I’ve been on a lot of ferries in my life, but there’s something about the Washington State Ferry system that hits different—maybe it’s the fact that you’re not just crossing water, you’re essentially island-hopping through one of the most biodiverse marine ecosystems in North America.
The San Juan Islands sit in the Salish Sea, this sprawling network of waterways between Washington and British Columbia, and they’re home to roughly 172 named islands, though only four recieve regular ferry service: Lopez, Shaw, Orcas, and San Juan Island itself. The geology here is ancient—we’re talking about landmasses that were scraped and deposited by glaciers maybe 15,000 years ago, give or take a few millennia, during the last ice age when ice sheets over a mile thick carved through the region. What’s left is this archipelago of rocky outcrops, forested hills, and shorelines that shift between sandstone cliffs and pebbly beaches depending on which island you’re standing on. The ferry routes connect them all, operated by Washington State Ferries since 1951, and honestly, the system itself is kind of a marvel—these massive vessels navigating narrow channels, dealing with some of the strongest tidal currents in the region, all while tourists like me stand on deck trying to spot orcas.
Here’s the thing: you can’t just show up and expect to hop on. During summer months, wait times at the Anacortes terminal can stretch to three, four hours if you’re bringing a car. Walk-on passengers have it easier, but even then you’re dealing with crowds. I used to think the ferry was just transportation, but it’s actually part of the experience—the slow pace forces you to notice things. The way the light changes as you move through different channels. The sudden appearance of a bald eagle perched on a piling. Turn’s out, the islands are a critical stopover for migratory birds, with over 200 species documented.
The Peculiar Rhythm of Lopez Island Life and Why It Makes You Slow Down Whether You Want To or Not
Lopez is the first stop, and locals call it “Slopez” because of the laid-back vibe.
The island spans about 30 square miles, mostly flat compared to the others, which makes it popular with cyclists—I saw maybe two dozen people unloading bikes at the ferry landing, ready to tackle the rural roads that wind past farms and vineyards. Lopez Village is tiny, barely a cluster of shops and cafes, but there’s this unhurried quality to everything. People wave at you from their cars, this two-finger salute off the steering wheel that I definately didn’t understand at first. I guess it’s just what you do here. The island’s economy relies heavily on tourism now, but it used to be all agriculture and fishing—you can still see remnants of that in the working farms scattered across the interior. Wait—maybe that’s why it feels so different from the other islands, this blend of rural practicality and vacation-mode tourism that somehow coexist without too much friction.
Orcas Island’s Moran State Park and the Slightly Exhausting Trek Up Mount Constitution
Orcas is the largest island, shaped like a horseshoe, and it’s where things get vertical. Moran State Park covers over 5,000 acres in the middle of the island, with Mount Constitution rising to 2,407 feet—the highest point in the San Juans. The hike to the top is roughly four miles one way, switchbacking through Douglas fir and western red cedar forests that smell like rain even when it’s dry. I was tired halfway up, honestly, questioning my choices, but then you reach the stone observation tower at the summit and the view spans from Mount Baker to the Cascade Range to Vancouver Island on clear days. The tower itself was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, modeled after medieval watchtowers, which feels random but also kind of perfect.
The descent is harder on the knees than the ascent was on the lungs.
Back at sea level, Eastsound is the main village on Orcas, tucked into the island’s central inlet. It’s more developed than Lopez, with art galleries and restaurants that actually have wine lists, but it still maintains that San Juan Islands quirkiness—I saw a sign for “Crow Valley Pottery” next to a shop selling local lavender products next to a place that rents kayaks. The ferry from Orcas to San Juan Island takes about 35 minutes, cutting across Harney Channel, and if you’re lucky you might see harbor seals hauled out on the rocks near Crane Island, or Dall’s porpoises riding the ferry’s bow wave, their small dorsal fins slicing through the water at speeds that seem impossible for something that size.
Friday Harbor’s Whale Museum and the Uncomfortable Reality of Southern Resident Orcas
San Juan Island is the most populated, with Friday Harbor serving as the de facto capital of the archipelago. The Whale Museum here opened in 1979, and it’s small—two floors, mostly educational displays—but it’s also kind of heavy. The Southern Resident killer whale population, the orcas that are iconic to this region, numbered 73 individuals as of recent counts, down from 98 in 1995. The museum doesn’t shy away from the reasons: declining Chinook salmon populations (their primary food source), vessel traffic and noise pollution, and accumulated toxins in their bodies from decades of industrial runoff. There’s a display showing the family trees of the three pods—J, K, and L—with photos of individual whales identified by their unique dorsal fins and saddle patches. Some have names like Granny (who lived to roughly 105 years old) and Tahlequah, the mother who carried her dead calf for 17 days in 2018, a behavior that marine biologists still debate the meaning of.
Anyway, it’s not all doom. Friday Harbor itself is charming in that Pacific Northwest way—weathered wooden docks, seafood restaurants where you can watch boats come and go, shops selling books and fleece jackets and whale-themed everything. The island also has historical sites like English Camp and American Camp, remnants of the Pig War of 1859, which was this bizarre territorial dispute between the U.S. and Britain that almost led to actual war but instead resulted in joint military occupation for 12 years, all triggered by an American farmer shooting a British pig that was eating his potatoes. History is weird.
The ferry back to Anacortes takes about an hour from Friday Harbor, retracing the route through the islands as the light shifts toward evening, turning the water from gray-blue to something almost silver, and I’m left thinking about how these islands exist in this strange space—accessible but remote, touristed but wild, beautiful in ways that feel both fragile and enduring at the same time.
