Frozen pipes – Cantwell's Reef

Wee Nooke is my 6 foot-by-6 foot writing hut on the rocky knoll behind Nuthatch Cabin.

HOORAY, I’M BACK IN THE NOOKE, with no more water to boil. That’s my good news for the day on Center Island in the San Juans. (More about boiling water in a minute.)

Sitting here eating my sack lunch in Wee Nooke, the tongue-in-cheeky P.G. Wodehouse-inspired name for my writing hut, is good news because I just love working here. Perched on the rocky knoll behind Nuthatch Cabin in a little meadow that dazzles with wildflowers each May, the Nooke is a 36-square-foot cedar hut. First erected as a playhouse for then-preteen daughter Lillian 20 years ago, it came on a couple of pallets as a potting-shed kit from British Columbia.

Handmade postcards from Stuart Island, a neighbor in the San Juan archipelago, festoon Wee Nooke’s walls between windows that can open to welcome breezes on warm days.

It did its duty as a daughterly retreat for several years, hosting at least one rather cramped sleepover with one of her middle-school girlfriends before Lillian handed off the keys — or the padlock combination, as the case may be — to her old man.

I installed a small writing desk with lamp, snaked an ethernet cable up the rocks and added an electric oil-filled radiator for January days like this. With a wall of mullioned windows looking out on craggy firs and the occasional grazing deer, it became the perfect place to write, even with the retained pre-teen decor of zebra-striped rug and beaded entry curtain.

Besides countless installments of the “Reef,” the Nooke and I have produced a handful of freelance travel stories, a recreation section of the Mountaineers-published “We are Puget Sound” book, and (with Barbara’s collaboration, in her day) more than one mystery novel.

Mailbox as art: Rescued from Lopez Island Dump, it perches on Wee Nooke’s front railing. The flag is always up.

My custom is to bring a lunch up with me, along with a Thermos of hot water. A tiny table holds a variety of teas and instant coffee. As I write, I usually listen to my favorite music-streaming channel. Jackson Browne, Cat Stevens, Bill Withers and other mellow rockers of the 1970s ring out from the nice Polk Audio computer speakers I got for free at the Lopez Island Dump’s Take It-or-Leave-It warehouse. When the weather doesn’t keep her curled up in the cabin, Galley Cat is a regular visitor as I work. I slide open the door whenever I hear her scratch, and she leaps up on to a bookshelf to be rewarded with cat treats. On a warm day, she’ll be in and out every five minutes. (She shirks duties as a mouser, however. I must set traps on occasion.)

Lillian made this sign for the writing hut.

Yes, I love the Nooke. With the portable radiator pulled under the desk this afternoon, I’m snug as a bug in a rug.

Oh, and that bit about boiling water. It’s just a reminder that this is still January in the winter-wild San Juans. When I returned Sunday from visiting my sweetheart in Thurston County, our island’s community water system was under a “boil water” order until further notice. In the hard freeze while I was gone, our water system froze up again. With the required rerouting to different pipes and another reservoir tank, once water was flowing again the purity couldn’t be trusted.

A jug of emergency water ensured that I could brush my teeth without worry.

But Monday morning our caretaker took a sample to the mainland for testing. By Tuesday we got the “all clear” signal to again drink our tap water without first bringing it to a roiling 212 degrees F.

So, yes, living on a remote island has its challenges, sometimes big. But it always has its wee delights.

A well-chilled hummingbird returns to my feeder shortly after fresh, warm sugar-water replaced the solid block of ice last week.

IT’S 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT OUTSIDE, MY TOILET FLUSHES WITHOUT HAND-PRIMING and my hummingbird feeder isn’t freezing solid every few hours.

These are luxuries one comes to appreciate.

Last we visited, my neighbors’ pipes were iced up but all was well at the Nuthatch. However, on the coldest days I watched through my kitchen window as our overwintering Anna’s Hummingbirds were frustrated in efforts to find nourishment from the feeder that had turned to solid ice. My soft heart breaking, twice a day I brought in the feeder and replaced the ice with fresh, warm sugar-water.

But on the day before New Year’s Eve, the hummingbirds weren’t the only ones frozen out. After a wind-chilled week when outdoor temperatures topped out between 15 and 25 degrees, Center Island’s community water system succumbed to the shivers. Buried pipes and various other parts of our reverse-osmosis supply system froze up. In the space of a couple hours the output from my kitchen and bathroom faucets turned from a trickle to nothing.

Our water guru, Sean, confirmed via an email blast that the outage was island-wide. He offered an apologetic explanation that boiled down to this: The solution was up to the weather gods, not the water guru. We just needed warmth. Patience would be key.

Taking the “toilet tank is half full” view, there was good news: I had long ago stored two 5-gallon plastic jugs, filled with emergency water, on my back porch. I brought them inside to thaw. And somehow water was still flowing at our community clubhouse, about a half-mile from me. That blessing was mixed: As a caution against exhausting the water supply the caretaker had closed the shower and laundry room.

We also had a few inches of snow on the ground, which wasn’t melting. A good source of more emergency water, even if it needed to be boiled, I told myself. The blood of my homesteading pioneer ancestors surged through my veins.

But my South Dakota grandparents’ weary genetic material failed to remind me that when you fill a giant pasta pot with snow from the deck and melt it atop the woodstove, you end up with only about 2 inches of water in the bottom of the pot. Speckled with dirt and floating fir needles, it was good only for toilet flushing.

With a toilet that uses 1.6 gallons per flush, that didn’t accomplish anything fast. After a few melted potfuls I, uh, flushed away that strategy.

The long and short of it was that after four days of no showering, infrequent flushing and more than one trek across the island to refill my water jugs amid frigid winds gusting to 50 mph, I texted the water taxi, packed up Galley Cat and bugged out last Monday like a MASH unit fleeing advancing troops.

Here’s where good friends are a wonderful thing.

Lynn, a former Seattle Times colleague, and her husband, David, had earlier invited me to their Lopez Island vacation home for a brunch. With a little hint-dropping on my part and typical generosity from Lynn and David, that turned into an overnight visit, including two delightful hikes (the sun came out!) on beautiful Iceberg Point, with panoramic views of the wintry Olympics and thrashing waves off the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The gamboling accompaniment of their highly energetic Springer spaniel pup added joy.

The next day I drove Ranger Rick, my reliable teenaged pickup, to the far end of Lopez, parked in the 72-hour lot and toddled aboard the state ferry to Friday Harbor (fare-free for interisland walk-ons). I carried Galley in a soft-sided carrier slung over my shoulder, with all my cat supplies, clothes and other gear packed in a Rubbermaid tote strapped to a hand truck for easy rolling on and off the ferry. The kitty cat and I planned a couple nights with Barbara Marrett and Bill Watson, partners in my upcoming voyage up the Inside Passage to Alaska. We would further plan our 10-week itinerary, which begins Memorial Day weekend.

We buckled down and did a lot of studying of charts and guidebooks, filling out a detailed spreadsheet of where we hoped to visit. We also found time for hikes, a fun board game, good food and an evening binge-watch about Vikings invading medieval Britain.

Looking down from a wintry hike up Young Hill, in San Juan Island National Historical Park, as snow began to fall Wednesday on San Juan Island.

I had planned to return home Thursday. The National Weather Service predicted up to an inch of snow Wednesday night for Friday Harbor but with rapid warming and rain the next day. Didn’t sound like a problem.

We awakened Thursday to 5 inches of wet snow. Beautiful but not travel-friendly. My hosts kindly put me up another night.

Galley and I have been back at the Nuthatch since Friday. Glad to have hot showers and a flushing toilet. Still drinking bottled water until Sean gives the all-clear on the latest water-sample test, but that’s a mere hiccup among this feast of creature comforts.

Maybe it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of our good fortunes once in a while, whether we’re hummingbird or human. Stay warm, friends.