Fog Ferns and Friendship in the Pacific Northwest
Following my first entry about The Landing at Orcas Island, where I introduced our heartfelt arrival to this family-rooted retreat, it’s only right to dive deeper into the unique experiences that followed. The initial entry reflected on our invitation to scout the newly renovated property, an opportunity that aligned serendipitously with my long-awaited desire to visit the Pacific Northwest. We arrived by ferry, greeted with warmth by our hosts Amee and Ryan, and began our stay on a deeply personal note, embracing connection, storytelling, and the vision for a space meant for reflection and retreat.
The true journey begins with that very ferry ride—my first. The winds pushed the waters gently around us as we trotted through the Salish Sea. Wrapped in a gray mist that shrouded the nearby islands, the ride felt cinematic. The clouds hung low and heavy, and the silhouettes of fir-lined islands pierced the horizon like secrets waiting to be discovered. It was the kind of PNW weather you hear about but can’t fully understand until you immerse yourself in it. The experience invited me to step into a new chapter of exploration. As we glided forward, I wondered if the infamous Bigfoot might be watching from the ridgelines. I loved this introduction to the legends and mysticism of these islands.
Arriving at the dock, it was as though we had landed in the center of the buzz of ferry life. But as we veered from the port and ventured further inland, Orcas Island revealed a quieter rhythm, almost reverent. The roads narrowed and curved like a ribbon laid gently on the land, opening to wild meadows and a lush greenery only this climate can provide. Pops of color danced from golden buttercups to the deeply saturated purple of blooming iris, dotting the landscape like nature’s confetti. Between team activities, I wandered the neighborhood near The Landing to practice a slower, softer kind of street photography. Without the chaos of cityscapes, the rhythm was different. The story was found in detail: a moss-covered step, custom art commemorating the island’s namesake, and wisteria draped like curtains.
One of the most impactful moments of the trip was our group hike through Turtleback Mountain Preserve, guided by our host, Ryan. I’ve hiked before with little understanding of where I was. I’ve hiked after researching an area’s geological and cultural history. But never have I walked through a forest with someone so intimately connected to the land. Ryan’s love for the island and its ecosystems radiated from every fact he shared and every moment he paused to let us soak it all in. It became quickly apparent that this wasn’t just a hike. It was a walk through a living classroom, a sanctuary.
The trailhead greeted us with damp forest air. Dense fog lingered among towering Douglas firs, softening the world around us. It clung to the ferns and moss that blanketed the ground and hung in the crevices of hollowed logs. The forest felt alive and timeless. My jacket soon became saturated from the combined efforts of sweat and dew. I imagined myself looking like a character out of Fern Gully—enchanted, wide-eyed, and entirely present.
We reached a clearing where, had it been a bluebird day, we might have seen the surrounding islands and valleys. Instead, the mist narrowed our vision to only the space around us. But there was intimacy in that, too; it was an opportunity to take group portraits and linger in the quiet closeness of shared experience.
Turtleback Mountain Preserve, Orcas Island. May 2025.
As we continued, Ryan shared the island’s lesser-known history of logging and deforestation. Once cleared of its old-growth forests, the landscape suffered ecologically. But years of intentional environmental efforts have slowly revived these lands. Ryan described how the forest’s healing mirrors the interdependent relationship among trees. He compared the Oregon white oak and Rocky Mountain juniper here to the white oak and ash juniper back home in Texas. Each thrives best in partnership with the other. The metaphor wasn’t lost on me—it was a poignant reminder of how separate cultures, species, and people can coexist and strengthen one another.
The vibrant red Madrona tree with its smooth bark and sculptural limbs reminded me of Texas’s Magnolia—both commanding in presence, yet so different in form. Here, on this Pacific island, I found echoes of home in an entirely new world I’d only dreamed of exploring.
As we reached the west side of Turtleback Mountain, the clouds finally began to part. Sunlight streamed through, illuminating the distant islands and textured clouds beyond. We paused once more to absorb the panorama, and I felt deeply grateful for Ryan’s insight and care in guiding us through this experience. The weather—classic for the Pacific Northwest—was the perfect backdrop, and I wouldn’t have wished for anything else.
Following the hike, our group ventured into Eastsound, the island’s only town. While waiting to be seated at White Horse Pub, we wandered the local farmer’s market. I took the opportunity to continue my street photography practice, this time capturing the slow pace of island life: song birds, art structures, resting bikes, vibrant wildflowers.
The morning’s trek, full of learning and awe, transitioned seamlessly into an afternoon of rest and connection. Surrounded by good company and fresh food, I reflected on how grounding the day had been. Back at The Landing, I found myself eager for what the next day would hold—one final hike through an entirely different part of the island, with a new environment to explore, yet still rooted in the same magical soil.
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