Why the Ferry Schedule Feels Like a Conspiracy Against Your Bladder
I’ve ridden the Washington State Ferries between Anacortes and the San Juan Islands maybe fifteen times, and I still can’t figure out why they built the restrooms so far from the observation deck.
The San Juan Islands Scenic Byway isn’t really a byway in the traditional sense—there’s no continuous road connecting these chunks of land floating in the Salish Sea, roughly 90 miles north of Seattle. Instead, you’re hopping between Lopez, Shaw, Orcas, and San Juan islands on ferries that smell like diesel and burnt coffee, watching the water change colors depending on whether the sun decides to cooperate or not. The route covers about 125 miles if you count the ferry segments, which some people don’t because apparently nautical miles operate under different philosophical principles. Anyway, the whole experience feels less like a scenic drive and more like a very slow-motion island-hopping adventure where you’re trapped with strangers who all brought the same hiking boots from REI.
Here’s the thing: the ferry system operates on a schedule that seems designed by someone who’s never actually needed to catch a connecting boat. Miss your departure by three minutes? Enjoy the next two hours exploring the gift shop in Anacortes.
The islands themselves reward the wait, though—I guess that’s the point. Lopez Island’s rolling farmland looks like someone imported the Cotswolds and forgot to bring the rain (except they didn’t forget the rain, it rains plenty). Orcas Island has Mount Constitution, which at 2,409 feet offers views that make you forget you paid $65 for your car to ride a boat for forty minutes. San Juan Island’s got the Lime Kiln Point lighthouse where people claim to see orcas, though I’ve stood there four times and seen exactly one seal who looked deeply unimpressed by my presence. Shaw Island is the quiet one—just 240 residents give or take, and a general store that keeps hours I can only describe as whimsical.
Wait—maybe that’s unfair to Shaw.
The marine layer does this thing in the mornings where it turns the islands into silhouettes, and you’re standing on the ferry deck with salt spray hitting your face, and for a moment you understand why people write bad poetry about the Pacific Northwest. Then someone’s car alarm goes off in the vehicle deck and the moment evaporates. The byway’s terrestrial segments—the actual roads on each island—wind through Douglas fir forests and past farms where sheep outnumber humans by ratios that seem ecologically questionable. You’ll see bald eagles so frequently they become almost boring, which feels like something you shouldn’t admit but it’s true. I used to think spotting an eagle meant something, some kind of omen or blessing, turns out they’re just really good at finding garbage.
Honestly, the whole route takes about six hours if you don’t stop, which defeats the entire purpose.
The ferrys run year-round, though winter schedules get weird—fewer crossings, more weather delays, locals who give you looks suggesting tourists in January are committing some kind of social violation. Summer means reservations required, lines stretching back into Anacortes, and the distinct feeling you should’ve planned this trip in February when you had the chance. But the light in summer does something remarkable to the water, turns it into hammered silver or cobalt depending on depth, and the madrone trees shed their bark in ribbons that look like the islands are molting. You pay for the experience with patience and maybe some Dramamine if the currents between islands get choppy.
