At first light, Sitka and I make our way down from the western meadow to the bluff that overlooks the inland sea. Sitka goes ahead and follows the path further down onto the beach where she forages around looking for God knows what. Deceased things.

   I’d never had a dog before Sitka, and I didn’t choose her. She didn’t choose me, for that matter. The owners of the cabin I bought left her there with a note. This is Sitka. We couldn’t take her with us. By the time I was standing in the dim, roughhewn cabin, this wolf-like puppy trying to put her baby-sharp teeth into the toe of my boot, her owners were on a plane to New Zealand—off to study some form of alternative education. “A much more caring system than our own,” the woman had said over the phone. After she and her husband were certified, they’d return to the island to open their own school. That was over ten years ago. They never returned. Sitka is an old dog now, as am I.

   I sit on the rocky point and pull from my jacket the long-range compact binoculars, and like the voyeur I somehow have become, I watch the woman on her beach. She has just come in from her morning paddle. She showed up a year and a half ago, living in her tent while she built her cabin, which is mostly hidden by conifers. If I come out here in the night, I can see lantern light shining from it. She has a small power cruiser, a kayak, and two large dogs. At low tide, there is a count of over seven hundred and fifty islands out here. I’ve checked all my maps and charts of the archipelago, and hers is an unnamed island. I think she’s the sole owner, and I envy her solitude. I moved to an island, but not my own.

   Most people come up here as tourists first before deciding to stay. They come in droves by way of the Washington State Ferry, which stops at the more popular islands, and then, as if an afterthought, Nettle. Or they come in on three-tiered yachts with teak decks, hot tubs, and floating wine cellars, but they don’t usually stay beyond one rainy season. The best of marriages have blown apart by the damp cold, along with their idealistic dream of building a homestead together. At least that’s something Evelyn has said. I’ve never paid much attention to other people’s marriages. I have overheard, while waiting in line at Stubbs’ hardware, these young types, who move here with the deliberate intention of an environmentally sustainable existence. They may be better equipped to hang on longer. Underneath this wholesome desire, though, I have the feeling—is the need to get away from it all—it all—usually meaning a family that made them feel bad about themselves for one reason or another.

   “Is this what brought you to your own island?” I point out that she’s been here for two rainy seasons. These imaginary conversations I’ve started having with her make me think my mind has left the port.

   My choice in coming up here was more slipshod. I saw an add in The Oregonian. Cabin for sale on Nettle Island. There was a small description and a grainy photograph.  Not much.  Just what I thought I needed.

   Sitka eventually makes her way back and turns her blue eyes on me until I feel foolish and put the binoculars down.  I’m reminded of Mia. “Oh, Graham,” I could hear her say. “You need help.”

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