Growing up, my family held a fascination with the beauty of the San Juan Islands. If you are ever visiting the Pacific Northwest of Washington State, I would highly recommend taking the ferry out to the islands. Orcas Island is my favorite. Whether you are camping, renting a cabin or staying at a resort, the islands are a magical place with a lot of fun activities to do. This is a story I wrote a few years ago about my memories of Orcas Island.
My parents loved camping on Orcas Island so much that they started inviting families from our church. For over ten years they planned a yearly group camping trip. We camped every summer with the same families, the traditions ingraining themselves to our beings. As children, we experienced the true freedom on the island, exploring the woods, hiking, swimming, cliff jumping, tide pool exploring and laughing around the campfire. I always believed that the islands were magical. I always felt a connection to the earth and sea that went beyond mere words.
We eventually grew up. All the children I played with on the island, married and started their own families. We finally got together one afternoon after church services and started reminiscing about our memories of the island. We quickly got my parents on board and we planned a reunion trip. We were going to re-experience all of our own childhood adventures and pass it down to our children.
Up until this point, I had never camped with two children, let alone a baby and a toddler. It was going to be a new experience for us. We had a tent and my parents fortunately had a small R.V. The first day was incredible, the ferry ride was exhilarating. My oldest daughter ran down the deck, the wind blowing her curly hair. My youngest, our baby, was over a year and still shown no interest in walking. We had to basically carry her everywhere so hauling her all over the ferry was a challenge.
The weather was sunny and warm. We swam all afternoon, jumped out of the tree into the water of Cascade Lake and played in the sand. Our baby was content to just sit and play in the wet sand and I had a moment to myself. I watched all my friends children play and marveled at both the past and the future. It was nearly enough to bring tears to my eyes. We had come full circle. From young children to adults, watching our own families play in the same sand.
Back at the campsite, the ground was so dusty, I had nowhere clean to put our baby down. My husband was setting up our campsite, so I placed her on the floor of the R.V. I stepped out to speak to my Uncle and cousin who had also been a part of our yearly camping trips. We hear a blood curdling scream from our baby. The three of us barrel into the R.V to find, that my oldest had shut out babies fingers in the door.
With my uncles help, we quickly assess the situation. Her little fingers are bruised but there is no permanent damage. Crisis averted. However, she starts crying and crying and crying. She cries during dinner and she cries around the campfire. Everyone attempts to help us but she is at the point of no return. I miss out on the campfire stories, the s’mores and laughter, to take my screaming baby to the tent. I listen to her cry and fuss for hours until my husband relives me. We take turns until finally she has calmed down enough to sleep.
As it grows darker, he lights the lantern for our oldest. Our baby is in the pack and play, having woken up again and watching the firelight dance across our tent. She pushes through the mesh with fascination and somehow reaches the lantern. She screams again and there she is, with bruised fingers and a burned hand. Once again, the burn is minor but it takes us half the night to calm her down again.
The following day it rains. This isn’t an unusual occurrence when out on the islands but almost every article of clothing we brought, gets soaked and I literally have no place to sit the baby down. I literally carry her around the entire day, soaking wet until my arms are so numb and sore I can hardly handle it. The next day, it’s sunny again, we get a reprieve from the rain. We take the kids swimming and have a picnic lunch. Our baby is holding herself up from the bench seat to the table, when her diaper explodes. Everywhere. She soils everything including the bench and we are scrambling to clean her up in an area of the park with no bathing facilities.
We make it back to camp and as I’m opening the zipper to our tent, the entire thing rips. We now have a hole in our tent and will no longer be able to zip it. My husband tells me not to worry, he’ll find a way to patch the tent. I cart our baby around for the rest of the evening, while watching my oldest daughter run around with all the other kids. At least, she’s having a good time.
My Mom offers to watch the kids so all the adults can go hiking. It’s a generous offer and we take her up on it. We hike up Mt. Constitution, enjoying some beautiful views of the island and return to another bout of exploding diapers. Exhausted, I sit down in the chair holding our baby, wondering where all that island magic went. She’s watching the other kids and her older sister. Her little arms are outstretched and I can tell she wants to join them. I know she’s late on walking so I put her down and she takes my hand, taking her first shaky steps. I’m absolutely filled with pride.
That night we relive our past memories by holding a talent show. We sing campfire songs to a guitar and despite the work it takes bringing young children on a camping trip, we are all filled with such gratitude to be here, with each other, enjoying the days that literally were the best of our lives. It all comes together the next morning, when we have a campsite church service. Our minister, thanks us all for our love and support. He had a lifesaving surgery earlier that year. He never thought he’d return to the islands. He never believed that he’d be physically able to camp again. I felt the magic return. It had never left us. It was just more difficult to see. My daughter may have learned to walk on these islands but we all learned to live again and to be thankful.
We returned to the islands for three more summers until I moved away. I miss the Salish Sea. Now that I have moved away from that region, I feel its pull. There is an aching in me that longs for the islands still. Sometimes I feel it calling to me. I know I’m not alone. My mom has requested that when she dies, her ashes be spread from the twisted tree that resides above the small cliff on Cascade Lake. We even have a painting in our family living room, of my brother jumping from off that same tree. For my family, the islands were home. I hope to return there soon and maybe someday spread that magic to another generation.
