Sandy Hook, Oregon

Over the past few years, I have found I process trauma by hiking and by writing.

On Thursday October 15, my town, Bend, Oregon joined the infamous list of towns with school shootings. I am, like the rest of the town, devastated, to pick an adjective. Pick your own: angry, outraged, confused, emotional, distraught. We are all feeling these and other emotions.

On Friday October 16, I hiked. Sixteen and a half miles of physical activity and connection with nature, a day without signal, a day of disconnection from the horrible reality of yet another school massacre.

Today, I write.

I walked along the Deschutes from Dillon Falls downstream to Meadow Day Use area. There I turned back upstream and went all the way to Benham Falls before returning to my truck at Dillon.

I make this, or a similar, walk each year at this time. The fall color is at its peak: yellow aspens and cottonwoods, purple dogwoods, rusty mountain-ashes. This year, like my mood, is especially somber. We had no snow last winter and the parched soil has not carried enough moisture for good fall color. This year, the aspens skipped turning color in favor of the leaves darkening and falling to the ground. Entire aspen colonies are bare.

The trail provided enough solitude that I could relax and just enough entertainment and memories so that my brain could forget the tragedy, if only temporarily.

Among other things, my trail-supplied memories are:

• Early morning elk tracks just above Dillon Falls where several cow elk and their young drank.
• The audible flutter of aspen leaves despite no discernable breeze.
• Hearing the lead rapid at Big Eddy two or three minutes before arriving.
• Learning that we have Threespine Sticklebacks in the river.
• a Varied Thrush skulking in the brush just off the trail.
• Watching an otter cross the river near Slough Day Use Area.

I took a few pictures, but my focus was mainly on walking, letting the physical exertion keep me focused while I processed the trauma in the background.

Fluffed Up Cedar Waxwing

Glowing Rabbitbrush Seedheads

Lemmon's Willow Jutting Precariously Over the River

Lone Pine at Big Eddy

Queen of Her Domain

Still Life: Partially Charred Ponderosa

Male Hairy Woodpecker

Western Dwarf Mistletoe

Yellow Salsify

Fireweed

One of Dozens of Spotted Towhees

The Largest Western Garter Snake I Have Ever Seen
30 Inches in Length

Hiking let me settle my mind and now I am at the keyboard, writing out my feelings.

I am distraught that our delightful mountain town is not immune from gun violence, that our innocence and sense of safety has been shattered. I hurt for the families involved—shooter, victims, first responders, medical and trauma specialists, teachers and students—for all of us. I am angry that our students must start adulthood already facing serious trauma. I despair that this was just another in a long line of shootings and that more are surely coming. I feel helpless to effect any positive change for the future. I despair that we may never be able to accept that mental illness is part of the human condition to be treated like any other medical condition. I hate that a minority of our country has a stranglehold on our gun laws and perpetuates a broken system. I hate that I had to write this piece entitled "Sandy Hook, Oregon." I hate worse that this title needs no explanation to Americans.

A Corny Labor Day Menu

For our Labor Day weekend dinner, Ann and I brainstormed a menu, then she set a beautiful table and I cooked. The result: a wonderful evening.

Cheers!

Chicharrones with Rosé to Start

Blame the menu on Michelle.

We have all had a busy summer, going here and there. Labor Day Weekend was the first time in weeks that we were all in town simultaneously, so Ann set up a dinner. And we set about creating a menu.

Michelle's gluten-intolerance was a guide in forming the menu. Avoiding gluten was a starting point rather than a serious restriction. After so many years in the restaurant creating all manner of dishes, I find that restrictions help to set limits on my imagination, help to narrow my focus.

In our back and forth about ideas for the dinner, Ann mentioned a panzanella with fresh corn. Naturally, a bread salad was out, but the corn lodged in the depths of my mind and would not be banished.

My mind started riffing on corn so much that I couldn't get to sleep for hours. Lying in bed, I had no doubt that I would cook a corn-centric dinner. Still, the possibilities seemed endless: Blue corn, white corn, yellow corn, red corn. Tortillas, sopes, corn pone. Fresh corn, dried corn, hominy. Grits, polenta, cornmeal.

Before long, what had begun as a dietary restriction had become a theme.

I imposed another restriction, too. The menu should require little last-minute cooking so that I could spend time without our guests rather than in the kitchen. This, if it is not obvious, is exactly the opposite of how we cooked at the restaurant.

Quickly, I knew I wanted to do a quick shrimp salad for an appetizer, a re-do of a salad that Ann has been much taken with since pink shrimp came on the market in mid-summer.

And oddly, I wanted a soup course. Soup is most often a family meal, not a company meal. I am sure that after a hot dry summer, the weather influenced the menu. Sudden consecutive days of cool temperatures and copious rain put out Central Oregon’s raging forest fires and powdered the disconcertingly bare Cascades with a dusting of new snow. It was odd before Labor Day to turn on the gas fireplace to temper the chill in the air—soup weather for sure.

Ann had asked me long ago to make rajas con crema for a dinner party and somehow I dredged that request out of the depths of my brain. That would make a tasty main course that I could make long before dinner and keep warm in the oven.

That left dessert. I am not a dessert guy. I make them just fine, but because I do not really eat sweets, they are hardly top of mind. At Ann's urging, I put one of my spicy sorbets into the mix. I let her suggestion of apricot-chipotle ferment for a while in my brain to see what would come of it.

With those ideas sketched out, I finally fell asleep. That's when I do my best thinking. The results come to me after I awake.

Over the next days, I sketched and refined the menu, again and again, all in my mind. I finally jotted a few things down and over time, whittled and refined, following my own mantra from the restaurant: five ingredients make a dish. If a cook wanted more ingredients, I needed to hear a great justification. I hold myself to that too.

Of all the things that I did at the restaurant, one that brought me a lot of joy was creating special menus such as those for our wine dinners. I hoped that the hours I invested in creating and revising a coherent menu would be lost on guests. They should just be able to tell that the courses flowed seamlessly and seemingly without thought.

Creating and executing our Labor Day menu let me revisit what I loved about the restaurant years without reliving the turmoil. Creating the menu let me exercise a concept that I tried to teach my line cooks over the years: theme and variation. I tried to impart to them to learn a classic dish well enough that they could create meaningful variations of their own. Executing the menu let me revisit many techniques that I developed over the years, things that satisfy chefs but guests never see. 

Back to theme and variation. They are both highly embedded in the menu, there for those who look for them, but subtle enough to let the food shine through without the obvious hand of the author.

Corn and chile became the themes.

 

Everything else was variation.

I had a great time designing the menu; it scratched an itch from the restaurant days that I did not realize needed scratching. But more importantly, I enjoyed sitting with Ann and friends over good food and good wine without being tied to the kitchen.

Pink Shrimp Salad

There are lots of ways to add corn to a shrimp salad ranging from mixing charred kernels into the salad to serving the salad on a tostada to sprinkling corn nuts over the top for texture. The salad that Ann has been taken with, pink shrimp dressed with chipotle adobo and crema, is a bit liquid, so I wanted a container to corral any juices. A sope with its raised rim would be perfect. And blue corn would add a beautiful color contrast and a bit of nuttiness.

Pink Shrimp Dressed with Crema, Green Onions, and Chipotle Adobo
Nestled in a Blue Corn Sope
Wine Pairing: Patty Green Tempranillo Rosé

Sopes Just Off the Cast Iron Pan
Rims Pinched While Warm
Brushed with Oil and Reheated in a Moderate Oven

I have always made sopes to eat while warm, served just out of the pan. For this meal, I had to figure out how to make them in advance, cool them without becoming soggy, and reheat them without drying out. I ended up putting them, uncovered, on an oiled sheet tray to cool at room temperature. Once cool, I brushed them with oil and covered the sheet tray. Ten minutes before serving, I uncovered them and put them in a moderate 325F oven to reheat and crisp a bit. That technique worked—thankfully. There was no Plan B.

Tortilla Soup

I decided on a more-or-less consommé for the soup course, classic technique. I wanted guests to experience a deep and rich broth. They would never see that I made a chicken stock with a hint of cilantro stems and bay leaves, and using that stock and a lot of chicken bones and scraps, I made a second stock. And then I poached all the chicken for the soup in that second stock, essentially creating a triple stock before I defatted and clarified it lightly.

I decided to place all the garnishes in soup bowls and pour the broth over them tableside to keep the broth as hot as it could be. Each guest could add crispy tortilla strips to the bowl as wanted; this way, the strips would not become soggy. The chile component is a touch of chipotle-adobe added to the consommé before clarification. It added a subtle smoky taste and a hint of spice at the back of the throat. 

Tortilla Soup
Garnishes: Chicken, Cilantro, Avocado, Tomato, Radish Slices, Tortilla Strips
Wine Pairing: Eva Fricke Riesling Trocken Rheingau

Rajas con Crema

Poblanos are my favorite peppers, hands down. I am not a huge fan of bell peppers because their green vegetal flavor displeases me and worse, that flavor clashes with red wines prone to pyrazines such as Cabernet Franc and Cabernet Sauvignon. I vowed never to serve anything at my restaurant that I would not eat myself, so we never ever served a single green bell pepper. We did use vast amounts of poblanos, however.

I love rajas con crema. At its heart, this is a dish of roasted poblano strips (the rajas) cooked in cream. The typical dish includes strips of wilted onion as well. Some add flour to thicken, some add cheese, some add spices: there are many variations on this theme. For my part, I love to cook the rajas and onion with a touch of garlic in cream until it is thick. Then, I add fresh corn kernels, raw, to add a hint of sweet freshness and texture.

Taco de Rajas con Crema
Pepita-Cilantro Salsa
Wine Pairing: Durin Rossese Riviera Ligure di Ponente

I love tacos and short of baking rajas con crema in individual ramekins, I cannot think of a better way to serve and eat this dish. I stirred a bit of cotija cheese into the rajas, to add salt without adding salt. Then I put it in a casserole and topped it with queso chihuahua, a stringy Mexican quasi-mozzarella. It stayed in the oven, hot, until we were ready for it. All I had to do at service was reheat the tortillas.

When I make a taco, I want salsa for it. The idea of pumpkin seed and cilantro came quickly. The execution took a bit more pondering. After considering all the salsas verdes I know how to make, I finally decided to not make a typical Mexican avocado-tomatillo sauce. I ended up with a chimichurri-like oil and vinegar salsa (toasted pepitas, cilantro, crushed red pepper flakes, Greek oregano—not Mexican, shallot, garlic, red wine vinegar, and olive oil). The toasted pepitas gave it a wonderful smokiness that I was not expecting, an experiment gone right. 

This is one of my great variations on a theme, the theme being the classic green sauces of Europe, such as pesto or Tuscan salsa verde. These green sauces even have a South American variation in classic Argentine chimichurri. I merely changed the vocabulary a touch. Pepitas for pine nuts. Cilantro for parsley or basil.

The herbaceous flavors of poblanos and cilantro call for an interesting wine with similar herbaceous notes. The position of the course in the menu called for a red wine. The abundant rich cream in the poblanos called for a high-acid wine. Rossese is a somm favorite: high-acid, interestingly herbaceous, brightly fruity, and pairs with almost anything, including fish and in this case, vegetarian courses. The pairing is fantastic.

For a small batch of poblanos, I torch them with a handheld propane torch, then peel them. But for five pounds of poblanos, that would never work. I borrowed a technique from the restaurant, one I have never documented before. Poblanos generally have three sides that lend them to being cut into three slabs after the cap is cut off and the seeds discarded. These flat slabs roast brilliantly on sheet trays under the broiler. The caps get diced and used for other dishes.

Roasting Poblanos Efficiently

Caps Diced and Used in Other Dishes

Guava-Chipotle Sorbet

Sorbet is something I can make in my sleep. I made a new one each night as an intermezzo for our tasting menu. Adding chipotle to my sorbets is something of a trademark. Nothing bores my palate more than one-dimensional dishes and a fruit sorbet runs a great risk of being one-dimensional. To help it become more interesting, I deepen its acid profile to counter the sugar, broaden its flavor profile with a touch of salt, and hide a sneaky chile bite way in the background. Each bites becomes something new, a little electric, exciting rather than boring.

Deepening the acid profile means more acid, according to the type of fruit. I like lime with tropical fruits, lemon with more temperate fruits, and balsamic vinegar works incredibly well with strawberries.

Guava-Chipotle Sorbet, Tajín Dusting
Lime Polvorón

Because this was a party, I wanted to make a garnish for the sorbet. Naturally, shortbread came to mind and as I thought about it, I recalled the Mexican variation called polvorones. Except, thought my mind, I could make them with white corn masa—instead of flour; remember to blame Michelle—and flavor them with lime zest.

But sometimes it is a long way from an idea to a finished product. Gluten is critical in forming shortbread so that it holds together, so I knew I would be in for a battle.

I researched similar gluten-free doughs enough to understand the basic butter to ersatz flour ratio. But when I started there, the dough wouldn't hold together. I've made enough shortbread to know that I need much more butter to get a dough that would be workable. I added more butter until I got a ball of dough that held together, barely.

After letting the dough rest overnight in the refrigerator to let the masa absorb a little fat, I brought the dough to room temperature and rolled it between two silicone baking pads keeping the dough thicker than I would typical shortbread. I thought the extra thickness would help them hold together in the absence of gluten.

After being sliced into fingers, they went into the oven. The baking was technically successful, and the cookies held together, but the taste test remained. Sadly, the polvorón was chalky, dry, floury, yet without any flour—not good enough for my restaurant standards by a long shot. But then, I would have never served a gluten-free cookie at the restaurant. For gluten free customers, we would have substituted something entirely different, like a stick of oven-dried pineapple.

Yet, I would not be serving it in a restaurant and Michelle deserved a cookie, something her diet normally precludes. I thought I could rescue it a bit by adding moisture in the form of a lime juice, lime zest, and powdered sugar glaze. Besides adding flavor, the acid in the glaze would make people's mouths water, helping to counter the dry cookie. It worked enough for a home dinner where the thought counted more than the execution.

Ode to the Tortilla

I love tortillas.

It wasn't always that way.

I am a child of the early 1960s. Then, on the East Coast, our food was influenced by two things: the post-war 1950s (jiggly Jell-O molds anyone?) and what we call Southern food, the everyday cooking of the South. Black or white, we all ate greens, fried chicken, grits, cornbread, black-eyed peas, and pecan pie. Tortillas did not exist in my world.

Looking back, I am trying to remember how my diet evolved from foods of the South to a diet that frequently features tortillas. In the 1970s, as a teenager, I was aware of corn tortillas mainly because the school cafeteria offered so-called tacos, stale hard U-shaped tortillas filled with ground beef of dubious origin. They were bland and boring, something that I had little desire to eat, but being a ravenous teenager, ate anyway. Then, I had no idea that tortillas were soft.

College added to my culinary vocabulary, but still no tortillas. The college cafeteria did not offer tortillas, as best I can remember, but it did introduce me to bagels and blintzes, foods equally unknown in the Southern food canon. In the latter years of college, when I was cooking for myself, I do not recall tortillas for sale at the A&P. But at a secondhand bookstore, I did run across a used copy of Diana Kennedy's 1972 opus "The Cuisines of Mexico." I devoured it even though I had access to none of the ingredients necessary to replicate her recipes.

Enter grad school. After majoring in French in college, I decided to pursue a degree in computer science. I applied all over the country and ultimately selected Texas A&M because they offered the best financial package. Putting myself through college, I had racked up sizeable debt. By going to A&M, I could just barely squeak by without borrowing any more money, if I lived frugally.

Arriving in College Station, one of the first orders of business was to hit the grocery store, albeit on a razor-thin budget. I walked into an alien landscape: mounds of tomatillos, nopales, dried chiles, cilantro, tortillas, and corn husks for tamales—everything labeled in Spanish. All were items I had just read about in Kennedy's cookbook, but had never experienced. We did not have the internet in those days. I learned by asking questions—constant questions—of anyone who looked like they might teach me something.

I fed myself from the grocery store, gradually learning how to use all those ingredients and consuming big quantities of that essential cheap-eat, the taco, made with the corn tortillas that were for sale at every store.

In exploring the town, I came to notice a steady stream of hispanic workers heading for a particular building, one bearing the sign La Taqueria. Inside, I found a dozen freshly made hand-patted tortillas for a dollar and an abuelita who always ensured that my docena was at least 14 or 15 tortillas. She and I had an unspoken understanding—a dozen tortillas each morning. I was the only white guy in her store every morning and she took care of me as she would one of her own.

Soft, warm tortillas tasting of corn were light years away from the prepackaged store tortillas and even farther from the boxed U-shaped crap my high school tried to get me to eat. Suddenly, I became a full-fledged member of team corn tortilla, eating some fresh and warm for breakfast and the remainder for dinner.

After college, my first wife and I would eat out rarely, for lack of time and resources, and when we did, there was a so-called Mexican restaurant nearby with attractive prices, never mind that it was totally run by non-Mexicans. Here I learned about flour tortillas and found them lackluster. After warm and fresh corn tortillas, everything else seemed wanting.

I find it ironic that a food I had never even seen as a child has become one of the staples of our kitchen. Now in retirement, when I am looking to put a tasty meal on the table without a lot of fuss, tortillas are always on hand. And when I am feeling up to some work, I even make fresh tortillas from the various masas that I have in the pantry.

Here are a few recent meals that remind me just how indispensable corn tortillas have become in our kitchen, despite having been completely unknown to me as a child.

Loaded Quesadilla

Loaded quesadillas are a happy by-product of leftover grilled chicken and baked creamed corn. I topped a quartered corn tortilla and jack cheese quesadilla with creamed corn, sliced grilled chicken, and guacamole. This is much more of a splurge meal calorie-wise than I usually make.

Chef's Tip: The best guacamole is the simplest, made from ripe avocados, lime juice, and salt, mashed gently so that it retains some texture.

Spiced Shrimp Tacos

I coated the shrimp in a spice mix (ancho chile, Chimayo chile, cumin, granulated garlic, Mexican oregano, salt) that I make on the fly, then cook them quickly on the stove top.

Chef's Tip: I love slaw on my tacos for its brightness and crunch. I make it an hour or more before eating, starting by mixing the dressing (apple cider vinegar, salt, and ground chile) in a bowl. Then with a knife, I thinly shred young cabbage and thinly slice a carrot to add to the dressing. I generally chop a little cilantro and mix it in as well. I let it stand on the counter for a while after tossing well, then adjust the seasonings.

Guacamole and Scrambled Egg Tostadas with Salsa Fresca

Here is a dinner that, tostadas aside, takes mere minutes to put on the table. The salsa fresca is chopped grape tomatoes, minced shallots, cilantro, lime juice, and salt. I never intended it to be spicy, but add any kind of spice you like.

Chef's Tip: As much as I would love to deep fry the tostadas, my waist would suffer, so I place them between two sheet trays, to keep them flat, in a moderate oven. I flip and rotate the tortillas after 15 minutes, then once again in 15 more minutes, then every 5 to 7 minutes thereafter until the tostadas are crisp. I make 8 per half sheet tray.

Frijoles Refritos con Totopos; Fresh Corn Salsa

I cook a big pot of beans every week or so. The first night, we eat a bowl of beans with warm tortillas. The second night, I convert the leftovers to refried beans. Sometimes it is fun to cut tortillas into sixths and bake them until they become crispy chips. Chips and dip seems a splurge, but this version is surprisingly healthy. To make refried beans, I finely dice a half onion and cook it briefly in a bit of canola with a finely minced chipotle. Then I add the beans and their cooking liquid, apply my masher to them, and cook until thick. Once thick, I season them with salt. I cook the beans originally with only a little salt; if they had full salt, the refried beans would become too salty after all the liquid evaporates.

Chef's Tip: Raw corn makes a great salsa with mixed with a little tomato, cilantro, chipotle adobo, lime, and salt. If the corn is really mature bordering on too ripe, I will often char it hard in a cast iron pan for a different, if similar, salsa.

Tacos de Tinga de Pollo

Chicken Tinga is so good, so easy, and so much more than the sum of its parts, whether purpose-made or from leftover chicken. I have little use for bland chicken breast, so when I roast a chicken, the breast will be leftover. I shred it and warm it with tomatoes, onions, chipotle, and Mexican oregano until it is dry enough for a taco filling.

Chef's Tip: The best tinga de pollo is purpose made. I brown chicken thighs in a big skillet on both sides before removing the chicken. Then I cook a sliced onion in the pan until limp. I add diced tomatoes and their juice, a minced chipotle, and some Mexican oregano to the pan. I nestle the chicken back into the sauce, cover it, and bake until tender. Then I pull the chicken, let it cool, and shred the meat. The meat goes back into the sauce and reduces until thick, yielding a far superior product. Bonus points for letting the cooked chicken sit in its sauce overnight in the fridge. Like many dishes, it improves overnight.

Shrimp Vegetable Tacos

These are nothing much more than diced onions and poblanos cooked down with minced cilantro stems and a lot of garlic. When the vegetables are soft, I add small shrimp and cook until they are just done. I then mix in raw sweet corn and a handful of fresh cilantro.

Chef's Tip: To make an easy garnishing sauce, thin sour cream with lime juice and season with salt and chipotle adobo to your liking.

Sailing the San Juans 2026, Part 4 of 4

Wednesday, July 15

Rather than sounds, smells dragged me awake today, the seductive aromas of frying sausage. Still, as I lay in the bed, from the open hatch above me came the rattles of a pair of kingfishers and then a chorus of honkers.

I staggered out of my cabin to find Jette already making coffee, headphones on. She poured carefully measured water over carefully scooped grounds, then repeated the ritual for another pot. As I stepped into the galley, she handed me the warm mug she'd been keeping on the range. I mouthed "Thank you." Neither of us spoke.

After a cup of coffee and before the others emerged, Jon asked if I wanted to accompany him and Geni for a brief walk on a different part of the island. We motored through the nearby boats, few showing any signs of life yet. A seal kept a close eye on us as we tied up. After our exposed walk yesterday of a mile and a half each way across the island, I was totally unprepared to find that the island here is wooded and extremely narrow. In moments, we crossed the island, climbing a hill onto a rock outcropping looking out over Reid Harbor, dotted here and there with more boats gently rocking at moor.

Ready for Early Morning Explore of Stuart Island

After a breakfast of a sweet potato and sausage strata, we set out for Friday Harbor. Decent winds let us hoist sail and our tacks worked out perfectly, the final tack aligning us with the harbor entrance. Friday Harbor marks the practical midpoint of the trip: fuel, water, groceries, and a night tied to a dock instead of swinging at anchor. It is also a night that guests dine ashore at a restaurant.

Breakfast of Sweet Potato and Sausage Strata

Lunch, Chicken Pesto Red Pepper Panino

After accompanying Jon ashore for a brief errand, I returned to get Ann for a walk around town, a town we explored in detail last summer. Andreas and Michelle had already gone to explore the town, their first visit. Ann wanted to remain on the boat after overheating yesterday, so I made a brief jaunt to locate the restaurant at which we were having dinner. I had no drive for a long walk; the sun was broiling and the light all wrong for photography. Downtown was a mess: at least one ferry to the mainland was cancelled and cars clogged the streets as people scrambled to secure passage back from the island.

Throng of Cars Jammed Friday Harbor
Because of a Cancelled Ferry

The restaurant at which we had an excellent dinner last year, Oyster Tale, changed their hours this summer, closing on Wednesdays. A second choice was already fully booked back in June when we tried to reserve. After trolling the internet for considerable time, we finally found Tenth House with something more than a run-of-the-mill tourist menu. We booked a table for four, a dinner out with Andreas and Michelle.

As the shadows lengthened, we climbed the hill into town to the converted house that Tenth House occupies. Dinner was good, an acceptable second after Oyster Tale. The dining room was overly warm so we did not sit long, instead asking the server to recommend a bar for an after-dinner drink. Relishing the cool air outside, we walked across the street to the bar where a musician was playing outside in the side yard. After placing our order with a server at the bar inside, we returned to the cool outside to listen to the music while awaiting our drinks. Twenty-five minutes later, the guitarist wrapped up his set and as the four of us stood to leave, our server appeared without drinks. She appeared relieved when we told her we were leaving. The mini-concert sufficed to complete our evening, no drinks needed.

"Mussels Escabeche," Good but Not What We Expected

Lumache alla Vodka
Good, But Where Was the Promised 'Nduja?

Ann Grabs a Post-Dinner Dance

Back at the boat in the twilight, Jon and Jette asked if I'd like to walk with them as they took Geni on her final walk of the night. We walked the length of the dock and up the hill to the courthouse that Ann and I had seen on our last visit here. A huge Black Walnut tree graces the grounds and intrigued me enough to want to come back to photograph it in the morning. The tree took me right back to my childhood home in Virginia, surrounded by huge walnut trees. Unbidden, the sound of the squirrels dropping black walnuts on our tin roof came to my ears.

In the dark, a quiet had settled over the marina. Earlier, people were grilling out on the dock, having drinks on their boats, and taking pets for one last walk as we were. One by one, conversations faded; even the noisy Purple Martins were silent, leaving only the tapping of sheets and halyards against unseen masts.

Thursday, July 16

05:20.

Through barely cracked eyelids, I struggled to focus on these digits on my phone.

Long before I wanted to wake, rhythmic crashing bangs rousted me from a deep sleep. A steady thrum filled the pauses between clangs. As I came further to, the clamor resolved into the sounds of vehicles loading onto the ferry, each one slamming the metal ramp to the dock, complete with the squeals and hisses of air brakes of loading semis. Finally, the din lowered to just the insistent roar of the ferry engines.

As the massive diesels increased in pitch at 0535, a departure message rang out over the loud speakers at a volume sufficiently loud to be heard clearly across the harbor. I steeled myself for the incredibly penetrating horn that each ferry sounded yesterday when departing. Each blast had violated my ears not once, but twice—immediately and then on return, echoing back from Brown Island across the harbor. Fortunately, the captain spared us the early morning agony—the harbor clear of boat traffic—as he pulled away bound for Anacortes on the mainland.

Looking out the roof hatch of the cabin, I watched the sun light the top of the mast. As the warm glow crept slowly down the mast, the harbor became alive in tiny increments at first, then seemingly all at once: a waft of bacon, the purring of a dinghy motor, the wake of a passing boat slapping our hull, the soft click of the stove igniter in the galley as Jette boiled water for coffee.

Despite last night’s forecast of rain, blue skies—bluer than I had imagined—and sunshine greeted me as I left my cabin for that first delightful sip of coffee. Before anyone else emerged from their cabins, I had fifteen minutes to myself to enjoy the slowness of morning, the gradual building of consciousness, of thoughts coming together.

After a tasty and crunchy cornmeal waffle for breakfast, I set out on a walk to revisit the massive walnut tree at the courthouse to appreciate its stature in the daylight. On the way back, I wandered along the docks, taking in the harbor coming awake. I love to wander marinas with my camera; some of my best photos are set there. I did not find inspiration. That was fine. I enjoyed chatting with folks as they started their days, many loading up crab pots for the first day of Dungeness season.

Black Walnut That Reminds Me of my Childhood

Dinner Plate-Sized Big Leaf Maple

First Day of Crab Season

Purple Martin Becoming One with the Anemometer

The more alive the harbor became, the more the skies clouded over, the sun but an early morning memory. We left soon after my return, dodging many floats attached to crab pots, floats that were absent yesterday. To leave only a short sail into Bellingham for Friday morning, we needed to sail east against an easterly wind.

Obstruction Island, Fog Bank, and Mount Baker

Story of Our Day

Finally, as we motored to the south of Orcas Island, the wind shifted to southeast and we set sail in the company of many small boats trolling for salmon in the deeper water. Nearing midday, an ominous fog bank sat right on the water behind Obstruction Island and the rain that had seemed imminent all morning set in, chilly and slashing on southerly gusts. And yet, counterintuitively, Mount Baker, 30 miles inland as the crow flies, was still barely visible, a ghostly presence looming over the island and the fog.

As the winds pushed at a sustained 25 knots, we screamed along faster than we had traveled all trip. Despite the gray, rainy day, the sensation of dancing with the choppy seas was exhilarating. So rapt was my attention on the elements that I had not even noticed that Andreas and Michelle had disappeared below decks from which a wonderful aroma wafted. As Jette came up top to help with the more demanding sail and take a turn at the helm with a slight grin on her face, it was as clear that lunch would be delayed today as it was that she was enjoying this sail as much as I.

The rain slashed harder as we passed Obstruction Island. Finally, Jette maneuvered us into the lee of Cypress Island where the boat centered enough so that we could tuck into a delicious bowl of clam chowder that I had smelled cooking earlier.

Delayed Clam Chowder

On leaving Friday Harbor, Jon thought that we might shelter for the night at Cypress Island, but that anchorage faces into the relentless southeastern breeze. It would have been an uncomfortable sleep with the waves pounding the hull all night, so we pushed on to Lummi Island, plan B, where Inati Bay tucks into the island with a headland between the anchorage and the wind.

As we rounded the headland into the bay, the screaming wind halted abruptly as we left choppy Bellingham Bay for the smooth water of the inlet. The prime anchorage spot, the most protected, was occupied, so we nestled near the large powerboat that occupied it. When we came to rest, I had a chance to look around this bay that we visited last year. Despite the apparent calm here, the trees on the surrounding ridge lines were whipping violently in the wind. The sounds of thunder resounded as the front screamed through furiously.

By late afternoon, the storm, which would hammer the Pacific Northwest mainland with lightning strikes, zipped through and the sun came out once again. I noticed that the powerboat had its engine running and soon enough, they departed. We watched as the large boat crisscrossed the bay heading back to Bellingham, likely day trippers pulling their crab pots. We hoisted anchor and re-anchored in the more sheltered location.

Once the tide had risen enough for the dinghy to approach the rocky beach, Jon and I took a brief excursion into the island to give Geni a walk. Towhees called from the underbrush as kingfishers rattled behind us. Pushing inland past myriad wildflower blooms, we started up the steep path where dense foliage is swallowing up antique logging equipment. Jon offered to continue higher up, but as I glanced out at the Northwind riding at anchor, I demurred. I wanted to spend as much time as possible on our last night with the group on the boat.

The Sun Came Out Briefly

Final Night Dance Party

Prosciutto-Wrapped Prawns for Appetizers

Back on the boat, we poured wine all around and tucked into grilled Chinook salmon. After dark, we moved up top where Jette entertained us once again with her guitar. Just before we were going to turn in, another sailboat came motoring into the inlet, quite dangerously without any running lights and no ability to check if the anchored boats had extended stern ties to the shore. As he slowed in the narrow space between us and the shore—too close to us for safety—he made his way forward to drop his anchor. I was undiplomatic in telling him to leave; my patience has limits. He had some choice words for me in return, but he did move. Soon enough, quiet returned.

Friday, July 17

As I stirred to consciousness still wearing my eye mask, a cacophony of raven croaks and kingfisher rattles competed for my attention. Despite the strange raven calls that I wanted to commit to memory, thoughts of leaving kept stealing my attention. Beyond docking in Bellingham later that morning, we had no plans. We did not know how we would spend the afternoon or even where we would eat dinner. Along with the uncertainty came a smattering of dread—the looming prospect of an eight-hour drive home with the potential for nasty Seattle-area traffic. The smell of coffee pulled me back to the calm of Inati Bay, and I slipped into the salon in search of a cup.

Sitting all alone over a cup of coffee, with Jette in the galley going through her morning ritual, I listened to the high screams of a Bald Eagle in a nearby tree, probably the same eagle that I had been seeing and hearing since we arrived. I hear eagles often, living on the river, and am always surprised, even though I know better, that they sound a lot like gulls. I never expect such a high voice from such a large magnificent bird.

Morning Serenader

As I looked outside, the sunshine fought with the low leaden clouds on a relatively chilly morning that would turn sunny as the day wore on. Soon after a breakfast of chorizo and eggs over corn chips, we departed to make the dock in Bellingham by 1100. Fortunately, we had enough time on the short journey into the marina and favorable enough winds to hoist sails one final time, our last hurrah.

At the marina, we bid farewell to Jon, Jette, and Geni with that sadness that comes from not knowing when we will see each other again. Maybe next summer, maybe not. In the parking lot, we said goodbye to Andreas and Michelle as they departed for the Portland area where they would spend the night. After last year's traffic turned our drive down I-5 into a seven-hour nightmare, Ann and I opted to spend the night in Bellingham instead. Later, a text confirmed that Andreas and Michelle had run headlong into that same traffic. We would head home on Saturday through Snoqualmie Pass and Central Washington, hoping to bypass as much of the Seattle-to-Portland I-5 corridor as possible.

We too left the marina, but only for a quick drive down the street to Camber for a cup of coffee and to let a plan for the afternoon come to us. Before sailing, we had talked about picking up sandwiches from Old World Deli—we miss a good deli since moving out West. Sitting over coffee, we realized this was our chance. We would take them to Beach Cat Brewing, the place we had stumbled upon by chance on Sunday, and while away the afternoon on the pier. We walked from Camber to the deli, which reminded us of an old favorite, the now-shuttered Community Plate in our former home of McMinnville. While waiting for our sandwiches and taking in the large selection of tinned fish, bitters, spices, and pickles, the floor rocked gently back and forth beneath my feet, a sensation that would continue for three or four days.

At Beach Cat, we relaxed over a beer while eating a half an Italian cold cut sub each. The sandwiches were better than average, but my expectations exceeded the reality. While watching kayakers on the water below, we talked through the trip home the following morning. With essentially no stops for food through Central Washington and Central Oregon, we decided to buy lunch fixings at a grocery store on the way to our hotel.

Old World Deli, Bellingham

Waiting for Our Sandwiches

Sandwiches at Beach Cat Brewing

Once in our room, the mental fatigue born of a week away from home settled on us. We did not go back out for dinner and went to sleep early to recharge our batteries for the long drive ahead of us. Just before I fell asleep, the bed already rocking gently in the imaginary swell, I wished to be either on the boat or in my own bed.

Saturday, July 18

Although the previous afternoon we had considered lingering over coffee and pastries before heading home, Saturday morning found us on the road early, wanting—and expecting—to return to the comfort of our bed and our day-to-day routines. We drove for four hours through Washington, still mentally in vacation mode. But, climbing up from the Columbia River onto the vast plateau of north-central Oregon, the ever-widening view revealed heartbreaking columns of gray wildfire smoke.

The same storm front that doused us on Lummi Island kicked off dozens and dozens of forest fires. Mile after mile we counted spire after spire of smoke, each bent easterly on the prevailing winds. For more than an hour, we drove toward what looked like a fog bank hanging over the road. Near home, Smith Rock, a defining landmark of our Central Oregon skyline, was invisible, hidden behind smoke that would last for days.

Sailing is a Happy Place for Me

Jette Sent Along This Post-Trip Doodle