Orcas Island, again again
Because apparently we are Orcas people now
The night before we left for Orcas Island, I went down to the garage to pack the van and immediately received a small but spicy warning from the universe.
I opened the sliding door, reached for the light switch, and...
Nothing.
So I tried the other light.
Also nothing.
This is not the type of nothing you want from a van the night before a trip. This is the type of nothing that makes your brain start calmly opening seventeen emergency tabs at once.
Aux battery? Dead?
Electrical issue?
Did we just spend the last week praying to the weather gods only to be defeated by two tiny light switches inside the van?
To be fair, the van had been sitting for five, maybe almost six months. Our last van trip had also been to Orcas Island, which is starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like the island has some kind of subscription model for us.
I turned on the engine and everything lit up.
Immediate relief.
Deep technical analysis followed, naturally. My best guess is that the battery either drained slowly from tiny background electronics, or the built-in BMS shut it down to protect itself before anything got dangerous. A very smart, very dramatic battery.
Either way, the van was alive.
Yalla.
The easy ferry, which is always suspicious
Friday morning, we did something rare and frankly unsettling.
We woke up early.
Not “we should have left twenty minutes ago” early. Actually early.
We had packed the night before, the fridge went into the van, we showered, and we left with the kind of calm efficiency that made me suspicious of ourselves.
No traffic.
Quick Costco stop.
McDonald’s coffee.
Ferry terminal about 30 minutes before departure.
Easy breezy.
I know. Who are these people?
The sailing was smooth, and by around 1 PM we were back on Orcas Island, the island we apparently love so much that winter was no longer enough. After our earlier trips, Alizée and I had promised ourselves we would come back and see it in the summer.
So we did.
First stop: local market and Orcas Bakery, our usual favorite, for lunch supplies.
Then we found a spot by the ocean and made one of those meals that only makes sense when you are outside, mildly hungry, and feeling smug about your life choices:
sourdough bread
sardines
sun-dried tomato pesto
avocado slices
We smashed the sardines and pesto together into a spread, piled avocado on top, and ate by the water.
Miam.
This is the kind of meal that would maybe feel questionable at your kitchen counter on a Tuesday. But on Orcas Island, beside the ocean, after a ferry?
Michelin. No notes.
The helpful stranger who was very wrong
After lunch, we drove into Moran State Park and headed up toward Mountain Lake, our favorite area from the previous trips.
Sadly, no campsites were available there for the night, so we would be sleeping lower down near another lake. Still good. Just not Mountain Lake.
But we were already there, so we went for a hike around the lake.
At some point, we considered turning around. Then we crossed another couple coming from the opposite direction, and they told us we had reached the midpoint.
Great.
Love a midpoint.
Very encouraging concept.
Except, it turns out, we were not at the midpoint.
We were maybe one-quarter of the way around.
Which is a very different fraction.
Normally this would be fine. The loop was beautiful, all forest and lake and that specific Pacific Northwest green that makes you think, yes, okay, moss deserves more respect.
But Louie is 11 now.
He is still Louie. Still handsome. Still emotionally in charge of all of us. Still capable of looking like a retired prince who has seen enough of your nonsense.
But he gets tired faster than he used to.
Much faster.
So the whole hike had a small question floating over it:
Are we doing a nice lake loop, or am I about to carry a long-legged elderly dog through the forest like a wounded medieval knight?
Luckily, Louie made it.
The full loop was about 6.5 km and took us around 1 hour and 40 minutes. It was gorgeous. Highly recommended. Just maybe do not trust strangers with fractions.
The campsite was doing its best
Back at camp, we discovered that our site, #115, was severely unlevel.
And I mean severely.
We pulled out the leveling blocks. We adjusted. We negotiated with gravity. We performed the ancient van ritual of looking at the van from the outside, looking at each other, and saying, “I think this is better?”
Was it better?
Maybe.
Was it level?
Absolutely not.
But it was level enough for two tired people, one tired dog, and a dinner that deserves a formal place in the van-life hall of fame:
Taylor Farms salad with Trader Joe’s canned calamari.
If you do not know this hack, please accept this as public service journalism. Canned calamari can make a bagged salad feel like someone tried. Not too much. But enough.
By 9 PM, we were under the duvet watching one of the last episodes of Friends and Neighbors on Apple TV.
I made it about 15 minutes.
Then I fell asleep strong.
Rain on a pop-top is not a white-noise machine
Remember how we had spent the week praying to the weather gods for no rain?
Well.
The weather gods heard us and responded with a PowerPoint presentation called: “What If It Rained Loudly On Your Bedroom?”
It poured during the night.
And rain on a pop-top is not quiet. It is not romantic. It is not a spa playlist. It is a thousand tiny drummers auditioning directly above your face.
But we were dry, warm, and cozy inside the van, which is the whole point of the ridiculous little house on wheels.
Also, Alizée woke me up every 30 minutes to go pee.
I am exaggerating.
It was maybe every 31 minutes.
Okay, fine. It was not that bad. We had a good night.
By morning, the rain had cleared. Everything was dry enough, and Cascade Lake was just down the road.
So we went straight there for coffee and breakfast by the water: leftover sourdough, toasted in the pan, topped with fried eggs and avocado.
Again: miam.
Then I asked Alizée if she would be up for touring the lake on the rafts.
I asked this fully expecting the classic answer:
“No, it’s too cold.”
This is a fair answer. A reasonable answer. A deeply Alizée-in-the-Pacific-Northwest answer.
But this time, she said yes.
I tried to act normal.
Inside, fireworks.
Cascade Lake was showing off
We got the rafts ready and went out onto Cascade Lake.
And wow.
Sometimes you get lucky with weather in a way that feels like you personally negotiated it.
There was little to no wind. The lake was mirror-like in places. No boats. No noise. Just us, Louie, the water, and the soft feeling that summer Orcas had been waiting to introduce itself properly.
Louie rode in the kayak like a tiny old captain in a life jacket.
Alizée paddled.
I paddled.
Everyone understood their role.
We did a full loop, about 4.5 km, in roughly an hour to an hour and a half. The kind of outing that is not dramatic enough to become a survival story, which, honestly, is underrated.
No wind battle.
No emergency.
No heroic rescue.
Just a quiet lake, a happy dog, and two people who had returned to a place they loved and found out it was still very good.
After the paddle, we stopped at the ranger’s office to see if we could move to a more level campsite.
And somehow, our neighboring site, #113, was available.
This was very exciting in a way that only van people will understand.
A level campsite is not a luxury. It is a spinal health intervention. If you care about sleeping flat, consider this your tiny public service announcement: maybe avoid #115.
We took it.
Dragonfly, Quebec plates, and the note I did not leave
Next stop: Dragonfly Coffee.
I already loved this place from our last trips. But this time, it revealed a whole backyard garden with Muskoka chairs, umbrellas, picnic tables, and enough room for Louie to install himself on his bed like a retired island resident.
We sat in the garden, drank coffee, and ate chocolate we had bought at the market five minutes earlier.
It was simple and perfect.
Before settling in, we had walked around Eastsound and spotted something shocking:
A car with Quebec plates.
On Orcas Island.
What are the odds?
I almost left a note on the windshield:
Kessé tu faite icite toué?!
But I did not dare.
This is one of my small regrets from the trip. Not a real regret. A theatrical regret. But still.
We also stumbled into Smorgasbord, which had that island-shop energy where you walk in thinking, “I am just browsing,” and immediately your hands start touching ceramics.
The pizza incident
After coffee, we drove toward Doe Bay.
We had discovered it last time and remembered it as quiet, serene, and view-heavy in the best way.
So naturally, this time it was the final stop of the Orcas Island 50K & 25K, a very serious island running event.
There was a timer showing 9 hours and 38 minutes.
Nine hours.
Of running.
Meanwhile, we had arrived by van, after coffee, chocolate, and a lake paddle that could safely be described as leisure.
The moral contrast was uncomfortable.
So we lay down on the lawn and soaked in the view.
Then we noticed pizza.
Fresh pizza.
For the runners.
Now, before anyone judges us, please understand the situation. I was wearing my “Seek Discomfort” hoodie.
If anyone looked like they might have just run around an island for nine hours, it was clearly the man wearing a hoodie that said “Seek Discomfort.”
Was this technically evidence?
No.
Was it enough?
Also no.
But emotionally? Strong case.
So Alizée and I walked up to the pizza counter and each grabbed a slice, looking at each other like villains who had just robbed a bank in broad daylight and somehow no one noticed.
And the pizza was delicious.
Was it actually delicious?
Probably.
Was it more delicious because we were eating forbidden endurance pizza?
Absolutely.
Later, when Alizée made the illustration for this trip, she somehow captured the whole spirit of the weekend better than any itinerary could: water, islands, Louie, me in a little boat, and an eagle stealing pizza.
That eagle did not literally steal our pizza.
But spiritually?
Yes. Correct. Exact.
This is something new we want to start doing with these stories. For each trip and escape, Alizée is going to create an illustration that captures the memory of it. Not a literal map. Not a brochure image. More like the emotional truth of the trip.
We are still figuring out exactly how these illustrations will live beyond the stories, but I like the idea that each escape can leave behind something you can hold.
Which means this story now has two souvenirs:
The actual trip.
And the strange little world the trip became afterward.
(hang on your walls, or share it with someone who would enjoy it)
Five minutes at the top
After Doe Bay, we went back toward camp, took a warm shower, and were about to settle into our new, blessedly more level site.
But then I had an idea.
What if we drove up to Mount Constitution?
Secretly, I was hoping we might lounge up there. Maybe make dinner. Maybe watch the sunset over the islands like the kind of people who plan things beautifully and then execute them without anyone getting cold.
Alizée was too cold.
The usual.
So we soaked in the view for about five minutes and headed back down.
To be fair, the view was breathtaking.
The San Juans spread out below us. Blue water, green islands, those big dramatic clouds that make you understand why people put panoramic photos in places where panoramic photos do not belong.
We also saw deer in the golden grass near the trees, which felt like Orcas adding one last quiet scene before dinner.
Back at camp, we made bone broth and chickpea soup with freshly cut pineapple for dessert.
Miam again.
The night ended with me writing in my journal and doing photo triage while Alizée split her time between scrolling Instagram and doodling a sketch to capture the weekend.
By 10 PM, we were asleep.
We wanted to catch the 8:55 AM ferry the next morning and avoid Seattle traffic.
Also, I had developed a theory that all the runners might be leaving the island at the same time and the ferry terminal would become chaos.
This theory would soon be tested.
Prepared, not crazy
We woke up early.
The second night had been good. Level. Deeply underrated.
We did not waste time. The campground was about 20 minutes from the ferry terminal, and in my mind, the island was full of people who had run for nine hours and now needed to return to wherever extremely fit people come from.
So we left at 7 AM.
On the road, we saw something wild.
Literally.
Two bald eagles and four or five turkey vultures were gathered around a dead deer by the side of the road, feasting.
As we got closer, they scattered away.
We were so shocked by the scene that neither of us thought to pull out a phone. Which means there is no photo, only memory. Honestly, maybe better that way.
Then we arrived at the ferry terminal.
Empty.
Not “a little quiet.”
Empty empty.
We were there alone.
Alizée looked at me like I was crazy.
Some may say crazy.
I like to say prepared.
We walked around, had coffee, boarded the ferry, and made it back to Seattle.
At home, I did the usual van cleanup and refill: reset, restock, ready for whatever comes next.
This is the ritual that makes the next spontaneous trip possible. The boring ending that secretly creates the next beginning.
And maybe that is why Orcas keeps pulling us back.
Not because every trip is huge or dramatic. Because every time we go, the island gives us a different version of itself.
Winter Orcas was quiet, cold, and improvised.
This one was greener, louder, softer: rain on the pop-top, still water under the kayak, forbidden pizza at Doe Bay, eagles by the road, and one blessedly level campsite after one deeply not-level campsite.
We promised ourselves we would come back and see it in the summer.
We did.
And yes, we will probably do it again.
Ok, yalla bye.
P.S. Alizée made an illustration to remember this trip, and we are starting to do this for more of our escapes. If this story made you smile and you want to support the blog, the simplest things help a lot: share it with someone who would enjoy it, or get the artwork as a poster from Alizée’s shop today.
We are also gently testing whether people would want this art on a T-shirt. If that is something you would actually wear, let me know below. No pressure, just useful curiosity from our tiny road-trip laboratory.
Thank you for reading and being part of this little road journal.