I know I’ve mentioned this before, but Strawberry Island is my favorite place on Earth. I try to get out there every couple of years or so, sometimes as part of a larger trip through the San Juans, other times, like this one, just to spend a night in the world’s best campsite.
Route map. Rosario Strait is the sometimes-challenging but always-beautiful route to Strawberry Island.
The launch point at Washington Park is less than a two-hour drive from Seattle, but you don’t want to arrive late. The currents in Rosario Strait are so strong that if you start during an ebb, you’re unlikely to reach Strawberry Island. I myself have been beaten relentlessly backward during a run from Bowman Bay to Strawberry, eventually forced to abort and make for James Island—and even reaching James was a close call.
To avoid a similar fate on this trip, I drove up the night before and for the third time in a row this year, car-camped at Quarry Pond to give myself an early start.
Quarry Pond furnished the usual hellish car-camping experience, with loud neighbors driving loud cars down a loud highway. The one redeeming factor was the army of bullfrogs in the pond, which, while loud, were at least funny, with their lowing, bellowing groans sounding like a herd of cattle.
I got a later start than I intended. The tide was already ebbing when I launched. Luckily, there is no such thing as a bad trip in the San Juans, so I decided if I couldn’t reach Strawberry, I could just drift south and hang out at the Burrows Island lighthouse until the afternoon flood. In the end, however, the tides were not overly strong during this time of the waxing crescent moon, and I was able to push myself all the way north to Strawberry.
Morning departure from Washington Park. Cypress Island nearest on the right, Blakely on the left, Obstruction and Orcas in the distant fog.
Flock of Brandt’s cormorants in Bellingham Channel. Usually, Brandt’s are the rarest of our three species of cormorant in Washington, but today there were dozens of them in the channel off Reef Point, Cypress Island.
Brandt’s cormorant flyby. Thoughtless powerboaters would flush the cormorants, and the flocks would whir past my head, sometimes in such numbers their wings created a gusty, windy whoosh.
Pelagic cormorant still in breeding plumage. Most of the pelagics were all black, but a few still had white rump patches and red throat patches.
Approaching Strawberry Island. Strawberry Island has always reminded me a sea turtle swimming to the left (the little part is its head), although my wife says it’s actually a whale swimming to the right.
South landing beach, Strawberry Island. I paddled quickly to arrive while the tide was still fairly high. The ebb currents strengthens the longer you wait.
Strawberry Island was just as beautiful as the last time I’d visited, almost three years ago now. The hiking trail was quite overgrown, and the tall grass had crowded out some of the native onions Rachel and I found back in 2015. Still, I was able to climb the miniature mountains, explore the miniature forest, and wander the miniature plains. A whole little world, all to myself.
To my amazement, the island was crawling with house wrens. This species is very rare on the west side of the Cascades—I’d only ever seen one in the San Juans before, over on Lummi Island—yet here were at least six of them, chasing each other over this tiny little rock of an island. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I must have spent half an hour just following them from bush to bush, listening to their beautiful, unfamiliar songs.
The king of Strawberry Island. Several of the oystercatchers were trying to mate, and they were definitely feeling spry. When a raven swooped by, three boisterous oystercatcher rose to attack, chasing the raven off all the way through the trees.
Nootka rose. Spring flowers were all over the grassier parts of the island.
House wren prepares to sing. They are the drabbest of wrens, but their song is beautiful and their rarity (on this side of the mountains) makes them a treat to watch.
Reading by Rosario Strait. When it got dark, I just lay down on my folding chair and slept under the stars. There were a few drops of drizzle, but not enough to make me set up my tent.
Sunset over Rosario Strait. One the remarkable things about the San Juans is how it can feel like a wilderness even so close to civilization.
Kayaking southbound down Rosario Strait. Burrows Island on the left, James on the right, Lopez on the right in the background.
On Sunday, I caught the fast ebb down south for an easy ride home—easy, at least, until I reached the confluence with Guemes Channel. While Rosario ebbs south (helpful!), Guemes ebbs west, trying to suck paddlers out to sea through the Strait of Juan de Fuca (unhelpful!).
With perfect navigation, it would be possible to ride the tail end of the ebb down Rosario, then catch the early flood east up Guemes. On this trip, however, I just battled through the adverse ebb in Guemes, catching a bumpy ride through the tide races where cross-bound currents met. I’d done the route this way before, and it always feels like you’re going to get pulled way too far to the right—into the outflow from Deception Pass! into the Strait of Juan de Fuca!—but if you just keep paddling at a ferry angle, you eventually hit a large eddy and can reach Washington Park.
(As a more conservative option, you could ride the ebb part of the way down Rosario, creep your way east along the south coast of Cypress Island, then dart across Guemes Channel once you had enough sea room that the west-flowing ebb in Guemes wouldn’t pull you out to sea.)
I’m always so happy to spend time in a place like Strawberry Island. What luck to be able to sleep outdoors—truly outdoors, not even in a tent—in the greatest place on the planet.
—Alex Sidles