San Juan Islands, Washington
On a global scale, temperate rainforests are rare, rarer by far than tropical rainforests. Similarly, on a marine mammal scale, superpods of killer whales are super-rare. But today we had the thrill of experiencing both…and we loved every minute of it.
Although it lies within the temperate rainforest along the Pacific coast of North America, the oak-madrone plant association of the San Juan Islands is hardly a wet area. Nestled in the rain shadow of the Olympic Mountains of Washington and the Vancouver Island Range of British Columbia, it is extremely dry. The high mountain peaks catch most of the moisture that is carried by the prevailing westerly winds blowing in off the Pacific Ocean. This leaves the thin soils and shrubs of the area tinder dry throughout the summer. We hiked in this beautiful forest this morning, amazed at the size of the thick-barked Douglas firs, red-barked arbutus (madrone) and checker-barked Garry oaks. Fires sweep through the thin understorey on occasion, but these tough trees can resist a light scorching. Native to the area is the Columbian blacktail deer, a small subspecies of the mule deer. A few of these delicate and delightful animals were here to greet our hikers, no doubt as they have done with many visitors to this marine state park. A long stick brought a few ripe pairs down from an old orchard tree. Fed gingerly by hand, they soon learned that we were all pushovers. They wanted more.
The afternoon was even more memorable. In fact, it was unbelievable. We were just entering Haro Strait and were engaged in an abandon ship drill when the killer whales were spotted. We thought there were just two at first, but soon realized that we were virtually surrounded. Spouts appeared in all directions – as singles and as small groups. We could see that they were feeding, no doubt on the many salmon that are moving in from the ocean right now, heading toward the many spawning beds of the Fraser River and its tributaries. For an hour or more these huge “dolphins” cruised slowly, hugging the shoreline and searching out fish that were hiding in cracks, crannies and kelp beds. Some remained a little offshore, circling, changing directions, and smacking their tail flukes on the water. They were clearly herding fish.
Suddenly their behavior changed. The dozen or so that we were following reversed direction, gained speed and headed south again, soon to meet up with many others. What followed was “superpod”, a remarkable joining of the three major pods of the southern “resident” killer whales. Pods J, K and L were all here, perhaps 60 to 70 animals. They milled about and caroused within a confined area. Small groups broke away temporarily, but after much rolling, spy-hopping, breaching and heavy breathing, they returned again to the circle. For three more hours we watched this spectacle, thoroughly amazed and thrilled at every move. It was obvious that a meal of salmon was no longer at the top of their agenda. This was a sexual rendezvous, with the males of one pod happily exchanging their genetic legacy with certain females of another pod. The evidence was clear. Amid all of the rolling, splashing, bumping and grinding, and on numerous occasions, that erectile male appendage affectionately known as “Pink Floyd” made an appearance above the ocean’s surface. “Periscope up!”
