My New Year’s resolution for 2023 was to photograph, from a kayak, in the space of a single calendar year, all four species of whale regularly found in Washington State’s inland waters: the killer whale, gray whale, humpback whale, and minke whale. A gray whale in Possession Sound in April was the easiest to find. After a long chase, I also found a pod of orcas off Whidbey. Next on the list would be the two summertime species, the humpback and minke whales.
Humpbacks can be found throughout the inland waters during summer. Minke whales are more particular. The best place for minkes is the underwater banks in the eastern Strait of Juan de Fuca. Fish concentrate here, and the minkes follow the fish. Of the eight or nine banks in the strait, Hein Bank and Salmon Bank are the most reliable habitats for minke whales.
To maximize my coverage of the banks, I paddled out from Dungeness Spit across the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I camped on San Juan Island overnight and returned the next day. Last time I did this trip, I camped at Cattle Point on the southeastern tip of San Juan Island. In January 2023, however, the Bureau of Land Management issued its new resource management plan, which prohibited camping at Cattle Point. As a result of the prohibition, I had to paddle a few more miles around Cattle Point to the state-owned campground at Griffin Bay, increasing the one-way distance to twenty-seven miles (43 km).
On the way back, I unexpectedly ended up camping on Dungeness Spit, but that is getting ahead of my story.
Route map. This route crosses the Strait of Juan de Fuca at its widest part.
Currents through Cattle Pass run notoriously fast, so my main concern was to hit the pass on the flood rather than the ebb. Given the time it would take to cross the strait, this meant launching shortly after high tide. A high-tide launch was fortuitous, in that it allowed me to float over the vast quicksand flats in Dungeness Bay that ensnared me a few years ago and cost me a pair of boots.
The ebbing tide led to slightly adverse currents in the strait itself. Still, I made reasonable progress. The wind remained calm all day, and the skies cleared the longer I was on the water. The “blue hole” over Victoria expanded throughout the afternoon until the entire strait was bathed in sun.
Kayaking Dungeness Spit. The inside of the spit is a national wildlife refuge closed to access, while the outside is a hiking trail from the mainland to the old lighthouse, five and a half miles (9 km) each way.
New Dungeness Light Station, est. 1857. The lighthouse was originally much taller but had to be shortened in 1927 due to crumbling materials.
Lighthouse keeper’s residence, Dungeness Spit. The acronym above the door stands for United States Lighthouse Establishment, the original agency in charge of light stations.
Harlequin ducks, Dungeness Spit. These slightly bedraggled individuals may already have begun their fall molt.
Harbor seal, Dungeness Spit. The seals in Dungeness Bay were the only pinnipeds I saw this trip.
Hein Bank was my first stop. I worked my way up the eastern side of the bank in the naive and unavailing hope that the bank might protect me from some of the adverse ebbing current. Rhinoceros auklets were abundant throughout the bank, with common murres and pigeon guillemots present in smaller numbers. There were no loons or grebes and hardly any cormorants except in the vicinity of the buoys, where they nest.
Before long, I heard the deep blast of a whale spout. “Ah, a minke,” I thought, delighted to have found this most elusive of whales. When the spout came again, however, it sprayed a dense column of mist high into the air. This could not be a minke whale. Minke whale breaths are almost always invisible. No, this was a humpback whale.
Humpback whales are one of the easiest species to photograph, because they breathe in sets. They take five or six breaths at intervals of a minute or less, and then one final breath before they make a deep dive. On the deep dive, they arch their backs and often display their flukes. When a humpback starts spouting, you have a couple minutes to position yourself nearby and aim your camera. If you don’t get the shot before the deep dive occurs, you will need to wait ten or twenty minutes or longer for the whale to begin its next set of breaths.
Crossing Strait of Juan de Fuca northbound. The bluffs of San Juan Island make for an easy navigational mark, but it’s still helpful to have a GPS to account for currents.
Common murres, Strait of Juan de Fuca. The presence of this species in large numbers in the inland waters is another sign of approaching fall.
Rhinoceros auklets, Strait of Juan de Fuca. One of this species’ main breeding grounds is the nearby Protection Island, so it is no surprise to encounter lots of them here.
Humpback whale, Hein Bank. The arch of its back is so sharp it is almost Gothic.
Humpback whale tail, Hein Bank. Water pours off the whale’s flukes when it makes its deep dive.
There were at least two humpback whales on Hein Bank this morning but no minke whales. Of course, I was happy to have photographed a humpback, as this was one of the four species I needed to complete my resolution, but the reality is that humpback whales can be found almost anywhere this time of year. I wasn’t subjecting myself to a twenty-seven-mile crossing for humpbacks. I was here for minkes!
I continued across the strait to Salmon Bank, just south of San Juan Island. Here were even more seabirds, including flocks of gulls attacking balls of baitfish. The gulls’ presence was a good sign, because minke whales are attracted to the same baitfish as gulls. Every time a flock of gulls would descend on a baitball, I would hurry over to the scene of the action in the hopes of capturing a minke whale.
Rhinoceros auklets were using the same tactic I was. Auklets don’t forage from the air, so it can be hard for them to detect surfacing baitballs. They wait for the gulls, who do fly, to spot a surfacing baitball, and then the auklets hurry over before the gulls can gobble up all the baitfish. The auklets and I raced back and forth in the gulls’ wake, but unfortunately for me, no minke whales were present.
Approaching San Juan Islands by kayak. The swirling currents had me changing my heading across a sixty-degree arc just to maintain a consistent course.
Pelagic cormorants atop Salmon Bank buoy. The buoys were almost the only places I saw cormorants this trip—very unusual for the San Juans.
Feeding frenzy, Salmon Bank. The birds are remarkably cooperative, seemingly confident that there will, in the end, be enough baitfish for everybody.
Heermann’s gull, Salmon Bank. This handsome species (my favorite gull) migrates “in reverse.” This individual is actually “wintering” here in July.
Rhinoceros auklet, Salmon Bank. Although auklets can’t reach the baitballs as fast as gulls can, auklets have the advantage of being able to dive underwater to pursue baitfish.
By the time I had searched all of Salmon Bank for whales, the current through Cattle Pass had begun to flood. I buttoned up in my drysuit and rocketed through the tide races beneath the lighthouse, at one point outpacing a sailboat that was unable to take advantage of what little breeze there was.
At Griffin Bay, I set up camp in the grass and went exploring. The dry thickets were very productive for birds, including house wrens, a rarity in most of western Washington but common here in the San Juans.
The San Juans have become something of a retirement or second-home community in recent decades, but there are still vestiges of the farming that used to predominate life here. I walked down lonely country roads, surrounding by hayfields and decaying old farm equipment, my only company the occasional farm dog who ran after me or wild fox who ran away from me.
Cattle Point lighthouse, est. 1935. Owing to its elevation, this smaller lighthouse is actually easier to see from a distance than the larger lighthouse at Dungeness Spit.
Campsite at Griffin Bay. This is DNR land, not a state park, so there is no fee to camp here.
Black hawthorne at Griffin Bay. The branches of this native shrub are studded with long thorns.
Spiderweb, Griffin Bay. Fortunately for me but unfortunately for the spiders, Griffin Bay was not very buggy.
Haystacks, Cattle Point, San Juan Island. The farms here seem somehow more peaceful than those on the mainland.
Old farm equipment, Cattle Point, San Juan Island. It would violate the farmers’ code to throw anything away that might someday (someday!) be repaired.
Chestnut-backed chickadee, Griffin Bay. This juvenile bird may be only a few weeks old.
Bewick’s wren, Griffin Bay. This juvenile wren was flocking with juvenile chickadees.
House wren, Griffin Bay. This drabbest of wrens is a real treat for a Seattle-based birder.
American goldfinch. Washington’s official state bird is the “willow goldfinch,” a subspecies of the American goldfinch, but I am not convinced the American goldfinches in our state actually belong to that subspecies. I suspect our birds may actually be the “northwestern goldfinch.”
The next morning, the ebb was favorable all day, both for the transit of Cattle Pass and for the southbound crossing of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. What was less favorable was the wind. In the morning, it was only ten knots, but it soon rose to fifteen.
Even at ten knots, looking for whales on Salmon Bank was a challenge. The constant rush of the wind made it impossible to hear the spouts of whales, and the whitecaps made it difficult to spot their fins or flukes. At fifteen knots on Hein Bank, the waves rose to two feet and began slapping my boat around. I did not even attempt to look for whales in such conditions.
The radio called for winds rising to gale force by five o’clock. I hurried for Dungeness Spit, hoping to get inside the sandbar before the gale. The wind caught me still a mile and a half out to sea. The wind rose to twenty knots, with gusts to twenty-five, according to the Hein Bank buoy. I fought my way into the bay behind the spit, hoping for a respite, but Dungeness Spit is a low sandbar, incapable of serving as a windbreak. Worse, a large eddy inside the bay slowed my progress to a crawl. Just three miles (5 km) from my car, I was moving at only half a mile per hour against the wind and current. At this rate, I’d be lucky to get off the water by midnight!
I stumbled ashore at the Dungeness Spit lighthouse and knocked on the lighthouse keeper’s door. The lighthouse has been automated since 1976, but a local non-profit association has established a program whereby guests can rent out the lighthouse keeper’s residence for a week at a time, provided they give tours to hikers who trudge out to the lighthouse from the mainland across five and a half miles of sand. I knocked on the door of the residence just as the guest keepers were sitting down to dinner.
Camping isn’t allowed on Dungeness Spit, but we weren’t able to arrange vehicle transportation for me and my kayak that evening. The spit is only accessible to vehicles at low tide, which had already passed. Under the circumstances, the lighthouse association granted me special permission to camp on the lighthouse lawn, provided that I not set up a tent. I curled up behind the lighthouse, using its bulk to shelter from winds that climbed almost to thirty knots overnight. Built in 1857, but still succoring mariners today!
Kayaking southbound across Strait of Juan de Fuca. The distance seems demoralizing at first, but it passes in only a few hours.
Dungeness Spit lighthouse in fifteen knots of wind. As the wind climbed higher, so did the waves.
Alex sitting on Dungeness Spit. There are worse places on Earth to play castaway for an evening.
Dungeness Spit lighthouse at sunset. The guest keepers told me they had given forty tours to hikers over the course of their eight-hour “work day,” a rate of one tour every twelve minutes!
Dungeness Bay was the scene of a notorious kayaking disaster in 2015, in which two died and several others barely survived. The lighthouse association member who gave me permission to camp had been at the lighthouse when the tragedy occurred. She and the local government officials who got involved in my case were more than happy to let a kayaker sleep on the lawn rather than brave the rising wind. I left early the next morning, before the guest keepers were awake, and crossed the bay in forty-five minutes in calm conditions.
I could not complain about having found humpback whales, but I sure did wish I had seen minke whales. The majority of the minke whales only spend a few months each year in our waters, so I had to find them quickly if I was to complete my resolution. I returned to the banks several more times over the course of the following weeks and eventually managed to photograph a minke whale—this time, without getting stranded on a beach.
—Alex Sidles