I’ve…been a bit busy, not even counting all the music stuff and software stuff. I promise I’ll catch y’all up on that soon. But with the official end of summer in the rearview mirror and the rains coming in earnest this week, I found myself looking out at last Sunday’s clear blue sky and remembering one little bucket list item I’d promised myself to check off this year. Okay, not even bucket list. Teacup list, maybe thimble list.

Island flying is one of the joys of being a pilot in the Pacific Northwest – in addition to the usual down-the-peninsula, across-the-sound and over-the-mountains destinations, there are the little microcosms of the islands. It take at least a half a day of driving and ferries to get to any of them, and most you can’t get to at all, unless you have your own boat. Or a plane. But there are over a dozen little airports strewn around the San Juan islands. Some of them public, some of them private, and some…well, you just need to have permission. And of those, there was one of them that I had permission for, and had been yearning to visit for a couple of summers.

Stuart Island is a heavily wooded, awkwardly-shaped little thing tucked into one of the northwest corners of the country, surrounded on three sides by Canada. There are, surprisingly, two airstrips on Stuart, both private, only permitted by invitation or if you own property on the island. Which the Washington Pilots Association does. And if you’re a WPA member (annual dues an entirely affordable $40), you do too, by extension.

I’ve been over/near/by Stuart many times. One of my favorite things to do when folks visit me and express even the slightest inclination is to pop up to one of the more populated islands, Friday Harbor or Roche Harbor on San Juan, or East Sound on Orcas, and walk them into town to get coffee and pastries to eat on the beach.

The remoteness and rusticity of Stuart had intrigued me. WPA’s property includes a (very rustic) cabin that members can use for free, reserved by calling the association’s secretary. I’d called a couple of times in the past to check, and the cabin was always available, but something – weather, or a schedule conflict – had always materialized, and I had to scrub the flight.

But this past Sunday, with the sky blue and the prospect of rain rain rain coming later in the week, I realized that I didn’t actually have anything that needed to be done until the next afternoon. I texted Tom to check that yes, the cabin was free, checked in with Devon that she didn’t mind me disappearing for 24 hours, packed up my sleeping bag and pad, camp stove, chow and water bladder, and headed for the airport.

It was as gorgeous a morning aloft as one could hope for. Once clear of the open waters of the Strait, I followed the San Juan Channel up, skirting the busy weekend traffic of Friday Harbor and the various marine sanctuary areas that dot the islands.

The airstrip itself is a lovely little thing, 2000′ of well-tended and crowned grass that spans the entirety of a narrow spot on the east extension of the island. You land over water and take off over water – no obstructions either way.

No one aloft had any wind reports for the island, and when I overflew the field looking for where the windsocks were supposed to be I couldn’t make them out in the unfamiliar terrain. But the winds were light and generally westerly, confirmed by the calm water at both ends of the runway. I set up for an approach landing west, crossed the shoreline at a couple dozen feet, and bounced my way to a stop halfway down the strip, abeam a windsock hanging limp in the afternoon sun.

Tom had pointed me to all sorts of online information about the airstrip and cabin – where to tie the plane down, where the cabin actually was, and the key combination to get into it. But in my excitement, I’d cleverly…left that back in the car.

But I kind of remembered most of it. One of the two parking locations was supposed to be out at the west end of the strip and, since I was pointed that way, continued taxiing that way until I came to what looked like an acceptable spot, shut down and climbed out.

I was greeted by a fellow in a beat up white pickup truck. Was I in the right spot? Oh, it was fine, he said. And even if it wasn’t the right spot, there was practically no one left on the island this late in the season to mind. Did I need a ride?

I’d packed light, and the cabin was (if I remembered correctly) only about a five minute walk, but accepting seemed like the sociable thing to do. I helped him load his kayak up from the dock – that’s what he’d come down to get – and then we trundled uphill from the airstrip.

There were a lot more cabins tucked away in the woods than I’d expected, and I found myself glad I’d said yes. As my new friend dropped me off, a younger fellow tromped over from the next cabin over to greet us: “Ah, one of the two people each year who use the WPA cabin!” 

Apparently the cabin is underutilized.

Tom had told me the cabin was “rustic”, so I’d set my expectations low. But it was snug, tidy and well laid-out, with plenty of light from well-insulated windows all around. A couple of bunks (bring your own pad/sheets/bag) and bed platform, a kitchen area with plates, dishes, cooking utensils and a Coleman stove (bring your own propane), At the center of the room was a fine looking indoor fireplace for heat, if you wanted. Outside, the BBQ grill area could seat a family, and the outhouse a dozen paces downhill was…entirely adequate.

I dropped my bag, checked the island map and set out for a ramble.

My friend with the pickup had clued me into the one downside of the airstrip’s location out on an extension of the main island body: the neck that connected it with the rest of the island, including its state park and extended hiking paths, was private property. One needed either the owner’s permission or a boat to get past it. He offered to call the owner, but I was only staying the night, and needed to head home in the morning, so passed on this offer.

My host was also right about the island being practically deserted this time of year. I watched an islander at the other end of the strip fire up his Maule and depart for parts unknown, but other than that, saw no one during my walk other than a cheerful fellow at the east end of the airstrip getting ready to hop his C172 down to Friday Harbor, and a young man taking his dinghy out on a dusk cruise around the harbor to the west (“Care to come along?” – but I demurred).

Night was falling by then, so I headed back to the cabin and tried out the solar lights as I prepared dinner. Excellent lighting, but they were already dimming noticeably by the time I’d finished eating, so I flipped them off and settled in with my headlamp for some recreational reading before calling it an early night.

Night on the island, in early October, is quiet. There may have been animals out making noises, but I heard nothing from inside the cabin. Other than a near full moon tracing its way past the windows (I hadn’t looked to see if there were shutters, but didn’t mind the light), there was nothing to disturb my slumber.

Once morning was fully established, I fired up the campstove for tea and oatmeal then packed up, tidied the cabin a little (always leave things better than you found them!), locked up behind myself and trundled back down to the airstrip. Another spectacular day.

I eyeballed ideas for a followup visit – maybe an inflatable dinghy or kayak to make it over to the rest of the island? I expect that, mid-summer, things would be considerably more lively, but for this first visit, simply strolling the eastern end of the island and having the solitude fit the bill exactly.

I preflighted, loaded up the plane and launched south and east, head full of plans for next summer.