Under the Bureau of Land Management’s resource management plan, a number of formerly publicly accessible islands in the San Juan Islands were placed on the chopping block. Lummi Rocks and McConnell Rocks (among others) were permanently closed to day use and camping. The RMP may have been good news for conservation, but it was a real blow for kayakers.
The RMP entered effect in January 2023. Prior to that date, dispersed camping was allowed anywhere in the BLM islands. Afterward, no dispersed camping was allowed anywhere in the BLM islands.
To take advantage of the waning days of public access, I did a three-night trip out of Deer Harbor to visit two islands that had been on my list for a while: Freeman Island and McConnell Rocks. I had to visit them now, before the RMP closed the door on them for ever.
Route map. Tides in this area are weak to moderate, so a kayaker’s timing and direction are not so important as they are in, for example, Rosario Strait or Spieden Channel.
Kayaking in December means very short days and a risk of strong winds. It’s wise to keep paddling distances short this time of year. To that end, I launched at Deer Harbor Marina rather than either of my customary Orcas Island launch points at North Beach or the ferry terminal.
Deer Harbor is a private marina, which usually means paying money to park, but when I arrived before dawn on Friday, there were no signs stating a requirement or amount to pay, no staff present to ask about paying, and no pay box to deposit money even if I’d wanted to pay and had known the correct amount. With a twinge of guilt, I parked in the upper lot without paying and launched from the pocket beach next to the dock. Destination: Freeman Island.
Heading northbound up President Channel on the west side of Orcas, I encountered a moderately adverse, southbound ebb. This was only to be expected. In winter kayaking, there’s usually not enough daylight to wait for favorable tides. I hugged the shoreline of Orcas to take advantage of eddies. Apparently, a small pod of harbor porpoises had the same idea, because they popped up not twenty meters from my boat. Their breaths made delightful little puff-puff-puff sounds.
Hugging the coast northbound up President Channel. The weather forecast consistently called for strong winds, but the islands sheltered me from the worst of it.
Harbor porpoise in President Channel. In the distance, I saw one of the ferries stop near Spieden Island, which usually means the crew have spotted orcas, but I wasn’t able to see from such a distance.
Freeman Island was a beautiful and secluded spot, but the landing was difficult. The island was fringed by a twenty-foot cliff. On the south side, the cliff was nearly vertical, but there was a tiny beach at mid- to low tide. On the north side, there was no beach at all, but the cliff looked less imposing.
I landed on the north side and tied my boat to a rock to float overnight. However, the north-side cliff actually turned out to be the more dangerous of the two, owing to the crumbliness of the rock. When I departed the next morning, I carried my gear down the steeper but safer south-side cliff, then paddled the boat around to pick the gear up. Even with such precautions, I still managed to drop my tripod down the south-side cliff. The plastic tilt head broke off, ruining the tripod.
Freeman Island had a nice, flat top with plenty of open space for tents. However, the island was less than 500 feet long (less than a third the size of Strawberry Island) and had essentially no beach, so there was little opportunity for exploration.
By contrast, the Point Doughty campsite was less than a mile north of Freeman Island and offered easier access, more hiking, better vistas, and pit toilets. Point Doughty was superior in every way to Freeman Island except for the matter of crowds. Point Doughty can get crowded during summer.
Approaching Freeman Island. I love remote little places like this.
Atop Freeman Island. A rope and pulley would’ve helped me lug all this gear up the cliffs.
South beach Freeman Island. This is actually the easier of the two cliffs to ascend. The beach disappears at high tide.
McConnell Rocks, the second of my BLM destinations, was even smaller than Freeman but more beautiful. McConnell Rocks (not to be confused with nearby McConnell Island) was in the heart of the Wasp Islands, the most “San Juans” part of the San Juan Islands, so the views here were gorgeous. The landing beach was a gem, and there was but scant brush to impede hiking and camping.
Unfortunately, even though the RMP had not entered effect at the time of my visit, there was a “no camping” sign on McConnell Rocks. Confusingly, however, BLM’s proposed November 2019 RMP/FEIS said, at page 80, that camping was allowed at McConnell Rocks at the time of my visit. The camping situation was unclear not just to me but to BLM itself! (Ultimately, however, once the final RMP entered effect in January 2023, even landing at McConnell Rocks was prohibited, much less camping.)
I had arrived at McConnell Rocks too late in the day to move to a different campsite. In a weak “compromise” that would never satisfy any BLM ranger, county sheriff, or nearby private landowner, I camped but I did not set up a tent. There was just a little drizzle coming down, so I laid out under the shelter of a large seaside juniper and slept away the fourteen hours of darkness.
Kayaking southbound down President Channel. I love when everything is blue, green, and gray.
West shore of Orcas Island. The current nudged me along at half a knot to one knot.
Common murre in President Channel. I saw all four species of year-around alcid, but did not find any ancient murrelets, which are present only in winter.
Looking west toward Spieden Island and the Gulf Islands. Steller sea lions on the east point of Spieden were roaring so loudly I could hear them over two miles away.
Winterized government dock at Jones Island. I stopped here for a quick break on my way to McConnell Rocks. I returned the next night to camp here.
View from McConnell Rock. This would be a great campground, but camping is not allowed. Once the RMP enters effect, even landing here will not be allowed.
The next morning, I considered going on to Victim Island, yet another BLM island. But after two days on tiny Freeman Island and McConnell Rocks, I wanted a chance to stretch my legs. Instead of Victim, I paddled over to the beautiful Yellow Island, a holding of the Nature Conservancy and one of the most picturesque walks in the San Juans.
Approaching Yellow Island. The Wasp Island archipelago is like a miniaturized version of the San Juans.
Parkland on Yellow Island. The caretaker had departed for the winter, leaving me to explore the island on my own—the best way.
A settler and a settlor. Tib Dodd and her husband built the first house on Yellow Island and eventually deeded the island to the Nature Conservancy.
Landing beach and caretaker cabin on Yellow Island. The caretaker here has just about the sweetest job on Earth.
Male and female surf scoter at Jones Island. Altogether I saw sixteen species of seabird, which is a little low for this time of year.
From Yellow Island, I crossed to Jones Island, a state park where I have camped many times. Jones has about four miles of hiking trails, a good change of pace from the tiny BLM islands. For the second night in a row, I slept out under the sky. This time, with no trees to shelter me, I draped my tent over myself like a blanket when the raindrops started around midnight. The raccoons were merciful and did not more than poke at my food or gear.
I was left with very mixed feelings about the RMP. The environmentalist in me was pleased that more islands have been placed off-limits or seen access reduced. The kayaker in me was sorry to lose yet more camping and resting locations. Sites like Freeman Island and McConnell Rocks may seem pretty marginal for recreation compared to other sites nearby, but their loss is part of a seemingly endless trend toward less and less kayaking access over time.
The real damage, of course, was done over a century ago, when the federal homesteading acts handed over land for free in lots of up to 320 acres. Vast tracts of land were snapped up and have remained in private hands ever since, one of the great ignominies of American history. Today, those of us who love the outdoors are left fighting over scraps—yet industry and landowners call us radical!
—Alex Sidles