to work with Road Scholar a year ago. She convinced me it would be a good fit for me, and kindly recommended me to the local leadership affiliated with Mount Vernon-based Skagit Valley College, which has a branch in Friday Harbor. I will be involved as a paid trainee with three of their week-long tours in my San Juan Islands starting in mid-May. Next year, I will likely be a group leader.

It’s a bright spot on my personal horizon. Living with just a fuzzy feline companion on my remote island, I need more human interaction. And some 20 years of exploring these islands with my family aboard our sailboat, writing about the San Juans as a travel journalist, and making a home on this little island nobody’s heard of seems to uniquely qualify me to help newcomers learn about the San Juans, too.

So far, the Road Scholar leadership has been tremendously accommodating and good to work with. When I told them I had been reserving the summer for overdue cabin projects that got a bit neglected last summer, they responded by assigning me to trips in May, September and October. Perfect! Itineraries will include boat trips to Sucia and other outer islands, a kayak tour and a three-island sampler.

I’ve already attended three training sessions in Friday Harbor, including a first-aid and CPR refresher course, a general leadership orientation, and training in how to safely drive their fleet of 11-passenger vans. That’s kept me busy in recent weeks traveling back and forth to Friday Harbor, a significant endeavor when I don’t yet have my restored 1957 cruiser, WeLike, commissioned for the season. (We’ve not had the weather for it until now.)

So I booked passage on the water taxi from Center Island to Hunter Bay Public Dock on Lopez Island ($76 round-trip), where I keep my good old pickup truck, Ranger Rick. I drove the pickup 25 minutes to the ferry terminal on the north end of Lopez and either parked it there and walked on the state ferry (for no charge to Friday Harbor) or drove aboard ($28 round-trip) when I wanted wheels at the other end. On one trip, I took advantage of the opportunity to drive Ranger Rick to the Friday Harbor car wash where I gave him a much-needed bath. There are no car washes on Lopez. He had gotten positively mossy.

These outings have made me thankful that I don’t often rely on Washington State Ferries, plagued by staffing shortages that commonly cause last-minute cancellations of scheduled runs. When one of my Friday Harbor boats was canceled and the next wasn’t for two hours, I “made lemonade” and took my sack lunch on a pleasant hike to a viewpoint in the San Juan County Land Bank’s Upright Head Preserve, adjacent to the ferry terminal. Couldn’t have been better if I planned it, I thought, as I watched whale-watching boats and big cabin cruisers plow through the water below the mossy bluff where I munched my tuna wrap.

Lumberjack Brian: A newly cleared building lot meant felled trees were available for firewood.

The arrival of spring weather already has me busy with outdoor projects around the cabin. When a nearby lot got cleared for construction of a new cabin the cut trees were available for firewood. Time to fire up my chainsaw and start replenishing my wood stack for next winter. (I had to watch a YouTube to figure out why the saw wouldn’t start after hanging in my shed for the winter, but soon had it roaring and spewing sawdust. When you live on a remote island, you learn to fix stuff yourself.)

My other adventure has been digging on hands and knees with a hand trowel to locate my septic drainfield so I can install capped, upright 4-inch PVC pipes that function as inspection ports, now required by the county if I ever wish to sell my place. One port is installed, one more to go. The joys of home ownership. Nothing that a clothespin to the nose can’t make more pleasant.

Amid all this, daughter Lillian visited to help me celebrate my 69th birthday and neighbors John “The Mad Birder” and Carol showed up with recently dug razor clams they were generously willing to fry up for friends. (Yum.) Lillian showed off her new skills as a patisserie baker by making me the world’s best sugar-free chocolate cupcakes with buttercream frosting. (Ditto yum.)

That’s the April report from Center Island, friends. Find joy where you can. Remember to support your friends, family and other good guys. We all need it now more than ever.

Season of hope is more welcome than ever

The miniature daffodils outside my cabin are a welcome harbinger of spring on Center Island.

DESPITE WHAT THE GROUNDHOG SAID, spring is arriving early this year. The equinox for my friends on the West Coast occurs overnight tonight at 2:01 a.m. PDT, on March 20. Not the 21st as we often experience.

Here’s what the equinox is all about, according to the National Weather Service, part of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (which I value and respect even if Trump and Musk don’t, which says something about how much I value and respect them):

EQUINOX: There are only two times of the year when the Earth’s axis is tilted neither toward nor away from the sun, resulting in a nearly equal amount of daylight and darkness at all latitudes. These events are referred to as equinoxes (spring and autumn). The word equinox is derived from two Latin words – aequus (equal) and nox (night). At the equator, the sun is directly overhead at noon on these two equinoxes.

That’s the scientific explanation of spring’s arrival. The esoteric and spiritual part of spring, the season of hope and renewal, is what most of us grapple to our bosoms.

The misnamed Purple Finch (with flashy red plumage) has returned to the Nuthatch cabin’s feeder after a long winter.

Boy, do we need it now, with the dumbest, meanest, biggest lying snakes of all time running our government into the ground and targeting their sputum at the most vulnerable among us. (Yes, it’s time to speak plainly.)

Wild currant blooms outside the cabin. Recently cut firewood rounds in the background show that I’m already prepping for next winter.

On my little island, I gauge spring’s arrival by the blooming of the wild currant, the arrival of birds I’ve not seen all winter, and the blooming of daffodils in my yard. Spring brings hope for warmer days, wildflowers and long walks with old friends.

Maybe find one of those vulnerable people and walk with them, too. Make a new friend. Shield them from the storm.

Happy spring! Cherish the hope. Hold it close.

From my remote island, Monday is now ‘Call Congress’ day

You don’t need a plane ticket. If you have a phone or a computer, it’s easy to reach the U.S. Capitol.

ANYONE WHO WORKED REMOTELY during the pandemic knows you don’t need to be in the city to be part of what’s happening in the world. That applies equally to those of us who live on small islands nobody’s heard of, where it’s easy to feel isolated and powerless.

Connectivity is a good thing to keep in mind in these fraught times as vandals in the other Washington try to bulldoze our constitutional democracy. I have a phone on my island. I have email. While we may be far from the action, there’s nothing to stop islanders from putting in our two-cents’ worth in hopes of minimizing the harm to valued institutions.

The U.S. Capitol switchboard can be reached at 202-224-3121. The switchboard makes it a breeze to call your elected officials in Congress. If you don’t know who represents you, they’ll look it up and connect you.

We can also be as well-informed as the next guy. I have long subscribed to the online New York Times, and to the daily political reports of Boston College historian Heather Cox Richardson, one of the more astute observers and commentators on the scene today. Yesterday I got on the Substack app and subscribed to the postings of Robert Reich, Dan Rather and U.S. Sen. Chris Murphy (D, Conn.).

Per the urging of Reich, a former labor secretary under President Clinton and currently a professor at UC Berkeley, this morning I phoned the U.S. Capitol switchboard, connected with my congressman’s office and contributed my ardent wish to purge Elon Musk from our government. If there’s a “nuclear option” Congress might employ that would blow this unelected fascist-loving billionaire out of the District of Columbia, now’s the time to push the button.

I also urged my congressman to find some way for his legislative body to flex its constitutional muscle and stop the illegal firings and shutdowns of agencies that Congress established through intricate and inclusive dances of legislation.

This morning I expected a tedious wait on the phone, listening to canned music, because of the high volume of calls. Amid Trump and Musk’s antics earlier this month, reports said the U.S. Senate phone system was receiving around 1,600 calls each minute, compared to the customary average of 40 per minute.

Much to my surprise, the phone call was quick and easy.

The phone number Reich provided in his post (202-224-3121) rang through immediately to an automated system asking me to name the member of congress I wanted to reach (or say “I’m not sure”). I was quickly put through to the office of Rep. Rick Larsen, of Washington State’s Second District. Within three rings, a live human answered my call. I was a little shocked.

The aide I spoke with listened to my concern and engaged in a brief conversation, basically agreeing wholeheartedly and obviously stating a bit of Larsen’s (and the Democratic caucus’s) talking points. But he wasn’t an automaton, and promised to pass along my concerns to the congressman.

On my second call, a live Capitol switchboard operator (perhaps the nicest sounding woman I’ve ever spoken to on the phone) directed my call to U.S. Sen. Maria Cantwell’s office. There, I got voicemail and left a recorded message. Not as satisfying, but even a voicemail should add to the tally of calls. U.S. Sen. Patty Murray also used voicemail, but at least she (unlike Maria Cantwell) recorded her own voicemail message.

I’ve decided that Monday is my new weekly “Call Congress” day. An effective use of my time and energy? Will it make any difference? Who knows. At least I’m helping to build the numbers of calls from outraged voters. More than one news story has cited that statistic in recent weeks.

What’s more, the calls were easy, they sure can’t hurt, and this is something I can do. It’s something all of us can do.

Yours in the struggle, from a small island somewhere in the San Juans.

Building a resistant community, one island friend at a time

A February squall brings surf in to Orcas Island’s Crescent Beach. A squall of political resistance might come to these islands as well.

IN THESE CHAOTIC POLITICAL TIMES, change is to be expected. It looks like the change for me on my little island means, ironically, no change. For now.

Following November’s presidential election, I announced that I would relocate to Olympia to become an activist in support of the United States Constitution in a power-center of Blue America.

That was then. Now, with the red-hatted D.C. wrecking crew carelessly trashing our federal government with shocking speed, and with their brazen talk about gutting Social Security, Medicare and other social programs upon which retirees like me depend, I can’t see my way to relocate.

I’m not inclined to move to low-rent Arkansas or Mississippi. And as long as I stay in the high-rent Pacific Northwest of my birth, any move would mean more costs. If the economy remained as robust as it was under Joe Biden, I might have made that work. But with the new guard on a bender to destroy the world’s faith in the United States, our promises and our dollar, I suspect they will trigger the second Great Depression before all is said and done. I’m putting my head down, sheltering in place and hoping to ride it out on my remote island.

I may be down, but I’m not out. My new mantra: Support my local community — my island and all of the San Juans — like never before. We all must stick together to weather the political storm of our lifetime.

I’ve started preaching that gospel. On a just-completed five-day visit with friends in Friday Harbor and on Orcas Island, I chatted it up with people I met along the way. Simply talking to strangers and newly minted friends about the national tensions we face together and the need to unite in our own towns formed an immediate bond. Such bonds can help build stronger communities, with citizens who can stand up to this attack on the traditional American values of equality, democracy and the rule of law. I’m sure of it.

As federal support vanishes, supporting local arts can be an important part of community bonding. I had a happy taste of that in Friday Harbor when I accompanied my chum Barbara Marrett and two of her friends to a performance of the play “Art” at San Juan Community Theatre. The San Juan Islands Museum of Art, the production’s co-sponsor, hosted an after-theater reception with wine and platters of fresh Westcott Bay oysters.

San Juan Island artist Aimee Dieterle’s acrylic painting of Mount Rainier is part of the current exhibition, concluding this weekend, at San Juan Islands Museum of Art.

The director and actors from the play were at the reception to answer questions, and those in attendance got a free viewing of the museum’s current exhibition of the works of more than 100 San Juan Islands artists. One of my favorites was a wall-mounted sculpture of an octopus, its suckers represented by the caps of real acorns, with outer skin constructed of thousands of tiny seed leaflets from Douglas fir cones. The unique media lent an unmatchable texture and natural color to an artwork representative of the rich vein of local talent.

At the art museum, as I made new island friends, I talked up the need for community unity. I felt like a socio-political Johnny Appleseed, sowing resistance one person at a time. The next day, about 75 islanders gathered outside the Friday Harbor Courthouse to join in the national “Not My Presidents Day” protest. I’d have joined in, but didn’t hear about it in time. Maybe we’ll all find each other eventually!

My new whim didn’t end there. On Orcas Island, my friend Tom Willard and I scrapped our Tuesday plans to lunch at a fancy restaurant in Eastsound. In the spirit of community-boosting, we instead went to the Orcas Island Community Foundation’s weekly free lunch, cooked and served by volunteers in the basement of Orcas Island Community Church.

The recently renovated and reopened Olga Store, a project of dedicated Orcas Island residents, is an example of what a strong community can accomplish.

Just revived after a COVID-related hiatus, the community lunch on Orcas has long been promoted as open to all, not just for senior citizens or the needy. A Facebook promo describes it as “an opportunity to build connections and nurture the feeling of community and belonging.” Perfect for these times. We ate hearty split-pea soup, salad and the best whole-grain crusty bread I’ve chewed in a long time. At a shared table, we made a lovely new friend, Sadie, who agreed that we all need to stick together. Simply lunching with other islanders of every ilk in a church hall felt like an act of resistance and unity. A year ago I’d have gone to that fancy restaurant. Maybe I can volunteer to cook and serve next time.

When the time comes for a Twenty-Million-Person March on Washington, D.C., I’ll get my plane ticket. Until then, I’m taking small steps, working on local connections.

Happy 70th, Barbara

Daughter Lillian, left, and her mother, Barbara, at the edge of the Firth of Forth, near Edinburgh, Scotland in 2017. Barbara was born February 10, 1955, and died of breast cancer in April 2021. My beloved wife for 41 years, she lives forever in our hearts.

Life, death, COVID and recovery among the wonders of winter

A gray squirrel pauses after raiding the Nuthatch’s bird feeder on a snowy February morning.

LAST NIGHT AS I WATCHED NETFLIX between frequent refueling of my cabin’s woodstove on a frozen February eve, outside the Nuthatch’s dark windows new snow came unbeknownst to me. It arrived secretly and silently, as if on little cat feet.

OK, apologies to Carl Sandburg. But I did get a poetic surprise when I peered out of the sliding door at bedtime and discovered the pristine new blanket of white seamlessly spread like a puffy down comforter across my deck.

FOG

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg

No flakes were falling then. They had come while I wasn’t looking, anointing my island with a fresh and lovely purity.

This is the peaceful time of a San Juan Islands winter. No raging winds, no worries of losing lights and firing up generators.

This morning I relished the view from my loft. Having trundled back to bed with a gripping Michael Connelly novel, fragrantly fresh-ground coffee, and toast satisfyingly smeared with avocado, I watched through my front wall of windows as sunshine first lit the tall firs’ white-frosted branches.

Ahhhh.

I have a certain license to be lazy, and it’s kind of nice. On a phone consult yesterday, my Seattle hematologist told me it could be six months before my hemoglobin levels return to normal after a bleeding ulcer sapped my energies at Christmas. It means I’m anemic. So I’m giving myself permission to take it kind of easy. To devote myself to eating and sleeping well. Gradually building up my exercise routine.

I’m dedicated to all that once again after a drastic diversion last week. My dear Aunt Jeanne McLean, my mother’s youngest sibling and the last survivor of that family’s five children, died at age 96. I made the pilgrimage to South Dakota for her funeral.

I debated whether I was strong enough to travel, but my family had always been close to my aunt and her family. As a teen I had invested paper-route money in a Greyhound ticket from Seattle to visit the Dakota relatives on my own. I wanted to go now. I needed to go.

My brother Doug, who would also attend the funeral, made it easy for me. His partner, Lori, whose career tasks included travel arrangements for a globe-trotting employer, suggested I hop a direct flight on Alaska Airlines from Seattle to Denver. Doug would drive from their home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, to meet me and we would have a brotherly 400-mile road trip from Denver to Rapid City in his new Outback, sharing hotel rooms along the way.

Your scribe with cousin Tami McLean Bishop of Rozet, Wyo.

Smiling weather gods gave us a week of sunshine, the funeral service was nicely done, and reconnecting with cousins from across the West was soul-nourishing.

I moved more slowly through airports than is my norm, but I managed fine. And my brother and I saw a whole lot of scenery, from the snow-frosted Colorado Rockies, to the wide, wide wilds of Wyoming, to South Dakota’s beautiful Black Hills.

At 80 mph on U.S. 85, my brother Doug and I traversed hundreds of miles of snow-frosted, wide-open Wyoming.

I returned to the Nuthatch last Saturday just ahead of the snow, and I’m happy to hunker down here again. I’ve returned to what amounts to a Center Island COVID epidemic, affecting at least eight of my neighbors, some 50 percent of our winter population. So I’m being more of a hermit than usual.

That’s OK, Galley Cat is keeping me company. I hope my fellow islanders feel better soon. I plan on staying warm. I plan on staying well. Wishing the same for you.