In February 2017, I completed my long-standing goal of visiting every public campground in the San Juan Islands. From then on, if I wanted to camp somewhere new, I had to get creative.
There are approximately 130 named islands in the San Juans. Most are uninhabited little rocks that belong to the federal government. Of those, just under half are part of the San Juan Islands National Wildlife Refuge, meaning they are off-limits to visitors. The remaining islands are mostly BLM land.
One of the largest of the BLM islands is Lummi Rocks, just off the west side of Lummi Island. I’d never landed there, though I’d paddled past on a previous circumnav of Lummi.
Google Earth showed a nice tombolo on Lummi Rocks between the two southernmost islands. Tombolos often make for good camping, and June camping in the San Juans is lovely. The forecast called for good conditions, so I headed out for the weekend without even bringing a tent.
At the time of this 2018 trip, landing and camping on the BLM islands was allowed. In 2023, however, BLM adopted a resource management plan that prohibited landing on Lummi Rocks even for day use. The plan also prohibited dispersed camping on any BLM islands in the San Juans. This trip was my one and only chance to camp on Lummi Rocks.
I launched from the beach at Gooseberry Pt. in the mistaken belief that the public had access over the tidelands. After the trip, I learned that the tidelands are in fact the property of the Lummi Tribe by executive order of President Grant, Nov. 22, 1873. I should not have launched here. Always check your 19th-century executive orders before launching a kayak!
The tricky part about circumnavigating Lummi Island is that the current flows very rapidly along both sides of the island—Rosario Strait on the west side and Hale Passage on the east side. What you want is catch a favorable current up one side, round the corner at slack current, and then catch the reverse current down the other side. This sounds easy, but it requires perfect timing.
Because of the way the tides worked this time of year, a counterclockwise circumnavigation made more sense than a clockwise. But I got a late start on Saturday morning, and the current was already ebbing southward down Hale Passage and growing stronger by the minute. Without a moment to lose, I flung my gear in my boat and battled the current northward till I rounded the corner.
Once in Rosario Strait, the ebb current whisked me down south to Lummi Rocks with hardly so much as a touch of the paddle on my part.
Lummi Nation pier. The Lummi still derive a great deal of their sustenance from the sea.
Paddling up Hale Passage. Winds blew a steady ten knots from the north day and night, slackening only for an hour or two around dawn.
Paddling southbound down Rosario Strait toward a tide race. These lovely islands feel like a second home to me.
Landing at Lummi Rocks. I was worried there would be regulatory signage or seabird colonies on the island, either of which would have compelled me to keep moving. Luckily, the only sign merely advised visitors to respect the site, and the only seabirds were glaucous-winged gulls and pelagic cormorants nesting out of line-of-sight from the tombolo.
Sitting on the tombolo. As I’d hoped, the tombolo was clear and level. Plenty of room for campers, especially those like me who just lie out under the stars.
Seals relaxing off Lummi Rocks. On such sunny days, humans and seals alike just want to bask.
On top of Lummi Rocks. Lummi Island in the background left, Vendovi Island in the background right. Hat Island in the distant background right. Mainland in the distant background right of Lummi.
Sunset over Matia Island. This time of year, the sun sets quite far to the north.
The wind blew quite steadily from the north and seemed to accelerate as it passed over Lummi Rocks. On the north side of the tombolo, I had to wear a sweatshirt to stay warm, despite the 77°F (25°C) air temperature.
But when I moved to the south side to get out of the wind, I began overheating on the exposed gravel. I tried to compromise by sitting up with my upper torso exposed to the wind and my lower half protected by the gravel ridge of the tombolo, but all that accomplished was to make my feet hot. Finally, I ended up on the very top of the tombolo behind a screen of grass, which provided just enough windbreak that I didn’t get cold while still allowing a cool breeze to filter through.
At night, I lay out on a flat patch of gravel that some previous kayaker had cleared, sheltered from the wind and free of the baking sun. I watched the stars sparkle into existence one by one in the clear night sky.
I’d hoped to avoid crowds by camping on a non-campground (though, at the time, still legal) island. I knew the main sites in the San Juans would be crowded this time of year. Indeed, looking west to Sucia Island, I could see that Echo Bay was swarming with powerboats and sailboats, much as one would expect on a June weekend.
Unfortunately, the word was out about Lummi Rocks, and I had a powerboat drop by for a visit in the afternoon, followed by a couple in a double kayak who overnighted, followed by a small group of kayakers next morning. There are secret patches of government land in the San Juans where you can find solitude even in summer, but Lummi Rocks was definitely not one such. Much as I love to see people enjoying these islands, there’s nothing quite like having an island all to yourself.
On Sunday, I loafed around the island waiting for the end of the ebb tide. By the early afternoon, I decided to launch, even though the current wouldn’t turn for several more hours. I drifted swiftly down to the south end of Lummi Island, then turned up Hale Passage and began fighting the still-flowing ebb.
As the passage narrowed, the speed of the current increased, and soon I was making less than 1.5 miles per hour with six miles to go. I bent to it and slowly dragged myself north, consoled by the thought that things would get easier as the ebb died. Indeed, by the mid-afternoon, the ebb seemed to have ceased altogether. In another hour or two, the favorable flood would have started, but by then I’d already reached my car.
Looking back at Lummi Rocks. The north wind and ebb tide gave me such southward push that I didn’t once paddle all the way to the south end of Lummi Island.
Southern tip of Lummi Island. I was worried about tide races and whirlpools at the tip of the island, but it was completely benign.
Mount Baker from Hale Passage. Mount Baker dominates the eastern San Juans in the same way Mount Rainier dominates the south sound. Mount Shuksan to the right.
There wasn’t much in the way of birds or wildlife this trip. Lummi Rocks was simply too small. Besides the fifteen or so harbor seals who hauled out on the rocks at high tide, there were only a handful of birds. I did see twenty or more turkey vultures soaring past over Lummi Island; they must still have been in migration.
Despite the presence of other people on the island, and despite my embarrassing mixup about the status of the tidelands, it was still a great trip. Beautiful blue skies, lovely stars, and a perfect gravel bed to lay on at night—what more can a kayaker ask?
—Alex Sidles