How to Plan a Solo Trip to Whidbey Island, Washington

Streams ran down the inside of my raincoat from head to toe. I stood on a headland, happy as a child, watching the seals swim in the cold water below. Farther offshore, a lone elephant seal fished for lunch, and in a rocky cove, an otter bobbed on its back, a crab clutched between its front paws. It was the beginning of the rainy season and I was looking for solitude on Whidbey Island.

Located about 35 miles north of Seattle, the island is often overshadowed by the San Juan Islands, the northernmost archipelago in Puget Sound that is better known and less developed. But it shouldn’t be. Whidbey is easier to get to—just take the 20-minute ferry ride from the mainland town of Mukilteo—and has fewer crowds.

I wanted to see the entire length of the island without turning back, so instead of taking the ferry, which goes to the southern tip, I drove two hours from Seattle and crossed the Deception Pass Bridge, a historic stretch that connects Whidbey from the north. It was a dramatic entry, with the fog thick and the rain falling in torrents. Instead of heading directly to my hotel, I took a detour to Deception Pass State Park and pulled into a parking lot that overlooked a shallow bay, relieved to see no other cars.

This was my first plane trip since the pandemic. I had also just separated from my partner and left our twins at home in New York’s Hudson Valley. Now that I’ve flown across the country, I wanted to commune alone with the forest and the water.

I followed the trail markers, crossed a pebbly beach, and climbed a steep cliff surrounded by Douglas firs. The trees were no defense against the rain, but I was already soaked and didn’t care anymore. I climbed rocky outcrops until I reached a clearing. And it was there that I saw the first seal. I don’t know how long I stayed, except that, with the marine mammals unaware of my presence, I felt fortunately small. When my fingers went numb, I got back in the car and drove south, the windows fogged up from the humidity.

Whidbey Island is only about 40 miles long, but with winding two-lane roads, it feels much larger. I drove about half an hour past the main town of Oak Harbor and arrived at Captain Whidbey, a 1907 inn in Penn Cove that has been recently modernized. I stayed in the Glasswing cabin, which has wood paneling, a fireplace and a balcony overlooking the cove. I wrapped my still damp body in a wool blanket and enjoyed the view. A great blue heron stood on the hotel’s long pier. I was impressed by his ability to remain still.

The heron remained there even after I changed into dry clothes and walked to the main pavilion for an early dinner at the bar. I brought a book to signal to the bartender that I wasn’t looking for company; she kindly left me alone after bringing out a perfect rye Manhattan and several small plates. Back in my cabin, I took a hot shower and fell soundly asleep.

In the morning, I had my coffee on the balcony. The heron was there again. (Was it there all night?) The day unfolded slowly and blessedly free of plans. I spent the morning at the 151-acre Greenbank Farm, which has a cafe and miles of dog trails. As soon as I reached the top of the first climb, the clouds parted to reveal the snowy tops of the Cascade Mountains on the mainland. So I went to the forest and walked for hours, only leaving when I realized how hungry I was.

Fortunately, it was only a 15-minute drive to the sleepy village of Coupeville. I ate a bowl full of Penn Cove mussels and fries and drank a beer at Toby’s Tavern. I wandered around town, popping into the Kingfisher Bookstore (the island has a thriving literary community) and across the street to Briggs Shore Ceramics, which occupies a narrow house. I found myself thinking about the heron, which I came to think of as a steward of the cove. I returned to Captain Whidbey and found him still at the dock.

The next day, I said goodbye to the bird and continued south along a road lined with small farms. The rain had returned, but I barely noticed it under the towering canopy of Trustland Trails Park, where I spent the morning foraging for mushrooms. I walked until I was hungry and then drove to Langley, a small town with a few wineries and an arts center. At Saltwater Fish House & Oyster Bar, I ordered raw oysters, a green salad and a hearty stew, plus a strong white wine.

Full and tired, I walked a few minutes to the inn in Langley, where I would spend my last night. My room was flooded with light and had panoramic views of Puget Sound. I spent the afternoon soaking in the bathtub and cooling off in the salty air on my balcony. By now the sky had lightened, so I walked down to the beach, stopping to look at sea stars and driftwood. A trio of older women emerged from the sound in cold-water wetsuits. I admired his physical strength and courage; They looked as much like island creatures as the heron.

I woke up with the sun on my last morning. After lingering over the inn’s sumptuous breakfast, I drove to Deer Lagoon Preserve, a bird sanctuary flanked by steep cliffs. The sun was so bright that I could barely see the goldeneyes, grebes and sandpipers through the binoculars. I wanted to stay, but I had to take a ferry. My time on the island took me out of my limited world and back into myself. Strange how being far away can bring a feeling of returning home. Just like that heron, I needed to return to my community, my family, my roost.

A version of this story first appeared in the February 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the title “Breaking.“