Solitude in the San Juans

Though I love my wife and family, one thing that always replenishes me is the opportunity to spend time alone -- time with myself, experiencing, observing, thinking, and hopefully breaking through to new or deeper understanding.

So far, this little mini-vacation on Orcas Island is proving to be one of the richer solitary experiences I've had. Sure, I've done a couple of "guy" things: On Wednesday, I had a burger, fries and a pint of beer at the the Lower Tavern while I sat at the bar, between a couple of scruffy, long-haired locals, and watched the Mariners game on TV. On Thursday, I played 9 holes of golf at twilight and actually matched my best score on the course. Don't ask me how, except I got hot on the last three holes.

What's been meaningful is spending most of yesterday and all of this morning doing yard work. You'd think it would be monotonous, sitting or kneeling, and pulling weeds by hand out of the area on the left side of the house. But it's actually been relaxing and allowed me to fully appreciate the proximity and wonder of nature. Same goes for being quiet as a mouse while padding around the house morning before breakfast.

How to convey what I've seen and felt? Well, first imagine absolute stillness. I wake up alone in the cabin with not a single sound and go to the windows, first to see the wall of green outside the bedroom -- the towering evergreens -- and then over to the other side to look out at the water between Orcas and Bellingham.

I watch the little songbirds come up to the feeder -- the usual juncos and sparrows -- and then I'm shocked to see a Western Tanager, a rock star of a bird with brilliant yellow and splashes of black and red. Later, not one but two Northern Flickers peck around on the ground. And, then, a young Yellow-Rumped Warbler -- the first I've seen at Eagle Lake. (And, no, I'm not making up the name.)

While weeding, I hear a thrum. It's a hummingbird in the lavender that Lori has grown and it's within 10 feet of me. It alights on a branch, wings still for a moment, then comes back to the lavender. Turning over rocks, I see only a couple of spiders and watch them scurry along the shaded ground. Looking down the gravel driveway, I spot two blacktailed deer foraging for food. There's a doe and a young buck, who pauses to stare me down for a full minute before turning away and sauntering down the hill.

Heading toward the rear of the property, I gaze down at the tansy ragwort that I plan to pull and my eyes see a gorgeous butterfly land delicately on the yellow flower and spread its wings, seemingly taking in the warmth of the sun. Later, sitting on the porch with a tuna sandwich, I'm about to take a bite when I notice a honeybee has landed on the bread. I shoo it away but wonder if that winged insect has ever encountered a human before -- probably not, which would explain its innocence, its fearlessness, in landing on my plate.

Finally, I take a run. I'm nearly done with my four-mile loop when I pause on a portion of the new Eagle Lake trail and look out on the placid waters of the lake. There, between two fir trees, appears a majestic sight: a bald eagle gliding silently, powerfully, from right to left.

I have two more nights here and a full day tomorrow before I leave early Sunday. During this trip, I've done relatively little, compared to my usual running/hiking/golfing activities, but I already know this visit will rank among my favorites. This time, more than others, I can imagine living here year-around -- or, at least, most of the year.

It will be nice to get home to Lori. For now, I'm enjoying the solitude of this spectacular place.