Just before you board a raft to float down the Colorado River inside the Grand Canyon, they tell you something important: There is no going back. Once the raft leaves the shore, you will spend six nights on the river with virtually no escape. This is true for everyone starting the journey from the northern entrance. We were ready.
My nephew Casey organized the trip, which he had completed two years prior with his wife. This time, it was a family affair, with me, my two brothers, Randy and David, and Casey’s brother Josh. All five of us piled into the raft, known as a “J-rig”, along with nine other people we’d be stuck with for a week.
Logistics
Western River Expeditions has been operating in the Canyon since the 1960s and specializes in “motored” trips that go faster than the river’s flow. A 30hp motor pushes the J-rigs along at about twice the pace of an “oared boat”. We were part of a two-boat group that included two drivers and two “swampers” who served as tour guides, cooks, and everything in between.
As rafting trips go, ours was quite luxurious. The team provided three meals a day, with breakfast and dinner being hot and usually impressive for river faire. The company provided each of us with a sleeping bag, tarp, cot, and an optional tent for two.
Our schedule tracked the sun, waking at dawn and sleeping just after sunset. The temperatures were in the upper nineties in the day and 80s at night, with a few showers and a major storm. As with most trips, ours included two “groovers,” portable toilets that seal tightly and are carried with us. The term “groover” comes from the practice of sitting on ammo boxes that leave grooves on your legs. Most people pee in the river, which is encouraged.
Most camps are on sandbars at the river’s edge, which change over time as the river floods. The entire experience is very sandy, but the sand is fine, almost like talcum powder.
The J-rigs are impressive boats that have been the same since the 60s. Five pontoons are lashed together and carry metal boxes on metal panels that store everything for the trip. It’s all very analog, aside from the motor. No refrigeration, no electricity, no lights. They keep the food cold with blocks of ice. Beer, which was consumed daily, could be cooled by dragging it in a bag in the 50°F water.
Each boat carries two extra motors in case one fails due to a malfunction or hitting a rock. On the third day, the second boat hit a rock that sounded like a loud metal bang echoing through the canyon. The motor came off the back of the boat and was caught by a safety net.
Over about 45 minutes, they retrieved the broken motor and replaced it. Later, the trip leader gave two motors to another operation that had lost multiple. The guides all look out for one another.
The Experience
The scenery in the Grand Canyon is impossible to capture in words or photos. From the very start, you are surrounded by vertical walls that reach thousands of feet into the sky. Part of the experience is the amazing consistency. A single mile out of the canyon would be a world-class attraction. On the river, the attraction goes for 188 miles. All day, every day, you are surrounded by soaring cliffs and fascinating rock formations. The enormity is nearly unfathomable.
What struck me was the untouched nature of the experience. The Grand Canyon, with a few exceptions, is untouched by man. Even the level of the river has been consistent for thousands of years. On the entire journey, there are only a handful of bridges across the Colorado, in part because the canyon is surrounded by desert. You might hike out and find you’re many miles from civilization or water.
The Grand Canyon is a geologist’s dream. Unlike most large rock formations, the rock layers are in order, with the oldest on the bottom and the newest on the top. There were sections of the trip where we could see rocks over a billion years old, formed at the bottom of an ocean where the canyon is today. I loved seeing the smooth blackness of Vishnu Schist, a “basement rock” among the oldest on earth.
Our swamper, Paco, like all swampers, knows every rapid and historical fact about the river. Most stories were about the first people to navigate the river and attempts to make it a tourist attraction. These stories often ended in death, or hiking ten or more miles out of the canyon.
As with our trip, once these brave souls took on the river, the only way out was through. I can’t imagine what it took to be among the first, never knowing what was around the next bend, all in wooden boats. John Wesley Powell was the first to navigate the canyon on behalf of the US government in 1869.
The canyon is the ancestral home of native Americans, including the Anasazi, Navajo, and Hopi tribes, who consider it sacred. The tribes work with the National Park Service to outline what visitors can access. On short excursions, we saw 1000-year-old pottery and dwellings that existed when the canyon was greener and wetter.
The River
The Colorado River in the Grand Canyon is managed by a dam at Lake Powell, which is currently at 33% of capacity thanks to continued drought conditions in the desert Southwest. If this decline continues, the Colorado could see lower water levels that make rafting trips impossible, and impact electrical infrastructure for a large portion of the American West.
The water of the Colorado flows from the bottom of the dam, where the water is about 50°F, making rafting a refreshing experience. You are encouraged to bring rain suits to help you deal with cold mornings and cold water. Sometimes they helped, but most people just got wet.
The first major tributary, the Little Colorado, was dark red thanks to flash flooding and changed the Colorado to a milky brown thereafter. Unlike most rivers, the Colorado is “losing.” This means that it does not grow as it progresses to the sea. In fact, it no longer reaches the sea at all.
But for our trip, it flowed with power. When water levels fall, the rocks in the river get closer to the surface and create even more treacherous rapids. Thanks to the navigability, flexibility, and size of the J-rigs, we faced each rapid head-on, right through the guts of the largest waves.
There are three locations to be on the boat to experience the river: straddling the pontoons in front, on a front-facing storage box in the middle, and on pads in the back. Being on the pontoons guaranteed being drenched by the rapids. It felt like riding a bull sometimes, with your hands holding ropes on the front and back to prevent you from being bucked into the river.
Each day saw 2-3 rapids that were big enough to soak nearly everyone.
There is no paddling on this trip; you just hang on. No one on our trip required rescue. J-rigs have flipped in the past, but it is very rare.
Some of the most memorable sections of the trip involved hikes into slot canyons, caves, and waterfalls that form oases deep in the canyon walls. One of the most impressive was Red Wall Cavern, a huge cave carved by the river. The enormity cannot be captured in photos.
Other places, like Deer Park Falls, feel almost surreal, as if they were made up in a Hollywood studio.
The Canyon has multiple slot canyons that snake back into the valleys.
Havasu is another, but our visit was thwarted by flash flooding. It felt ironic that parts of the trip were impacted by too much rain… in the desert.
On the river and through the excursions, you are reminded that people are often injured on these trips. Broken arms and legs are most common, along with cardiac, allergic, or nutritional issues. A person in another tour group required a helicopter medevac near us.
There are hikes along narrow cliff edges where a slip could lead to certain death. For our group, everything felt safe and well-managed. No one had any medical issues.
My Experience
This was a top-three trip for me. It vastly exceeded my expectations in terms of natural beauty and the overall experience. Despite being a luxurious version of the trip, it had plenty of adventure and a lifestyle that felt a bit challenging at times.
My nephews and I decided to forgo the tents and sleep all six nights under the stars. This comes with the risk that storms will appear overnight, and this happened twice. In both cases, we put our clothes and supplies in a big dry bag and individually covered ourselves with a tarp. I’ll never forget feeling warm and dry under the tarp as rain beat on its exterior less than an inch from my face. This approach has some drawbacks. Eventually, water condenses inside the tarp, and rain gets in from the sides, especially if the wind blows. Both nights, I felt cold rainwater flowing into my sleeping bag and reaching my feet and neck.
The issue, of course, is having a wet sleeping bag thereafter. It feels disconcerting to stuff the damp bag into the dry bag for transport. Thankfully, camps include rocks that bake in the sun each afternoon and dry anything you need in minutes. Again, rain in the desert. Who knew?
Even on clear, moonlit nights, I went to bed thinking about how different these nights were compared to home. With no covers, I lay on the cot as sweat pooled on my neck and moistened my shirt collar. Wiping it away reminded me that my skin was constantly covered in sunscreen and fine sand. We bathed often in the river, but the water was dark and left a residue on everything. Yet, I still slept quite well.
We were told to bring a small duffel (24″ long) that weighs less than twenty pounds. They recommended inflatable pillows, and I found two in our backpacking supplies at home. Both of my pillows developed leaks by the second night. So, I added mine and Casey’s puffy jackets to a grocery bag and wrapped them in my long underwear, which served as my pillow for most of the trip.
Despite the pillow, sand, sunscreen, and rain, I woke each day feeling rested and ready to go. It’s funny how easily we can adapt for short periods.
This trip represents the longest I’ve ever been completely unavailable and off the internet since it was invented: 6 days. I didn’t miss it. The impossibility of connection kept my mind from wandering. Part of the experience is checking out and not looking back. We joked about the possibility of returning to a new world, with new leaders.
As it turned out, we had an internet connection all along. The guides recently added Starlink, partly because guests had started bringing their own on the trips. On the final day, the lead guide announced that he would make an internet connection available for an hour so people could FaceTime family from the Grand Canyon. My family decided, as a group, not to engage. We wanted the offline feel to remain.
The guides did not always welcome the presence of Starlink. It’s handy and a great resource for safety, but it changes the dynamic. As a small indication, the password for the Starlink seemed to send a message. It was “worseworld” as if a new world of wifi was worse than the existing one. I concurred.
Guides
I’m always fascinated by the people guiding trips like ours. They often have a deep passion for the place and a dedication to show it to others. Our trip leader was Wiley, the most experienced of the group. This was his 300th down the Grand Canyon and 12th trip this summer. I can’t imagine spending 12 one-week trips, back-to-back, with only a day in between. He loves it and says he’ll be back next summer.
The rest of the crew were “all stars” who came out to do this trip. The other driver was Lindsey, with two kids at home and a wealth of experience and knowledge. I enjoyed walking with her through the hiking trails and having her describe the flora and fauna.
Our swamper was Paco, a young guide who currently lives in Idaho. This was her 40th trip. A mix of knowledge and charisma made it fun to have Paco with us, always ready to laugh.
The second swamper was Makia (I’m not sure about the spelling; it’s not Hawaiian). Makai was quieter than the others, but had experience as a member of the park’s search and rescue team. He’s spent his life doing death-defying extreme sports and has stories to tell.
Every guide on the trip was constantly working. If they weren’t guiding, they were setting up a meal or breaking it down. Each day, Paco carried the groovers, full of material, from some far-flung location to the boat. I know it becomes a lifestyle after a while, but I couldn’t imagine doing it for long periods in the desert heat.
The Exit
At the end of our trip, the only way out was via a seven-minute helicopter to a nearby cattle ranch called Bar Ten. The ranch covers 250,000 acres and has an airstrip for catching a plane back to civilization. The guides described the ranchers as “real world cowboys,” which was true.
Overall
This is a bucket-list trip that truly delivers. To be able to do it with my family made it even more special.
Living where we do, in the San Juan Islands, the opportunities to explore are virtually endless. There are 176 named islands and most are only accessible by boat. The Gulf Islands, just across the aquatic border in Canada, have over 200 islands. This is what makes our region a popular boating destination. People, mostly in big comfortable boats, spend weeks or months island hopping and anchoring in coves and harbors.
The allure of this lifestyle was irresistible. We saw an opportunity to leave home for days at a time and explore. This would be our form of vacation travel. Almost 2 years ago, we invested in a motor boat just big enough to sleep two people and two dogs. She’s a Jeanneau NC 795 that is 26’ long with an outboard motor. We named her Novella and started the long journey of becoming more competent boaters.
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As we searched for boats, our friend LJ, a very experienced boater, reminded us of something important to consider. When you have dogs aboard, they will need to go ashore multiple times a day to relieve themselves. She said to think carefully about how that process would work. This was sage advice. For most boaters, this process happens with an inflatable dinghy that attaches to the boat when not used.
During our first summer with Novella, we borrowed a dinghy on a couple of trips and I learned to steer with the tiller of a small electric motor lent to us by our friend Will. The system worked, so we made plans to get our own dinghy for the 2024 season and store it on the roof of Novella. I named it Footnote, in keeping with our literary theme. Thankfully, Will said we could continue using his motor. We were set.
Learning never stops in boating. The basics, like driving and docking, are pretty easy. What takes time is getting all the processes and systems down for safety, comfort, and optimizing time on the water. For example, when we’re at anchor and not connected to the shore, we have to manage and conserve electricity and potable water. We need to feel confident about how we’re anchored and how the weather and tides will change over time. Every trip gives us practice and teaches us new lessons.
Our version of cruising is a lot like camping. The space and supplies are limited, and we sometimes cook with a Coleman stove. It feels like having your own little island that is completely independent. You don’t need anyone’s permission to anchor. We both love the feeling of being alone. The big difference is that your campsite could sink and you could die. That fear is in the back of every boater’s mind, and for good reason. It can happen.
A few weeks ago, we planned to spend two nights on Novella in Fisherman’s Bay, which is off of nearby Lopez Island. This trip seemed easy and more carefree. The bay has a reliable anchorage, a couple of marinas, and a classic restaurant/tiki bar at The Lopez Islander Resort.
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Leading up to the trip, we both looked forward to having dinner at the Islander and Sachi said, “I’m definitely going to have a drink Wednesday night”. I agreed wholeheartedly and didn’t think much of it. On Tuesday morning, I was reminded of something important: Wednesday was our 20th wedding anniversary. No wonder she wanted a drink! Shit. We laughed. Anniversaries have never been a thing for us.
This realization provided the trip with new resonance. We were now there to celebrate and looked forward to spending our anniversary day afloat and carefree. On Tuesday evening, just before sunset, we loaded Piper into Footnote, our new dinghy, to go ashore. Most marinas have “dinghy docks” which are low-lying docks that boaters use to access land-base amenities.
Piper and I made our way to the dock and she did her business before we made the return trip. These evening trips feel like a tiny sunset cruise and we both enjoy them.
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Just LJ advised, we’ve developed a system for getting dogs off the boat. Sachi waits at the swim step and as we arrive, she grabs a short line and attaches it to Novella so the dinghy stays close. Once that’s secure, Piper can jump out and I can prepare to disembark. When the motor is switched off, we use a longer line to attach Footnote to Novella so it floats safely nearby overnight.
On the eve of our anniversary, my return to Novella was a little different. Sachi was cooking dinner and didn’t want to leave the galley for too long. Sachi tied the short line to Novella, got Piper onto the boat, and said, “You got it?” I said, “Yep, I got it. I got it.” I then switched off the motor and unhooked the short line from Novella so Footnote could float using the long line. I stepped out of Footnote and into dinner.
We hung out for about an hour as the sun went down. With just a bit of light left, I looked at the back of the boat and it felt like lightning went down my spine. Footnote was gone. I said, “Uh, where’s the dinghy?” We both started to panic. Shit. Shit. Shit. Sachi put her head between her folded arms and took measure of the situation.
There was no time for analysis or recrimination. The light was going away, and with it, any hope of finding Footnote that night. Tidal currents are constantly flowing into and out of Fisherman’s Bay. When Footnote was lost, the tide was going out and the wind was blowing in the same direction. So, we decided to try to find it.
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We pulled up the anchor and Sachi grabbed our spotlight. As I started the engine, she was perched on the bow of Novella. With everything in place, we puttered around the bay for 30 minutes in the dark, our spotlight sweeping the shore. The navigation screen at the helm was essential for avoiding obstacles and shallow areas, but it was so bright I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t know how to adjust the brightness, so I put my hat over it and leaned out of the window to see and talk to Sachi. It was fruitless. We’d returned to the same spot as before, set the anchor, and started to prepare for a restless night.
It was obvious what happened. When Piper and I returned from shore and Sachi said, “You got it?”, she was referring to me attaching the long line. I thought she meant unhooking the short one. When I stepped off, Footnote began to drift and we didn’t notice. All in all, it was my fault for not checking everything before heading inside. I was embarrassed and feared having to explain this situation to fellow boaters. I was THAT guy.
We were both exhausted and wondering what to do. Our new dinghy and borrowed motor could be lost forever. Could it have washed ashore somewhere as the tide went out? Was it now floating aimlessly in the Salish Sea? I considered using our VHF radio to alert other boaters that night. Who knows, the Coast Guard could even get involved. Nothing sounded worth pursuing until morning when we could take a look ourselves.
On the morning of our 20th anniversary, we awoke to low tide and a lot of anxiety. I started to map a path for the search using our paddleboard. We decided that the best starting point would be the dinghy dock at the marina. Could someone have seen Footnote, grabbed it, and tied it up for us? Fat chance. It was almost dark when it floated away.
As I got closer to the dock, I saw something familiar but dismissed it. Then, as I paddled closer, it became clearer: Footnote was there. OMG. A weight was lifted and I slouched in relief. A kind and anonymous boater had saved our dinghy, and with it, our anniversary celebration. I stepped in, slid the paddleboard across Footnote like airplane wings, and cruised back to Sachi and Novella like a conquering Viking with inflatable booty. There was much rejoicing and our plans could begin again.
For all the stress and anxiety this caused, it ended up being such a valuable lesson. I’ll never let a dinghy float away again. And if I see a random dinghy float by, I will do everything in my power to save it and return it to the owner. Also, I now know how to change the brightness on the navigation screen.
But more than that, it made me rethink the idea of boating being independent. Yes, we were alone, but we were also part of a community of other boaters who are motivated to help one another. Cruising can be incredibly fun and easy, but the reality remains: your campsite could sink and you could die. Because this is the case, we look out for one another. We ask for help and offer help. It’s the boater’s code and this time, we were beneficiaries. I hope some day to return the favor.
We still have so much more to learn and it will come in time and through experiences like this one. As long as we stay afloat, we’ll have a good time.
It’s been a sad phase for us lately. We lost Maybe, our 10-year-old Bernedoodle last week. The essay below is about loving, enjoying, and saying goodbye to our canine friends.
In 2013, Sachi and I considered getting a second dog. I asked her, “If you could combine two dogs, what would you want?”.
She thought briefly and said, “A cross between a poodle and a Bernese mountain dog.” I did a quick web search. This was the moment we learned about the existence of a Bernedoodle. These are large dogs, sometimes over 100 pounds, with the poodle features of intelligence, low shedding hair, and hypoallergenic. The Bernese side added goofiness, color, and good nature. It seemed like a fit.
One of the reasons to get a second dog was to have two. Our dog Bosco was 4 years old and we wanted him to have a playmate. Also, we love dogs and wanted more. A big question loomed: how would Bosco react?
The Bernedoodle puppy arrived via air freight from a family in Ohio. At the airport, we found multiple puppies waiting for new owners. Inside a medium-sized crate was a tiny black ball and we named her “Maybe”. I wish the name had a rich story, but it came from a dog-friendly hotel that listed the names of arriving “guests”. Sachi, in particular, fell in love with the name.
Bosco, a lab and springer spaniel mix, was a good big brother. He was patient with the annoying puppy and they became attached at the hip. I felt bad for him, at times, because she would NOT leave him alone. I asked a vet friend, “How long will she keep this up?” Her answer: 2-3 years. Poor Bosco.
Being a little sister, Maybe played a supporting role. Bosco was extremely connected to us in the way that labs can be. He was more human than most dogs and you could see it in his face.
The Trip, The Trouble
Within a year or so, Sachi and I planned a big trip. We would pack both dogs in our car, drive from Seattle to Charleston, SC, and stay for a few months. We worked from home and wanted to take advantage of making our temporary home somewhere else, somewhere very different. We planned for months and counted the days with growing excitement.
About 20 days before departure, Bosco was diagnosed with canine lymphoma, a terminal cancer in dogs. Everything changed. The first chemo protocol didn’t work and we faced a grim reality: he would pass in a matter of months. We were crushed.
We decided that the trip to Charleston would be his swan song. The new “rescue” chemo put him in remission and he seemed normal. We could pretend, for a couple of months, that he was fine.
The Asterisk
It was a surreal experience to be on this amazing trip with so much to see and do, yet always knowing that your dog is going to die soon. I call this “the asterisk”.
At the time I had problems with anxiety and my mind always found a way to worry or discount the future. The asterisk is the constant reminder that tempers any happiness. It goes like this: What a fun day at the beach* [Bosco is dying]. Living in Charleston is such a treat* [Bosco is dying]. The asterisk steals joy and my anxious brain could not let it go.
Just after New Year’s in 2016, Bosco died in our temporary Charleston home. He was five years old. Over the months of worry and sadness, we came to terms with the inevitable and saw his passing as a relief. He never knew pain. We did the best we could.
Maybe’s Rise
Starting then, Maybe rose to prominence in our lives. Being so focused on Bosco, I didn’t appreciate Maybe as much. She was a wallflower in a chaotic situation and it took time for her to become the star. We returned home to Seattle with one dog and a new beginning. Without Bosco around, we could experience and appreciate Maybe from a new perspective.
Maybe seemed to come out of her shell. She filled Bosco’s role and I came to know her better than before. In human terms, it felt like Bosco was the popular jock and Maybe was the valedictorian. You didn’t have to worry about her. She listens, gets straight A’s, and will go to a good school. That said, she was very vocal and always let you know how she was feeling. We called her “Maybe, Lady Barks-a-Lot, Duchess of Barkington“.
Two Dogs, Again
Within a couple of years, we decided to become a two-dog household once again. We went back to the same Bernedoodle breeder, got Piper, and the cycle started over. This time, Maybe was on the front lines of Piper’s constant attention.
Maybe was a naturally sweet and we told her that often. Her sweetness came out when she was around puppies. When we brought Piper home, we were on the floor lavishing her with attention. Without any prompting, Maybe brought over a toy and placed it gently in front of Piper. She nudged it closer and closer until Piper noticed. Then she barely moved so Piper didn’t get scared.
It was her nature to be gentle and kind to people and puppies.
Piper and Maybe became fast friends and were inseparable. Over a few years, we moved them both from Seattle to our yurt-shaped house on Orcas, a tiny guest house, and finally to Flattop. Maybe was the leader and Piper was the follower. In the human sense, Piper was the cheerleader: pretty and enthusiastic.
Her entire life, Maybe was possessive of toys. Even as a puppy, she bossed around Bosco if he was too interested in a toy. It wasn’t aggression, but assertiveness. That toy is hers and it’s her right to take it. This was Piper’s reality, too. If she showed too much interest in us, or a toy, Maybe would rush in and bark in protest. We would say “Watch out Piper, here comes the fun police.”
As of 2024, Maybe was 10 years old, and Piper was 6. When a dog reaches double digits, it becomes clear that most of their life is behind them. Maybe was surprisingly spry for a geriatric dog and able to jump easily onto the bed, into the truck, etc. She loved to chase Piper around the garden and fetch a purple ball we’d had for years. In the last six months, I noticed her fetching had become slower. She got up from naps with a bit of soreness. I could relate.
Sachi and I both wanted Maybe to last forever but knew, within a few years, we’d have to say goodbye. Having been through so much with Bosco, it filled us both with dread. Dog owners often face the same end-of-life dilemma: wanting a dog to live as long as possible, but not at the expense of the dog’s happiness and well-being. Too often, in my opinion, owners can’t let go and wait too long.
Knowing that Maybe was aging, we both spoiled her. She got human food when Piper wasn’t looking. She was loved and kissed and coddled every day. Her soulful eyes always seemed to send a message of love. She wanted for nothing and that was exactly what we wanted.
On Monday, August 19th, I took a break from work and took the dogs outside to play. As usual, Maybe was barking and wanting to fetch. So, I grabbed the purple ball and threw it. As sometimes happens, she picked it up and refused to bring it to me. So I walked across the garden, picked it up, and turned to Piper to get her interested. When I turned around, Maybe was lying on her side with her legs spasming, in the throes of a seizure. I felt so helpless. All I could do was say “Oh Maybe, Oh Maybe, no no no.” Within a few seconds, she was gone. No breathing, no pulse. I was frantic and not sure what to do.
I called Sachi who rushed home from work. I led her back to our bedroom where I laid Maybe down in a blanket on the floor. As she reached the floor I wanted to soothe Sachi’s emotions and said, “I was with her. She was never in pain. She was happy and then she was gone.” With tears in her eyes, Sachi said something I’ll never forget, “We should all be so lucky”.
We cried for the rest of the day and talked about Maybe’s life. We discussed the inevitability of death and that it comes for us all. In this way, Maybe was fortunate and so were we. She made it ten years and they were good ones. We had so much fun together.
The end of Maybe’s life didn’t come with an asterisk. There was never a period of worry or stress about Maybe. She was a happy vivacious dog and then she was gone. We should all be so lucky.
When we first met, getting used to Sachi’s perspective on making and serving food took me a while. She would make A LOT of food for small gatherings and send people home with leftovers. She would plan meals for days and become consumed with every detail. Seeing her mind spin, I’d try to remind her that the meal could be simpler and easier to prepare. She appreciated the advice, but it didn’t change much.
Over time I came to realize a few things. First, her perspective on food was based on growing up in Hawaii, where huge amounts of food were the norm for social gatherings. As she put it to me once, “Food equals love.” Quantity matters, both in presentation and what people take home. Not enough food? That’s failure. Besides, who doesn’t want to bring a little love home with them at the end of a nice evening?
I also began to see that, for Sachi, preparing food wasn’t a burden or something to be reduced. She has a real, lifelong passion for food that is a deep part of her. When she has an idea for a dish or a dinner to plan, she’s at her happiest. When she’s had a hard day or needs a change of pace, she cooks to refocus. It sounds trite, but food is truly her happy place.
A New Adventure
It’s probably no surprise that, after building flattop, we’ve settled in and the pace of our life has changed. After years of being happily overwhelmed with construction planning on top of daily work, we now have a bit of space. Common Craft, the company we’ve run since 2007, is stable and her side of the business doesn’t require as much attention as it did. I noticed that Sachi was not as excited about the work and was looking for other ways to engage her mind. She was capable of so much more and I didn’t like seeing her cast about for the next thing.
Late last year, we started to bat around the idea of her getting a job, perhaps even full-time. We discussed remote work for a tech company, doing things like project management. This way, she could work from home and have a flexible schedule. It wasn’t a good fit. Sachi didn’t want more screen time in her life.
We refocused on local jobs, meaning on Orcas Island. Tourism is our biggest industry and the jobs are highly seasonal and involve working with tourists. Sachi is amazing at hospitality but is also an introvert who quickly becomes exhausted when working with the public.
Near the holidays an idea bubbled up that seemed to have legs. Eastsound, the main village of Orcas, has a famous bakery called Brown Bear Baking Company. The bakery is a busy place where it’s common to see lines out the door. The food, a mix of bread, croissants, pastries, quiches, sandwiches, and more, is top-notch. We know the owners and have heard about their struggles to find good help. What they needed most was a baker: someone who is serious about baking as a profession.
Photo by lifeonorcasisland.com
Sachi reached out and they invited her to become a full-time baker. I told friends that they (the owners) would quickly discover their stroke of luck. Sachi is a dream employee: a hard worker and a dedicated partner.
The Job
We both braced ourselves for big changes in our lives. Her schedule is four 10-hour days, Friday-Monday. She starts work at about 5:45 am, which seems manageable for a baker. She’s part of a small team that includes the owners, and together, they do it all. They bake loaves of bread, croissants, muffins, quiches, and more (full menu).
From the moment she walks into work, to the moment she leaves, she is busy with one project after another. Multiple oven timers are going at all times. Hours fly by and she’s mostly in the back, doing her thing. She is completely engaged and constantly learning.
The physical aspect of the job, being on her feet, leaning over a bench, and moving full sheet pans and bags of flour, took a toll initially. Over a few weeks and a new pair of shoes, she adjusted and is now accustomed to it. She comes home every day both happy and exhausted. This job seems to have filled a space in her life that needed to be filled and I’m so happy that it’s working.
Since 2007, we lived and worked together every day. Now, she’s at work much of the time and it has taken some time to adjust. She is still involved with Common Craft and I need her help often. We’ve had to figure out how to fit it all in. I’m starting to take on more of her duties and learn some of the systems and software she’s used for years.
Lifestyle Change
A big difference, personally, is how I approach weekends. I am used to having a normal weekend like most people who meet up with friends, go on adventures, etc. Now that Sachi’s weekends are Tuesday-Thursday, I’m trying to navigate my time because I can’t (or shouldn’t) have two weekends per week. Do I work on normal weekends and make Tuesday-Thursday the weekend so we can do things together? Do I work a normal workweek? I’m still figuring it out. What helps is that being alone for four days each week has done wonders for my productivity.
Sachi genuinely enjoys the job and the work. It combines her loves: making food, being engaged, and learning new skills. I have come to see her job as a baker from a romantic perspective. It’s an ancient and essential profession. People depend on her work, each day, for nourishment and joy. Her days are spent working with food and people instead of computer screens. Importantly, she gets to put real love into what she makes.
This feels like a new chapter for us both and we’re both ready for what’s next. Always forward.
Doe Bay Resort is on the other side of Orcas Island and may as well be on a different island. It takes over 45 minutes to drive there, so I rarely visit. That’s not to say it’s unworthy. The resort and grounds are beautiful, with seaside lodging (yurts, cabins, domes) and a clothing-optional spa. The vibe is, shall we say, back to the earth.
The resort restaurant, Doe Bay Cafe, is a favorite and in the restaurant hangs this sign:
I took that photo in 2018. We had just purchased property on Orcas and were in the thick of planning Flattop. The sign struck me because it felt so fundamental, and at the same time, far away. We were in the process of moving from Seattle and a year from razing the yurt-shaped house. Few things in our life were stable enough to focus on yielding anything.
“This principle is like an order. Make sure that every time you design a house, garden, park, or school, it includes elements that will provide real tangible yields. The yields could be food, fibers, or fuels, but there needs to be something.”
This is our fourth summer at Flattop on Orcas Island and our farming game is improving. Each year, we (mostly Sachi) conduct little experiments in the garden with the hopes of finding a secret code that unlocks our little microclimate. The job is never done and that’s part of the fun.
We’ve had strawberries for the last few years and they’ve become a summer favorite. Just before spring this year, Sachi dug up all of last year’s plants, amended the soil, and replanted. Then, in the spring, she thinned the leaves, which allowed the plant to get more sun and fresh air.
The strawberry experiment seems to have worked. Starting in early June, I became the strawberry collector and protector. The birds were eating into my yield, so we covered the beds with netting. From there, the berries flowed. At first, there were a few a day, then dozens, then over 80 in one day. I tracked them all and looked for ways to use them.
I couldn’t help but make a graph.
We had 661 when I stopped counting.
I made syrups, infused liquors, dehydrated, macerated, and gobbled them daily. They were delicious and I felt something stirring in the back of my mind. This wasn’t a handful of strawberries, it was strawberry production and I had hard data on the matter.
You were here when we built the beds and filled them with soil and plants. You were here when we stumbled through. This year, the systems are working better and we are obtaining a yield. I’m already thinking about next year’s strawberries and what we’re learning now that will make the crop even more productive.
This article was published in my free newsletter, Ready for Rain.
On June 30th, the Summer Solstice, I set up a camera and recorded the Solstice Wall in action. Over a few hours, the camera captured a timelapse video of the shadow crossing the rays of the Solstice Wall. Here is the result:
It was gratifying to finally close the loop and show that all the thinking, designing, and creating had produced something that works. People on Instagram were excited, too. Watch the video (and read the comments) with music.
As the artist, I love it, but can’t ignore the small details that could have been better. Perfection was never the goal. For the 364 non-solstice days of the year, it’s going to be an installation without a cosmic connection. In that context, I think it stands on its own and I’m proud to have it in our home.
When the summer fun is over and the rain finally returns, I plan to circle back to this idea. The Solstice Wall taught me a method for using wood strips mounted on plywood as a creative medium. The next thing will be decidedly less ambitious, but hopefully as fun and interesting to build. Stay tuned.
Find all blog posts and learn more about the project on the Solstice Wall page.
This article was published in my free newsletter, Ready for Rain.
From the moment we decided to move to Orcas Island, I became fascinated with the idea of self-sufficiency. I dreamt of using water from a well, growing food, owning a home-based business, and learning to build and repair some of what we need. That dream is becoming more real each year.
Some elements of self-sufficiency are built in at our location. We don’t have the option to connect to community gas, water, or sewage, so we have well water, a propane tank (below, left) and a septic system (below, right),
I take some satisfaction from knowing that my water, for example, is independent of a city water system. It still amazes me that it comes right out of the ground, ready to drink.
Solar energy was always part of the plan for the property, but a lower priority in the midst of building Flattop. At the time, some government subsidies and incentives were being phased out or were uncertain. We continued to say “someday” and added a conduit from the roof to our electrical panel to make future installation easier.
The Reasoning
At our latitude, solar energy is not a slam dunk. The equipment is expensive, we have short, cloudy days in the winter, and lots of tall trees. The alternative, power from the grid, isn’t terrible. It’s mostly clean energy from hydropower and relatively affordable. We spent months debating the options.
A reality of island life is more frequent power outages than the mainland. Our electricity comes from the mainland through an underwater cable and is part of a network across the San Juan Islands. In stormy weather, a fallen tree on another island can take out our power for hours. Before recent infrastructure improvements, many homes were built with diesel generators for powering homes in blackouts. They’re expensive, require regular maintenance, and are not clean energy sources.
For the first three years at Flattop, we did without backup power. Batteries, a chest freezer, cell phone service, and a propane stove could get us through. But we soon discovered a bigger problem: our well and septic pumps depend on electricity to function. To put it mildly, these systems are required and motivated us to consider alternative energy sources. We needed a battery for storing power to use in a blackout.
We met with a local solar installer and learned about all the new subsidies and incentives. The “Build Back Better” bill (2021) reset federal incentives to install solar and/or battery systems. The federal government offers a 30% tax credit on the cost of the project (materials and installation) until 2032. That’s huge. At the same time, the state of Washington doesn’t collect sales tax on the materials. Our local power co-op also offers a 10-year financing plan at 2% per year. It felt like everything lined up. We pulled the trigger and began a 14-month wait for solar panels and a battery system installation.
The Investment
These projects ideally pay for themselves over time. The big question is: how long will it take? Our installer estimated that solar would cover about 90% of our annual power bill and we’d likely pay it off in 9-10 years. That 90% number may sound surprising. Here’s how that works:
Our connection to the electrical grid is now a two-way system. We pay for the energy we use and can sell the excess energy we generate via solar back to the power co-op. The power we sell back is then credited against our power bill. The excess power from long summer days will offset our winter electricity use. Another factor is that the cost of grid electricity is likely to increase over time. A solar and battery system insulates us from potential increases.
The System
In February of this year, a team installed 37 panels on our roof, which equals almost 16 kilowatts of potential power production. In the photo below, the roof is recovering from a huge amount of pollen this year.
The battery system has two batteries and together hold 13 kilowatts of power. To put that into perspective… Our home, right now, uses between 20-40 kilowatts of power a day. In a power outage, we can reduce our power consumption to make those 13 kilowatts last 2-3 days.
The batteries are connected to the grid, which keeps them continually topped up. In a long power outage in the summer, the solar panels can charge the batteries and power the home. Then, battery power can easily get us through the night. This is more difficult in the winter when the sun is scarce.
We expected the installer to ask for specific circuits to power, like the fridge, etc. That didn’t happen. They connected everything to the battery, except power-hungry systems like heating, clothes dryer, etc. Now that the system is up and running it doesn’t require any maintenance, aside from washing the spring pollen from the panels.
The Outcomes
A week after the panels and batteries were installed, we were streaming a movie on TV when one of the lights dimmed for a split second. The movie continued, the digital clocks remained correct, and we shrugged it off. A few minutes later, we received an alert that said, “Your batteries are powering your home”. We had no idea! It was working! Because the batteries powered the TV and internet connection, we could keep watching.
Today we have phone apps and a tablet in our kitchen that display real-time data for the solar system: what the house is using and what’s powering it. It’s fascinating and satisfying. Our home is a generator! Sachi of course, watches the data every day and this time of year is exciting because we’re breaking records each week. On recent sunny days, we sold back twice the amount of power we used.
I see the romantic attraction to living “off the grid” like a homesteader in the wilderness, but that’s not the goal. What we want is a home and lifestyle that’s reasonably sustainable, self-sufficient, and balanced with convenience.
This article was published as an issue of my newsletter Ready for Rain
It should be no surprise to Ready for Rain subscribers that I share much of my life online. This tendency goes back to at least 2003, when I started blogging, and has continued since then.
Over the last decade, sharing photos and videos was fun, but not exciting. A few followers here, a few likes there. Instagram and other services helped me keep up with friends and share tidbits of my life.
That all changed in December of 2023 when I started sharing videos of the Solstice Wall project in 1-minute videos, mostly as Instagram Reels. To my surprise (and delight) the project went viral and changed my online experience, albeit temporarily.
Between December and March, over 15,000 people followed my account. One day saw over 2,000 new follows.
Who are they? Where did they come from? I have no idea. 🤷🏻♂️ The algorithm works in strange ways. My account is now full of strangers with high expectations.
The Most Viewed Post
In the middle of the project, I summarized the progress in a brief video titled “Let’s Review“. This post has been the most popular by far. Some interesting stats
1.5 million plays? Nearly 19k likes? This is not normal for me. A stat for the video still boggles my mind:
This influx of people led to sometimes hilarious discussions in the comments of a few posts. It gave me a front-row seat to how people use Instagram.
Many people were focused on the solstice idea and the sundial aspect of the project.
I appreciate snark and unvarnished opinions from internet randos.
Apparently, people don’t like using the “follow” button. Instead, they talk to the algorithm or request someone else to act on their behalf. So weird.
Why did it work?
A few theories… First, I wasn’t selling or promoting anything. I think people are distrustful when money is involved. Second, it was a story to follow. Once people saw the big idea, they were motivated to see it through and share it with friends. Third, it appealed to the Instagram Reels algorithm which showed the videos to a LOT of people I could not reach otherwise. Lastly, it was visually compelling.
This experience taught me that people love following a project from start to finish and it’s important to show them the expected outcome early in the process.
What now?
For all the effort, fun, and excitement, the online attention from this project had virtually zero impact on my offline life. As expected, I’m not earning income from it and no one has contacted me. It was a blip that came and went.
I feel a little awkward about the future of my account. The vast majority of my current followers arrived during the Solstice Wall project, and from here, they are bound to be disappointed. As I’ve said many times lately: I hope they like gardening!
A recent post about digging holes prompted over 100 people to unfollow me in one day. Over 1,800 have unfollowed my account in the last 90 days. I don’t blame them. Going from the Solstice Wall to hole-digging content is quite the leap.
What Matters
Social media is ephemeral. Ideas, projects, and memes come and go. Most of it is disposable and offers only a few seconds of entertainment. However, amidst the noise, there are real people and real connections. I hope the Solstice Wall project served as an introduction to me, a real person who does a lot more than art installations. I dig holes and catch crabs and obsess over plants. If a few new people feel a connection and stick around for all of me, that will feel like a win.
I continue to share videos of things I’m building. If you feel a connection, I’d love to share with you.
People see it as a kind of sundial. And the design is based on the sun’s movement and position. But because it’s based on a single day, the summer solstice, it’s more like a clock that’s only correct once per year.
I don’t consider it a clock or sundial. To me, it’s an installation that uses a single day of the sun’s movement as a template. It documents a natural rhythm.
I want the Solstice Wall to stand on its own, with no explanation required. I hope everyone who sees it feels a connection to the rhythm, even if they don’t know the idea behind it.
I’m sharing this process on social media. Follow along!
This article was published as an issue of my newsletter Ready for Rain
Since the beginning, I looked forward to having all the pieces of the Solstice Wall ready and installing it all at once. It was not, of course, as smooth as I expected. The panels on the wall needed to be painted multiple times. A few of the rays needed dowels.
It finally happened on February 11th, 2024. It took less than an hour to place the rays and tap them into the wall. To my surprise, the rays looked just as expected and didn’t need changes. I couldn’t believe it was finally done.
I write books and run a company called Common Craft. I recently moved from Seattle to a rural island. Here, I write about online business, book publishing, modern home construction, and occasionally, dumb jokes.
I write books and run a company called Common Craft. I recently moved from Seattle to a rural island. Here, I write about online business, book publishing, modern home construction, and occasionally, dumb jokes. 
