I’m standing alone on the sunny beach at Granny’s Cove, one and a half hours before a negative two-and-a-half-foot low tide, with my close-up lens on my camera, exuberant curiosity and nothing but time. The tracks of a single deer are the only thing between the Salish Sea and me.

I’d consulted the tide chart to plan this trip, so it’s no coincidence that the lowest negative tides of the season are this week. I’d been craving the dark, sharp rocks decorated with the textures and colors of seastars, anemones, crustaceans and all manner of undersea life.

I got hooked on this glimpse of ocean life while tidepooling on the Olympic Peninsula two years ago. Endless fascination. I could’ve spent all day on those beaches. It was past time to go back. San Juan Island had been lingering on my ever-expanding travel list for longer than I’d like to admit. It has charismatic sea animals (big and small), rugged seascapes, tidepooling beaches, coveted spring wildflowers and controversial wild foxes.

Low Tide

I set down my pack, swapped my hiking shoes for water shoes and waded into the cool Pacific waters. This cove is a kelp forest. Prime sea habitat. However, when the water leaves, the rocks are covered in undulating ribbons of vegetation that hide and protect the treasures I’d come to discover.

However, the kelp and seaweed bring their own art to the low tide beaches.

Intricate Details

Two steps into the calm, shallow water, an aptly named decorator crab scuttles toward the cover of floating seaweed. If it hadn’t moved, I never would’ve noticed it.

Like caterpillars and caddisfly larvae, these animals camouflage themselves (i.e., decorate) with surrounding detritus.

Instead of an exploration of the larger, dramatic, colorful invertebrates, this is a glimpse into the tiny world of snails, shrimp and crabs. I was thrilled to find a nudibranch tucked in on exposed rock! Nudibranchs are exotic, brilliantly colored sea slugs (marine gastropod mollusks lacking external shells).

Colony-forming anemones cover the wet sand. Between the anemones, barnacles, chitons and slippery mosses, it’s slow going as I carefully pick my way along the sharp, rugged shoreline, trying not to squish anyone. I covered some stranded red rock crabs to protect them from the sun and the lurking gulls and crows, who know the tide schedule better than anyone.

There were plenty of crabs under the water, too. They’re small and would be hard to find if they weren’t always on the move. 

And other scurrying little critters. I thought this was a school of minnows before I looked closer. So many shrimp! 

Chitons are ancient, armor-plated mollusks. They adhere themselves so tightly to the rocks when the tide goes out that they cannot be removed with bare hands. I’d never seen the underside of one before. This one was alive, so I righted him and set him on a rock.

Reefs Exposed

There were anemones. So many small anemones. I photographed many underwater between swells and waves of obscuring kelp, in rhythmic time when the colorful animals were revealed.

And then there’s the coral reef life exposed. All the things that I enjoy while snorkeling, some, like sponges and tunicates, look the same, others, like the featherduster worms, required some help to identify.

A Surprise Encounter

As the tide began to draw the curtain on these treasures, I stood marveling at how quickly the sea returns (the ebbing tide is comparatively slow), when I caught motion from the corner of my eye. My first split-second reaction was, “Fox!” (There are so many here, and the size is right), but then my brain caught up to what I was seeing. A river otter loping over the rocks just yards in front of me.

Without a sound, he slipped into the water. Once he was out of sight, I stepped back just far enough to see around the massive boulder between us. Without acknowledging me, he swam directly to the shore fifty feet to my right, bounded across the beach and disappeared into a dark, treed ravine strewn with deadfall.

I’m delighted by this random glimpse of an otter living his life. Grinning ear to ear, I walked along the shoreline until I came to otter prints exiting the surf. The prints are closer to me than I’d thought, but it all happened so fast. I didn’t question it.

I followed the trail up the beach, crossing the deer tracks that I’d noticed earlier, curving near my pack and shoes (thankfully untouched by this curious, playful creature!).

That’s when I saw the other otter tracks! This is the trail from the otter I’d seen, exiting the water further away from where I was, as I’d suspected. Both tracks disappeared into the same drainage. This must be their home.

While marveling at the otter tracks and piecing together what had happened while I was absorbed in the tiny sealife at my feet, I saw that this first set of otter tracks crossed a trail of fox prints! The fox traversed the beach parallel to the water without deviation in pace or path.

I am ecstatic that all of this wildlife activity took place in proximity to me and without regard to me – even if I didn’t know it at the time. Being seen by wildlife as a normal, acceptable part of their environment is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

False Bay

The next day, I tidepooled at False Bay, where I saw another river otter swim past me, lope up a beach and disappear into a similar drainage. The timing relative to the tide was the same as the day before.

So the following day, using the tide as my guide, I brought a cooler down to Granny’s Cove to tailgate and wait for an otter to appear. It was a peaceful, gorgeous way to spend a couple of hours. But no otter. 

Above the Water

Stay tuned for the foxes and orcas of San Juan Island.

If you’re interested in purchasing or licensing any images you see here, please email me at SNewenham at exploringnaturephotos.com, and I’ll make it happen.

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