My 2023 New Year’s resolution was to photograph, from a kayak, all four species of whale regularly found in Washington’s inland waters: the gray whale, humpback whale, killer whale, and minke whale. By July, I had photographed each of the first three species, but minke whales were proving elusive.
Minke whales can be found during the summer months foraging on the offshore banks in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Salmon Bank and Hein Bank are their most preferred grounds. In July, I had made an unsuccessful overnight trip across the Straight of Juan de Fuca to the banks, only to end up weatherbound on Dungeness Spit with no photograph to show for it.
The back-to-back pair of crossings of the widest reach of the Strait of Juan de Fuca had proved taxing. I resolved to find an easier way. I began launching day trips from South Beach on San Juan Island. With strategic use of currents, it was possible to paddle to the banks and back in time to catch a late afternoon ferry home.
Day trips on 20 July and 1 August did not yield success. In July, I spent the whole day on the water with no sign of a whale. In August, I finally encountered two minke whales, one on Hein Bank and a second on Salmon Bank. I was on the verge of triumph, but I just could not get the photograph.
Unlike gray whales or humpback whales, which breathe in predictable sets, minke whales take only a single breath and then disappear for ten minutes at a time. They can pop back up anywhere, not necessarily close to the site of their previous breath. When they do pop up, they are only on the surface for approximately two to three seconds, and then gone for another ten minutes. They do not emit a visible spout, so they are almost impossible to see from a distance, especially for a kayaker who sits low to the water.
A kayaker has to alert to a minke whale’s presence by sound alone. When the whale spouts, the kayaker must guess which direction the sound came from, and paddle in that direction as fast as possible. When the next breath comes, some ten minutes after the first, the kayaker has to try to spot the whale’s dorsal fin during the two seconds before the whale submerges, and then paddle in that direction again. On the third breath (now twenty minutes into the chase), the kayaker will have a chance to get a photograph, unless the whale has changed direction or speed, which it often does. Most commonly, the kayaker will not spot the whale when it spouts, either because the whale popped up in an unexpected direction or because chop has obscured the kayaker’s view of the dorsal fin. When the kayaker loses the trail like this, the chase must be restarted from scratch.
Out on the banks, I chased each minke whale for an hour, during which time I laid eyes on each animal only two or three times. The only photograph I got was the top two inches of one of the whale’s fins as it submerged—not good enough to complete my New Year’s resolution.
Time was running out. I had to get these whales in August, because they would begin to depart in September. On 5 August, I decided to devote another whole weekend to whale-chasing. I didn’t want to face another pair of crossings of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, so I used the San Juans as a more convenient basecamp.
Unfortunately, there is no overnight parking anywhere near the banks. The closest I could park was Odlin County Park on Lopez Island, some ten miles (16 km) north of Salmon Bank, and sixteen miles (25 km) north of Hein Bank.
This “convenient” basecamp wasn’t very convenient! I certainly wasn’t relishing a thirty-two-mile (50 km) roundtrip to Hein Bank! Griffin Bay on San Juan Island offered a closer bailout point, where I could camp overnight if need be. In the end, however, I ended up camping on Shaw Island, as I will explain.
Route map. Salmon Bank is close enough to San Juan Island that whale-watchers can sometimes spot minke whales from shore, if the whales are on the very northernmost part of the bank.
On 20 July, I encountered beautiful weather but no whales. Birds were everywhere, frantically gathering as much food as possible to feed their chicks back on the nest.
On 1 August, I launched into thick fog. From San Francisco to Juneau, August is known as “Fogust” on the Pacific coast. Visibility on Salmon Bank was as close as a hundred yards. Even when the sun tried to shine through, it only produced disorienting, white “fogbows,” colorless rainbows caused by the refraction of sunlight through the droplets of mist.
The seabirds didn’t seem to have any trouble foraging in the fog. Whenever a feeding frenzy broke out, I would follow the birds’ calls, hoping the same baitfish that attracted the birds would attract a minke whale. It is just as well I didn’t hear any minke whales until the fog cleared, because chasing a minke whale through fog would have been even more frustrating than chasing one in sunlight.
Fogbow, Salmon Bank. Rampaging powerboats emerged from the fog with only seconds’ warning.
Approaching gulls and auklets in fog. Seabirds are not normally this approachable, but they become more tolerant of humans and other large animals when there is a baitball present.
Gulls feeding in the fog. Gulls are not great divers, but they stuck their heads as far underwater as they could in pursuit of baitfish.
Hein Bank buoy. This is a long way to paddle not to find a minke whale.
Feeding frenzy on Salmon Bank. Minke whales can often be found circling feeding flocks like this one, but no luck on this occasion.
Rhinoceros auklet and common murre, Hein Bank. These two species were the most numerous of the Big Four alcids that inhabit Washington’s inland waters year-round.
San Juan Island in fog. The fog was often patchy, thick in some places and non-existent immediately adjacent.
Glaucous-winged gull chick eating fish. Its parents’ frenzied efforts on the banks have paid off for this youngster.
On 5 August, I tried again. Launching from Odlin County Park on Lopez Island put me much farther from the banks than launching from South Beach on San Juan Island. However, over the course of my ten trips to the banks over the previous three years, I had made a study of the currents and determined that, in some ways, it would be less effort to go from Lopez than from South Beach.
From Lopez, the ebb current would carry me at blistering speed through Cattle Pass and thence directly onto Salmon and Hein Banks. The flood would shove me back the opposite way. By contrast, from South Beach, the ebb would be somewhat adverse to reach Salmon Bank, and then helpful to reach Hein Bank, while the flood would be helpful to get back to Salmon Bank and then adverse to return to the beach. In other words, the longer distance from Lopez would not necessarily mean more work, because the currents would always be perfectly favorable.
For my 5 August trip, the currents were almost too favorable. I hit Cattle Pass on a three-knot ebb, where the colliding waters produced a tiderace a mile long, with one- and two-foot breakers slapping my boat from whirlpool to whirlpool. By the time I could extricate myself, I was already atop the middle of Salmon Bank.
Even on the calm waters of the bank, currents were running at two knots. Half my time was spent maneuvering my kayak to avoid being carried off south to Hein Bank before I had investigated all of Salmon Bank. I would paddle northeast for five minutes and drift southwest for five minutes, maintaining on average an approximately stationary position over the bank while I listened for whales.
Whoosh came a whale breath. By this point in my kayak-based whale-watching career, I can sometimes distinguish the species by sound alone. I knew at once this was a minke.
I paddled in the direction of the sound for ten minutes, then paused so the splash of my paddle and the nylon zip-zip-zip of my drysuit wouldn’t drown out the next spout. I held my camera at the ready but was not surprised when the spout came in a different direction and the whale was not visible. Again, I chased after the sound. A third spout sounded much closer, but I still had no visual on the whale. I knew the next spout would be my best chance for a photograph, so I sprinted forward for as long as I dared, stopped paddling, and raised the camera.
Whoosh came the breath, and the dorsal fin broke the surface some two hundred yards in front of me. I swung the camera in the whale’s direction and fired a burst of shots, hoping the camera’s auto-focus and auto-exposure would do their jobs, because a minke whale gives a photographer no time to do anything but spray and pray.
Ten minutes later, the whale spouted once more, but this time it was half a mile distant and no longer visible. After that, it was heard no more.
Almost afraid to look, I checked the photos my camera had grabbed during the single second I had laid the lens on-target. To my enormous relief, a recognizable photo of a minke whale shone from the viewscreen. My New Year’s resolution was complete!
Kayaking down San Juan Channel. The launch beach at Odlin County Park is one of the nicest in the San Juans.
Kayaking on Salmon Bank. In the distance, the Olympic Mountains beckon.
Cattle Point seen from Salmon Bank. The long gravel beach here is seldom trafficked, the perfect place for a kayaker to haul out for a break.
Cattle Point lighthouse, seen from Salmon Bank. In the afternoon, the fog lifted just in time for a wedding party at the lighthouse.
California gull, Salmon Bank. The four gull species species I spotted on the banks were California, glaucous-winged, Heermann’s, and short-billed.
Steller sea lion and pelagic cormorants atop Salmon Bank buoy. Most of the sea lions were hauled out on Whale Rocks, some three miles (5 km) to the northeast, but this lone individual preferred the buoy.
Minke whale on Salmon Bank. Of the four species of whales regularly found in the inland waters, this is by far the most challenging to photograph.
Now there was no need to paddle another six miles (10 km) farther out to Hein Bank. Nor was there any need to return to the banks the following day, when the forecast called for stronger wind. All I needed now was a favorable flood to carry me back up the channel. I fought the still-ebbing current over to Cattle Point and lounged on the long beach for a few hours while I waited for the tide to change.
With the afternoon flood running in my favor through Cattle Pass, I could have made it back to Odlin County Park late in the day. Rather than risk missing the ferry, however, I headed to the campground on nearby Shaw Island, where I had only camped once before.
Shaw Island is the quietest and most rural of the four main San Juan Islands. There is not a single hotel or restaurant on the island. I strolled down the all-but-deserted country roads, birdwatching and savoring the native plants that abound in the forest. The next morning, I crossed to Lopez Island in just forty-five minutes and caught the early afternoon ferry home.
Reading on Cattle Point beach. This is the longest beach in the San Juans, but the bluffs make it so inaccessible that only one other person hiked past during the three hours I spent here.
Cormorants nesting on Goose Island, San Juan Channel. The odor of this island is detectable at a distance of hundreds of yards.
Country road, Shaw Island. Shaw Island is a backwater, and that’s the way the locals like it.
Grand fir, Shaw Island. One of the best parts of visiting the San Juans is the chance to see dry-habitat tree species, including grand fir, Pacific madrone, and seaside juniper.
Bigleaf maple, Shaw Island. Already by the first week of August, the fall colors were beginning to emerge.
Brown creeper, Shaw Island. This is one of my favorite species of forest bird.
Turkey vulture, Lopez Island. This was the only species of raptor I saw the whole trip.
Kayaking to the landing beach at Odlin County Park. A public, sandy beach is a rarity in the San Juans.
It took eight months, and more than a dozen kayak launches, and some very long days in the cockpit, but I finally managed to photograph all four species of whale regularly found in Washington State’s inland waters. This last species, the minke whale, was by far the most challenging, but also the most satisfying to capture. Kayaking is an exercise in finding the joy in doing things the hard way, and it doesn’t get harder than chasing an elusive, all-but-invisible whale from place to place, miles from shore.
—Alex Sidles