The dog is sick, Friday Harbor is shuttered for winter, I’m worried there will be more snow for my return to Seattle, and I slipped and fell in the bathtub at my guest house. I’m really hoping this trip improves.

Okay, the town of Friday Harbor is not actually shuttered, just the two restaurants I really wanted to try (and a few shops). But still, all these worries and complications do not make for an auspicious start to a brand new year of weekends.

George, who’s been on and off his food for about two weeks, took a turn for the worse after I dropped him at the Mad Scientist’s yesterday. At that point, it became clear that uncertainty about George’s health had gone on too long and that he needed to be seen by a vet today. I didn’t know whether to cancel this trip or go, but the Mad Scientist encouraged me to go, saying he had it all under control. And I felt sure he did, and that he would take good care of George, so I packed my bags and headed to the ferry.

I realized as I left the house that I was cutting it fairly close time-wise, and that if I ran into any traffic or needed to make any stops along the way, or simply dawdled, I was going to miss the 9:35 am and have to hang around Anacortes for 3 hours until the next ferry out. This -- added to my anxiety about leaving a sick dog --  made for an upright, alert, slightly white-knuckle trip.

With only a little speeding involved, I made it to the ferry with about 15 minutes to spare. The ferry trip over was cold and clear, and the view beautiful. On the way, I read my guide books (invaluable -- don’t try your own 52 Weekends Project without them) and decided that my first stop was going to be Roche Harbor, on the northern tip of the island, and then I would make my way down the western edge, along the water, and back to town for dinner.

As soon as I exited the ferry I was on the country road I’d been looking forward to for weeks. I can’t say that the anxieties and stresses of the city drained away (though they usually do), because I was very worried about George, but in the dappled January sunshine, clear blue skies above, it was lovely and I tried to let it all go and enjoy the ride. My guidebook said the burgers at the Lime Kiln café were legendary and I’m all about the cheeseburger and fries, so I was headed there for lunch.

I hadn’t anticipated the small size or stark functionality of the Lime Kiln Café. The resort itself appears so spacious and grandiose, in a 19th-century sort of way, that I was expecting linens and silverware and a waitress. The burger was really excellent though, with exactly the right amount of bread and condiments and meat, all in proper proportion to one another.

Wandering the grounds after lunch, while taking photos of the old equipment and the mausoleum, the church bells began ringing, and then organ music swelled and filled every nook and cranny in a half-mile radius with The Way We Were. I fled.

I’d chosen the western edge of the island as my route back from Roche Harbor because I wanted to see the Lime Kiln Point lighthouse. On the way I found the alpaca farm, a pastoral location with rolling hills and white fences lines. The alpaca are shy critters, though, and won’t come close to have their heads scratched or photos taken. I quickly gave up and continued on my way.

I love little white cottage-y lighthouses. Brick, cement, stone, red and white candy-striped? They have their charms, but the little white ones are my favorites, so Lime Kiln Point Lighthouse immediately became one of my favorites. I was disappointed that I could not go inside, but happy to be by the water in the January sunshine.

Since it was only .2 miles away, I wandered through the woods to see the restored lime kiln, then trekked back to my car and took the western route all the way back to town.

It was mid-afternoon and I felt I wanted to find my guest house before it got dark. Following my directions, I headed through town and out of the eastern edge of it, just over a mile, to the Juniper Lane Guest House. When I walked in the door, I was immediately put at ease. The guest house was perfect. Clean, compact and yet spacious, eclectic, warm, and comforting. I set my bags down and went over the basics with Juniper, then got out of her way, since the staff wasn’t quite finished prepping for the evening’s guests.

Back in town, I whiled some time away at the Front Street Ale House, where Bob the Bartender explained how to find the Back Door Kitchen, Steps, and the Place, the three places I was interested in having dinner.

The Back Door Kitchen, first on my list, was closed until February 19th. Reading the menu at Steps, I felt I’d prefer something else for dinner. So I went over to The Place and read their menu and decided to eat there. I waited by the door at opening time. And waited. And waited. Several times a young man poked his head out of the back and glanced at me, then went behind a wall again. Finally I called the number on the door and asked if they were opening soon. The young lady who answered said thay’d had a miscommunication with their wait staff and would be opening late. I suggested that she might want to put a sign on the door to that effect, since I’d been standing out there for a while now and no one had made any effort to let me know that my wait was futile. She said she would. She offered no apologies and made no offer to let me in for a glass of wine while they waited for the staff to arrive, and in my irritation I decided I would not eat there tonight.

I’d parked near a place called Vinny’s earlier, and it was there I went for veal parmigiana and caesar salad. After dinner, I felt I’d exhausted all options for the day, so I went back to my guest house, took a hot shower, and read a book before retiring early.

Saturday January 3, 2009

It snowed last night. Just a dusting. This morning it appears to have warmed up enough for the snow to start melting off the cars at my guest house. This is good news, as my ice scraper broke a couple of weeks ago and all the stores have yet to be restocked, so I am still without one.

I’m cozy in my bed at the guest house right now, reluctant to get up, get dressed, and get out. Other guests have been finding their way out for at least an hour now. The sounds of conversations in the driveway and breakfasts in the kitchen carry up to me as I languish.

I’m unsure what I’m going to do today. Breakfast in town is certainly on the agenda, as is some shopping. But that should only take a few hours and I have a whole day and evening ahead of me. The clouds came in overnight and it’s looking dark, dreary, and a bit forbidding out there. It may be warmer than yesterday, though, and that would be a welcome change.

Mid-afternoon update: I am bored to near death. Near death. So bored that I have seriously considered taking the ferry home tonight and losing my second night’s guest house charges in the process. No offense to the good people of San Juan Island, but there’s almost nothing to do here in early January.

I had planned to have breakfast at Marilyn’s Garden Path Café this morning, which was recommended in my guide book. I knew right where it was, because I’d coincidentally parked right in front of it yesterday. What I hadn’t noticed at the time was the “closed until January 5th” notice taped to the front door. Not really being a fan of breakfast food, I was wary of other places that came with no such recommendation. Nothing worse than poorly cooked eggs and potatoes, in my opinion. Dejected, I wandered to Downriggers and realized I only had an hour to wait until lunch, a meal I much prefer. So I walked the town until lunchtime, poking my head into every open store and gallery. At the Chamber of Commerce I asked the (very) young man working the desk what there was that I could do today. He though long and hard (especially after I told him I had already been to Roche Harbor yesterday), and finally came up with the Whale Museum. He apologized for the single solution, and explained that every thing pretty much shuts down in winter. He didn’t know what else to offer, except maybe a glass of wine at the vineyard, which he thought might be open year-round. I asked him about lunch and he suggested Haley’s Bait Shop & Grill, so that’s where I went. I had a burger and spent some time reading the Seattle PI and the Seattle Times.

When I left there I didn’t care for the idea of going through the Whale Museum, so I decided to drive up to the sculpture park at Roche Harbor. Once I was there though, I found it much too wet and cold to enjoy. Wandering through an open field in warm sunshine, in short sleeves and sandals would be one thing, but bundled in three layers including a spandex base layer, a hat, a gator, mittens, two pairs of socks and a new pair of Keens, and now getting wet as well as cold, this was not fun. No wonder I was the only one there.

I drove over to the English Camp and felt stymied by all the same issues, so I did not even get out of the car. Came back to town and reluctantly entered the Whale Museum. I just wasn’t interested. Not because I have anything against whales, but because I have been though this museum in the past and also because I know a lot about whales and did not think this was likely going to teach me anything I didn’t know.

Was this all just my bad attitude? I’m sure some of it was. Perhaps there was some merit in trekking out to the buildings of the English Camp that I failed to see. Maybe I would have taken some fabulous photos or learned something really interesting.

I moved my car again to give myself another two ticket-free hours and considered going back to the guest house and packing. Decided that would be quitting and while potentially justified, I wasn’t going to do it. There had to be a reasonable way to to pass a pleasant afternoon in this town in January.

Went to the Front St Ale House and found a corner table (with an outlet!) where I could use my computer and people-watch. After a while three birder women came in and had a long conversation about the elitism of the birding organizations they belonged to and how much they hated the snootiness and competitiveness of it all. That was kind of interesting, since I know nothing about birding. A band showed up for the evening entertainment and went upstairs to set up and practice. Over a couple hours the place nearly filled up, and at 3:50 pm, it completely cleared out, everyone racing to the 4:00 pm ferry.

Since I was there, I decided to have an early dinner of beef and mushroom pie with a side salad. I should have trusted my instincts about a menu that tried to be everything to everybody. It was bland, overcooked, and the gravy thin. The crust was unpleasant. Even the roll and butter that came with it was doughy and tasteless, doing nothing to make up for the lack of flavor in the crust.

I have to tell you, at this point even I am hating my own company. Do I have nothing good to say? Does nothing satisfy me? This whole trip has reminded me of the trips with my parents during the teen years. Not going was not an option, and I generally started out with a bad attitude, and my attitude never managed to improve much. Every now and then there’d be a glimmer of something interesting happening for a half hour or a half a day, but mostly those trips were simply endured. This weekend, I was my own sullen teenager.

In conclusion, I think that San Juan Island is at best a day trip at this time of year. A few hours visiting Roche Harbor and the shops and restaurants of Friday Harbor and then on your way to your next adventure. Otherwise, it could be a lovely place to be in January if you had friends or relatives you were visiting on the island, and the majority of your time was spent in their home, visiting, talking, cooking, maybe playing games or making music, sitting by the fire with a hot toddy in hand, a dog at your feet, and a good conversation that you could duck in and out of at will. If no one wanted to cook, you might come to town for a burger and a beer.

It is, however, no place to trek alone for three days in January.