Even as I’d branched out my paddling into British Columbia and Alaska, I still tried to do at least one overnight paddle each year in Washington’s San Juan Islands. I always thought of the San Juans as my main kayak stomping grounds, and it gave me a sense of home to go back there.
Even though I’d been paddling the San Juans for more than ten years by this point, there were still places I hadn’t ever been—and other places, like Strawberry Island, where I’d been a dozen times or more.
In 2016, I decided my first San Juans trip of the year would be a circumnavigation around Lummi Island in the northeastern part of the archipelago, a place I’d never visited before. I camped the first night on Clark Island State Park, where I’d stopped in the past but never camped. I camped the second night on Lummi Island itself.
Route map. I launched at the Lummi Nation marina, with permission from the clerk at the store.
It was a little silly to make Lummi Island a two-night trip. By taking advantage of the strong currents in Hale Passage and Rosario Strait, it would be easy to circumnavigate the island in a single day. But I was hoping to spend some time camping on the beach and hiking in the woods, so I was happy to extend the trip.
I knew there would be crowds on Independence Day weekend, but I managed to avoid them through clever site selection. On Clark Island, I stayed away from the crowded official beaches, landing instead in a small cove on the very southern tip of the island. A grassy knoll just above the cove made for a perfect campsite. I slept out under the stars with no one else around.
Sleepy harbor seals near Clark Island. This species does not like to be approached, but if you keep your distance they ignore you.
My own, personal landing beach on Clark Island. Though often crowded, Clark is one of the prettiest islands in the San Juans.
Northern rough-winged swallow at Clark Island. This species does well in the San Juans, where there are a lot of sandy cliffs available for nesting.
Violet-green swallow at Clark Island. With the barn swallow, this is one of our two most common swallows.
Pacific madrone on Clark Island. The smooth, red surface is actually its bark.
Sleeping out on Clark Island. No need for a tent in such a temperate climate.
On Lummi, I camped on an unnamed pebble beach in the vicinity of Reil Harbor. This site was even more secluded than the south end of Clark. I thrashed my way inland through nettles and shrubs until I reached the trunk road, where I wandered up and down the island, looking at warblers and flycatchers.
Altogether, I saw fifty-two species of bird on this trip. The highlight was a house wren feeding her chicks on Lummi Island.
House wrens are common in most of the Americas, but uncommon in western Washington, because it is too wet for them here. It turns out, however, that they are locally common in the San Juans, and I had the good fortune to stumble across one. This was the first house wren I’d seen in years and years, so it was a real thrill.
In addition to the birds, I saw harbor seals, harbor porpoises, a river otter, and a Townsend’s chipmunk. Shockingly for the San Juans, I saw no raccoons at all.
This was no wilderness trip, but I still found all the things I look for on an outdoors trip: solitude, natural beauty, and wildlife. There are no bad places to go in the San Juan Islands! I’m glad I have now visited Lummi and camped on Clark. Both islands are treasures, fully worthy of exploration.
Southbound down Rosario Strait. It’s helpful to coordinate with the currents here.
Starfish and anemones at Lone Tree Island. Life is abundant in these cold, rich waters.
Approaching Lummi Island down Rosario Strait. Much of the southern third of the island is DNR land.
Parking was free at the Lummi marina by the Lummi Island ferry terminal. Camping on Clark Island required a fee payment. Camping in the DNR lands on Lummi was free.
I would suggest coordinating with the tides. Fighting the flood current south toward Clark Island was a challenge. It took me five hours to go from the marina to the south end Clark, a distance of about seven miles (11 km). The going was much easier once I began to coordinate my movements with the tides.
—Alex Sidles