I’ve been taking my daughter, Maya, camping since before she was three years old. My son, Leon, turned two years old in April. To celebrate, I took him on his first-ever kayak-camping trip, along with Maya. My wife, Rachel, wasn’t able to join us, but my dad, Grandpa John, was.
To minimize time in the boat and give us the option to bail out by land if things turned sour, we camped at Wingehaven on the east side of Vashon Island in central Puget Sound.
Route map. Free public beach access next to the ferry terminal, free forty-eight-hour parking just up the hill.
There was abundant marine life during the paddle to Wingehaven. The harbor seals were unusually bold, allowing us long looks at their dog-like snouts. Two California sea lions made close passes, perhaps hoping to intimidate us but only succeeding in giving us a smile.
The kids missed most of the animals. Lulled by the warm sunshine and the gentle, rocking waves, they soon both fell asleep, Maya in my boat, Leon in Grandpa John’s. When we arrived at Wingehaven, Grandpa John and I floated offshore in our boats until our passengers woke up and were ready to go ashore.
Maya and Leon on the launch beach at Vashon ferry terminal. Brave Maya carried a paddle to ward off any Canada geese who might try to bother her and Leon.
Alex and Maya kayaking on Puget Sound. Maya was wearing a unicorn headlamp, part of this trip’s theme of “unicorn girl.”
Grandpa John and Leon kayaking along Vashon Island shoreline. Leon was now big enough he had inherited Maya’s former life jacket, but it was still large on him.
Grandpa John and Leon kayaking on Puget Sound. The Long Haul folding kayak has a second seat up front, but Leon preferred to ride in Grandpa John’s lap.
Maya asleep in kayak at Wingehaven. Even a unicorn girl sometimes benefits from a lunchtime nap.
Wingehaven Park is the former grounds of an estate, once known as Twickenham after its owner’s home village in England, later renamed to Wingehaven in honor of its subsequent owners, the Winge family, who ultimately sold it to King County for use as a park. Today, all that is left of the once-ornate grounds is a few crumbling concrete balustrades and figurines.
Ruined balustrade, Wingehaven. The faux-European finery is being replaced by an aesthetic more authentic to the Pacific Northwest: moss and decay.
Crumbling concrete baluster, Wingehaven. A public park turns out to be a longer-lived legacy than any physical structure could be.
Wingehaven gargoyle. It seems no culture can resist the temptation to carve petroglpyhs along the Puget Sound shoreline.
The kids loved Wingehaven. Up in the campsite was a big grassy field, perfect for romping and for hiding Chips, one of Maya’s stuffed dogs. Down on the beach were large boulders with crabs hiding beneath, plus a stormwater outlet “waterfall.” And of course, there was our enormous, six-person tent to bounce around in.
Packing silverware was supposed to be my job, but I had forgotten. Grandpa John volunteered to hike back to the ferry terminal and bring back plastic forks and spoons from the local café.
The country road back to the ferry ran through a thick, old forest. There seemed to be no one else about until Grandpa John came upon an eccentric old woman poking along the road. She asked Grandpa John if he had seen any green beads. What do they look like? he asked. She showed him a handful of tiny beads. She did not explain what the beads were, where they had come from, or why they were now scattered across the island.
Feeling a bit like a character in a fairy tale, Grandpa John kept his eyes open as he continued down the road. After only a few steps, he spotted a tiny green bead. He called to the old woman, who bolted down the road after him, snatched the bead from his hand, and hurried off in the opposite direction.
A mile further down the road, when Grandpa John was at last nearing the café, he heard the old woman’s voice calling him, thanking him. How had she made it all the way here before him? But when he looked for her, there was no one there.
Leon and Maya relax in the tent. Leon, who had before never spent the night outside, would whisper “noise” every time he heard something.
Leon and Maya roughhouse in the tent. The kids found so many ways to play we didn’t get to half the games I had planned or books I had brought.
Leon playing with dump truck. At age two, Leon could recognize and state the names of a dump truck, excavator, bulldozer, front loader, grader, fire engine, police car, and monster truck.
Family camping at Wingehaven. From his post in Grandpa John’s lap, Leon spotted harbor seals and river otters in the bay.
Only a handful of visitors came by all weekend, and only on Sunday. Wingehaven is accessible by road, but drivers have to park hundreds of yards above the park and descend on foot a steep, bumpy road that is closed to private vehicles. Few drivers were intrepid enough to make the journey down to the old estate, and we were the only kayakers.
On the way home, both children promptly fell asleep in the boats. Once again, Grandpa John and I bobbed in the water by the terminal, watching the ferries come and go, until first Maya woke up and then Leon.
Maya asleep at ferry terminal. In the enormous blue drybag was her pack of stuffed dogs, which she used as a pillow.
Leon asleep at ferry terminal. Leon used to get so excited about kayaking he would often mistake cartop cargo boxes for kayaks.
When we got home, Leon told Rachel all about our adventures, using only single words because he could not yet speak complete sentences: “crab, rock, hiding” and “seal, water, swim” and “tent, sleeping bag.”
Leon was right. Those are the most important parts of any trip.
—Alex Sidles