Orcas Island, Round Two

Because some places deserve a return

Jan 19, 2026

The 1‑hour pivot

The weather forecast was… suspiciously good. Full, bright sun for the entire weekend. The first time we’d seen that kind of optimism since… what? November?

So naturally, we decided to go out on another winter weekend escape.

We did what any rational Pacific Northwest winter travelers do: we hunted for warmth. Or at least, the illusion of it. Turns out the Olympic Peninsula was the winner. A few degrees warmer.

Yes, we are officially degree‑chasers. (Montreal has trained us over many years.)

Then, one hour before departure, after work, we realized the spot we had our eyes on, Lake Crescent, was closed for the winter.

Closed.

There was a pause. Alizée and I looked at each other in disbelief. And then, in perfect sync, like a rehearsed sketch, together we said:

“Orcas?”

The only issue: it was already 5:30pm, and Orcas requires a ferry. We checked the schedule, bracing for disappointment… and there it was:

Last sailing: 8:45pm.

Game on.

What followed can only be described as the fastest van-pack in recorded history. No chaos. No swearing. Just pure muscle memory. This is the underrated benefit of my slightly unhinged habit of cleaning, refilling, and resetting the van immediately after every trip. We live in a permanent state of “Yalla, bye” readiness.

You could call us on a random Tuesday and say, “Do you want to leave in 30 minutes?”
Odds are… we’d say yes. Slight panic. Immediate yes.

Night ferry, familiar ground

Last time, the ferry involved… feelings.

This time, we were not messing around.

We arrived 40 minutes early, calm but alert, like people who had learned something about themselves. We boarded without drama. No finger-pointing. No last-minute negotiations with the universe.

Just a pitch-black sailing across cold water, the kind where everything goes quiet and your brain finally clocks out.

Orcas greeted us in complete darkness. We drove straight to Moran State Park. Same destination as last time: Mountain Lake campground, just below the little summit of Mount Constitution. Same beloved Spot #130.

At the self check‑in, we noticed something new: The campground was more than half full. A surprise.

Every spot on our side of the loop? Taken.

Every single one.

Except one.

Spot. 130.

Waiting for us. Obviously.

We booked it for two nights, parked the van, and exhaled. Despite more people around than last time, the night was impossibly quiet. Cozy, hushed, the kind of silence that feels intentional.

The gift that changed our nights in the van

Earlier that day, before the ferry, work had surprised me in the best possible way.

It was our team’s annual post-Christmas potluck and gift exchange at a colleague’s home. The kind of workday I wish all workdays were like: real conversations, homemade food, gifts that say “I see you.”

My Secret Santa really saw me.

They gave me battery-powered, reelable string lights.

I didn’t know I needed them. Which, in hindsight, is how you know it’s a perfect gift.

That night, we hung them inside the pop-top. And suddenly, no more headlamps in bed. No harsh, interrogation-level lighting meant for spotting wildlife at 2am during dog walks.

Instead: soft, warm, this-is-a-bedroom light. It was magic.

Now, every time we turn them on, I think of my Secret Santa, and the fact that this tiny upgrade will follow us on countless future escapes.

That’s the best kind of gift.

Saturday: wind, bread & human encounters

We woke up deeply cozy.

Full sun. Blue sky. Also: wind. Serious wind. The kind that reminds you this is still winter, despite how convincing the light is.

We stayed horizontal a little longer. Van cocooning is a skill. 😀

Mount Constitution, take two

The road to the summit was open this time (last trip: icy and very absolutely not).

The views were epic. The kind that resets your brain and quietly suggests lifestyle changes.

And then, because Orcas Island enforces a strict minimum one interesting stranger per day policy → we met Zo.

Former professional circus acrobat who lived in Montreal for a few years (Cirque Du Soleil). Now an arborist on the island.

She overheard us speaking French and casually joined the conversation, in flawless French. She’s American. No big deal.

Turns out circus acrobats make excellent arborists. Agile. Fearless. Very comfortable trimming some of the tallest trees on Earth.

That conversation alone was worth the drive up.

Bakery déjà vu

Next stop: Orcas Bakery.

I am fairly certain I had been dreaming about this place since we left the island last time.

This round:

One sourdough loaf
One rye apple galette with crumble

And wow.

The apple slices. The cinnamon. The crumble. But the real magic was the base, not soft, not hard, just right. Almost like packed rye and cornmeal holding everything together with restraint and quiet confidence.

Not overly sweet. Balanced. Thoughtful. Basically: bakery perfection.

We took our loot straight to what is now officially our #1 coffee shop ~~on the island~~ in the US: Dragonfly Coffee.

And there, like a friendly glitch in the matrix, we ran into Sebi (short for: Sebastian) again.

A 25‑year Orcas islander. Big energy. Instantly recognizable.

This time, he was with a friend who’s mute and communicated by writing on a digital pad while Sebi spoke normally. At one point, Sebi came over and asked us to write a short note to him.

So we did.

And then… he wrote back.

The word: “lythe.”

He used it to describe Louie.

Problem: none of us (Sebi, Alizée, or I) had ever heard this word before. And since he was mute… there was absolutely no way for him to tell us how to pronounce it.

We all just stared at it.

Tried different pronunciations.

Laughed. Gave up.

It was perfect. One of those moments that feels impossible to recreate and impossible to forget. We exchanged numbers with Sebi (obviously, we’ll be back), received a surprise gift of pistachios for the road (islanders are just like this), and headed back toward camp.

Lake light & brave neighbors

We went for a gentle one-hour walk along Mountain Lake, right next to the campground, catching the sunset as the light softened and the wind finally relaxed a bit.

Back at the van: