Island Hopping: Bikepacking the San Juan Islands

Words by Nathan Khalsa, photos by Nathan Khalsa, Henry Elholm, and Paddy Gilligan

In September of 2020, my biking partner Garrett and I sought refuge in a weathered stone shelter on Lopez Island, Washington. Rain pelted the ancient earthen roof, instant ramen bubbled on our small stove, and tea offered a feeble attempt at warmth. It was day three of our bike tour, and we found ourselves captive to the unpredictable Pacific Northwest weather, gazing over the spit at Spencer Spit State Park. Call it the romance of a new experience or just my strange affinity for rugged weather and landscapes, but I fell in love with the place and knew I had to come back someday.

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Fast forward three years to August 2023. I’d traded my home of Detroit for a whirlwind of adventures—from a van to a boat, boat to trailer, and finally trailer to an apartment, settling in Portland, Oregon. My full-time job had slowed my pace, but the itch for adventure remained. Summer’s end was quickly approaching, and it was time for some adventure by bike. With subpar riding fitness, the San Juans beckoned.

As a fan of pushing comfort zones and roughing it, I think there’s a time and place for rugged experiences. For the cyclist of a moderate fitness level who works full time, that time and place was not then or there. The San Juans, scattered between Vancouver Island and Washington’s coast, are an ideal multi-day destination with a sprinkle of convenience. You are never too far from supplies, lodging, or water. If you’re tired, you can always kick your feet up and charge your devices on a ferry ride to your next destination.

Whether you prefer camping under the stars or the comfort of indoor lodging, the San Juans cater to your every preference. Choose your own culinary adventure with a visit to local markets or indulge in a range of dining options. With endless miles of captivating roads and trails, lush forests, and picturesque coastlines, the San Juan Islands don’t disappoint the cyclist looking to dabble in bikepacking or the seasoned bicycle traveler looking for a good time. Plus, ferry travel is on the house for pedestrians hopping between the islands. You only need to foot the bill for the initial jaunt from the mainland.

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Joining me would be comrades Hank and Paddy. Hank and I drove up together while Paddy, having to work, would be taking the train to Mt. Vernon, the closest stop, and riding 22 miles to Anecortes and ferrying the next morning to meet up with us. We mapped out our last-minute plan on the drive up, settling on Lopez Island as our starting point. A friend who had been there a couple of weeks prior informed me of the “race” off the ferry to get to the campground and snag the hike/bike site on the water. Unleashed from the ferry, cyclists scattered like caffeinated raccoons. I outpaced Hank’s trusty but clunky hardtail on my full-carbon bike. Chest and legs burning, I reached the campground first, only to discover a group of hikers already in the good spot. We ended up sharing a spot with the other cyclists from the ferry.

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With camp set up, Hank and I pedaled into town for essential supplies (beer). A surprise live show by The Shook Twins in the park added some pleasant and unexpected entertainment to our evening. We sat in the grass, just beyond the roped-off pay area with an equally good view.

With spotty service the next morning, we did our best to touch base with Paddy, who was well on his way after an overnight train ride. It was his first bikepacking trip, equipped with a vintage mountain bike, some bags purchased bags last minute, and a makeshift rear rack/bag setup. I was stoked at his dedication to come join us. Stopping to get groceries along the way, he was standing in the checkout line fearing he was going to miss his ferry. He asked the woman in front of him if he could please go first so he wouldn’t be late boarding, to which the woman responded, “I don’t give a f*ck about your ferry.” Friendly locals went through his mind, I’m sure. Luckily, he still made the ferry.

While we waited, we explored more of the island and went to a cool local farmers’ market happening in town. After converging, we hopped on another ferry to the smallest of the ferry travel islands, Shaw Island. There was a new brewery at the small port since the last time I was there. It was awesome to see it packed with locals. Despite the squeeze, witnessing the island community having a gathering place was heartening. Being the smallest island, there’s nowhere else to gather, really. The tip jar read, “Help me save up to build a tiny home!” A contribution well made.

The San Juan Islands, an archipelago of 172 islands, have a storied past. Once inhabited by Coast Salish peoples, these islands witnessed European explorers, fur traders, and settlers in the 19th century. The mid-1800s Gold Rush brought a wave of prospectors, further shaping the islands’ current landscape. Today, remnants of historical structures dot the landscape, adding a layer of depth to the breathtaking scenery. With a rise in tourism over the years, new pedestrian infrastructure has been implemented and proposed.

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Currently, there are plans to create a 10-foot-wide pedestrian path into the interior of San Juan Island. The plan has been met with lots of opposition from locals, fearing it will bring tourists virtually to their doorsteps and continue the trend of being priced out of their homes that, in some cases, have been in the family for generations. The trail will also require a 30-foot easement into adjacent properties. As with any developing area, it’s hard to strike the balance between progress and accessibility and maintaining local flavor. As with any place we visit, it is important to be respectful of the locals and the land you’re on and abide by LNT principles.

We stumbled upon a quiet camp spot at Shaw County Park, a stone’s throw away from the beach, and took a dip in the chilly salty water. Hank, in a feat of bike bag Tetris, brought goggles for the occasion—an unexpected but unsurprising move. That night, some midnight rustling awoke me, which was not enough to get me up by itself, but I had to pee. Upon turning my headlight on, a fat raccoon scampered away in front of me. Just beyond, I saw his buddies ravaging Paddy’s food pack. Dried mango was scattered everywhere. The provided food lockboxes suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. Morning laughs about raccoon shenanigans led to a quick island ride. Gravel roads, stone beaches, and forest stretches unfolded before we realized we were about to miss the ferry to the next destination. We raced back just in time to hop on the ferry, savoring the beauty of Shaw Island’s quiet roads.

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Orcas Island, our final island of the trip, awaited. The picturesque harbor town sat like a painting on the hillside on the approach. With a stocked grocery store, bathrooms, and, much to Hank’s excitement, a gift shop, we took care of our chores before setting off on the cross-island escapade. Moran State Park, where we’d be camping, was on the opposite side of the horseshoe-shaped island. To get there, we’d roll over the hilly landscape on the island’s two-lane highways, which felt uneasy, but traffic seemed courteous of cyclists. After a pitstop in Eastsound for fish and chips at the cheapest-looking place, we stashed our bikes and braced for the looming climb to Moran State Park.

As we departed Eastsound, a steep incline welcomed us, and I realized that fish and chips with an IPA probably wasn’t the best move. Paddy and I took a lakeside swim break, leaving our bikes next to the road, expecting Hank to see them and join. Mission-focused, he zoomed right past. I mumbled some swear words to myself, threw my clothes on, and sprinted to catch up. I reached him at the top of the hill, where he was catching his breath. Paddy followed shortly after. Unsure where to go next and having no service to help guide us, we got directions from a ranger, who told us that camp was just up the road.

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Feeling worked from the day’s ride, we weren’t sure about the original plan to climb the rest of Mt. Constitution for sunset. After soaking in a waterfall nearby, we felt rejuvenated enough to give it a go and saw a map of a trail to get us there, avoiding the steep, busy paved road. After shedding some weight from our bikes and returning to the path, we worked out what we thought was a good route between a posted sign with a map and our phones, which were running low on battery. The route steadily climbs up Mt. Constitution, goes around Mountain Lake, and then takes a steep, punchy climb to the top. Easy, home for dinner.

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Right away, we were greeted with technical singletrack, inclines we had to walk, impassable root structures, and stream crossings. Lungs burning from nearby wildfire smoke, we realized we may just be in over our heads. But we weren’t a trio that was for backing down from some measly singletrack and quad-digit elevation. We pushed on, and the trail going around the lake was some of the most beautiful of the whole trip. Amazing views of the forest and Mt. Constitution, not to mention prime swimming in Mountain Lake. After a couple of stops to swim and snack and photograph, the sun began to set behind the mountain. We got past the smooth, flat singletrack around the lake and got to the last climb up to the summit. Only a mile. Not so bad. A cool 1,500-foot gain. Okay, sounds gnarly, but it’s doable.

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We made it about 150 yards in the saddle before having to hop off from too-steep terrain. The sufferfest had officially started. We dragged our bikes up switchback after switchback, unable to stop long enough to catch our breath before the mosquitos found us. With each foot climbed, we could smell and feel the wildfire smoke getting thicker. One step after another, we shoved our lighter but still not light bikes up with both hands, running low on water. We kept telling ourselves it was just around the next bend, knowing full well we were playing a cruel joke on ourselves. What felt like hours passed, and the treeline started to get thinner. We were exhausted but motivated.

Seeing a radio tower felt like seeing civilization after being lost in the wilderness for weeks. At last, we reached a parking lot for the viewing tower up above, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. Breathing sweet, toxic breaths of relief, we hopped on our bikes for the final small incline to the viewpoint. Upon reaching the wall of the overlook, we were greeted with a smoke-shrouded sky, barely able to get a glimpse of the Washington coast in front of us. Not the Canadian coastal range to the north, the Cascades to the east, or the Olympics to the south, which you can see on a clear day. We saw only the tree-covered hill and a faint glimpse of the lake we just circumnavigated. It was a bummer, but we still took in the beauty.

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The apocalyptic evening light was a strange kind of magic. Beautiful orange skies with bits of light filtering through the trees and smoke, compounded by the fact that we were the only ones around. We started to cook our dinner when we received a tip from a man that there was a great sunset viewpoint on the road down about a third of the way. Hank wanted to get some sunset shots, so he packed up before us to try to catch it. We then also bailed on our dinner plans and put our half-cooked hot food back into our bags and started the descent after him.

This was what it was all for. We cruised along the smooth road, winding our way down the mountain. Fast, in the zone, pure joy. We found Hank on the hillside at the viewpoint overlooking a beautiful view of the island, and little you could see of islands beyond. We weren’t sure if it was too late or just too smokey, but there was no sunset view to be had. We took in the sights and took a precarious group photo before collectively bombing the hill back down to camp.

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The next morning, we packed up camp and started the trip back to the ferry port. We weren’t looking forward to the trek based on the ride in and considering our escapade the previous evening, but it went by much faster than we thought. We made it early to the docks. Hank finally got to indulge in the gift shop. We stopped at the cafe in the historic Orcas Hotel for breakfast and coffee, where we sat on the front porch with gorgeous views of the harbor and neighboring islands. We relaxed on the front lawn and soaked up the sunshine, waiting for the ferry.

Decompressing on the ferry ride back to the mainland, we were ready to head home but also would miss island time. The islands provided just what we needed: a microadventure to cap off the summer before the Pacific Northwest winter would have us stuck inside. It was fun reliving the memories I made there three years ago and making new ones with a new crew. It was fun seeing the changes in myself, too. When so much has changed in your life, it’s interesting to go back to a place as a constant variable to compare to. The trip was just what I needed to shake up the routine at the end of summer.

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Searching for signs of whales on the ferry back, we didn’t seem to have any luck. That is, at least, until Hanks’ head raised, wearing an orca beanie he sneakily purchased at the gift shop. It would just have to do.

Further Reading

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