Our whale watch boat would leave from Rosario, a resort on the eastern half of the island. On the western shore of its eastern half, that is, since East Sound nearly splits Orcas in two. We decided to spend the day there.

On the way there, we spotted some of the island deer. They're inbred little things, like the Amish and similarly smaller, but instead of the obvious mutations like three antlers or the odd flipper I was expecting, two of the deer we saw were Appaloosa: their hindquarters were white with brown speckles. Very charming. Driving into Rosario, we realized one reason these deer thrive: they have no fear of humans (and the islands grow no natural enemes). Coming around a curve, we both spotted a doe in the road at the same time, and RDC slowed down to evade it. I had had the camera in my lap, just in case, and I passed it to him quick. We thought--silly us--that the deer would scamper away. It didn't. Just like Tock, it must have loved automobile rides.

Rosario is not a town but a resort, a dominated by a house named Rosario. A shipbuilder, Moran, retired from building warships in late 19th-century Seattle to Orcas Island, where to relax he designed and oversaw the construction of his mansion. As a shipbuilder, his house has several charming nautical touches, like portholes and cubbied closets. No widow's walk, though; this wasn't New England. Along with the house, he left a large chunk of real property, now Moran State Park, from which rises Mt. Constitution.

The historical hotel/museum has recently joined the National Historic Register of Historic Places, which is really all it has in common with Gillette Castle. Gillette's is my standard for Wealthy Unique Houses, of course, and so comparisons are hard to resist. Rosario is a lot more finished than the Castle. Highly polished, highly detailed, with mahogany and teak and brass hinges (more shipbuilding). Gillette, on the other hand, just chopped the edges off whole tree trunks, slapped them into place, and called them banisters. Also he designed his own door latches and no two are alike. And he picked up his most famous character's love of tricks and puzzles: he positioned a mirror in his bedroom so that he could, from his bedroom upstairs, simultaneously adjust his cravat and watch his guests try to open the trick latch of the bar.

This place seemed a little more tasteful than that. Entering the house, you find yourself in a glassed-in porch that circles the house's offices (now hotel or museum offices). Portholes pierce the thick wall between the porch and the interior, and I figure no one spent a lot of time on the porch in the winter. A broad staircase leads to the second floor, which is the only museum bit. Some rooms have been left as they were and others are devoted to shipbuilders' plans and models with stories on the wall. Unfortunately, the third floor, with its tempting library (seen from photographs on the porch and in person from the open hall on the second floor), is also private. Alas.

You're always led around Gillette Castle and the Mark Twain house, but I guess Rosario gets a lot less traffic, and also less of the house remains furnished. I didn't read any anecdotes that made me feel acquainted with Moran, as I admit I do, without solid reason, with Gillette and Twain. If I feel acquainted with Gillette, perhaps it's because I grew up near his house or more likely because of the story of the bar. If I do with Twain, perhaps it's because I read his books but more likely it's because I know two household facts. He had a balcony built off his third-floor study so that when unwelcome visitors rang, he could step out onto it and his wife or their servants could truthfully tell the people he wasn't in the house at present to turn them away. Also he had his bed made up with the pillows at the foot, because, he said, if he was going to spend that much money on a bedstead, he'd damn well spend some time looking at it.

Speaking of which, that's how the custom of putting a penny into poolside cement began. When Hemingway had his seawater pool installed, he set a penny into the cement--his last, he said, because the pool had been so dear. A little honeymoon factoid.

I guess I go to a lot of houses. I've been to Molly Brown's, of course. Of course she was unsinkable: she lived in landlocked Denver. I haven't been to Pemberley though. "If it were merely a fine house richly furnished, I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country."

Excuse me.

How about Manderley?

Anyway, we browsed through Rosario and the adjoining gardens and lunched at its restaurant. I kept meaning to write down what we ate everywhere, because some was very good and some needed to be laughed at. RDC had a chowder or seafood stew that was excellent. I forget what I had and remember only the table next to us and that I was cold (they kept the doors open and it was chilly and damp; I changed into my fleecy pants before we got on the boat). The couple sat next to us despite the nearly empty room because we were at the windows with the view of Rosario Bay and East Sound. And the woman enjoyed nothing about her meal, the view, or her companion. I could hear her voice and formed an unflattering mental picture of her; RDC faced her and mentioned a BMW cap and lots of large jewelry.

Walking and wandering, waiting for the boat, we examined a figurehead that Moran bought as one of the finest examples of the art. The figure was modeled after the Liberty dollar and the captains of her ships credited their successes to her. She looked like a regular statue to me, the untutored, except tilted at maybe 60 degrees and facing her left so she wouldn't have to stare at the just the waves all the time. On a supporting beam, we saw a slip of paper and seized it. Treasure!

"Under the tree that weeps near the rusty gate, you will find the next CLUE."

Riveting. I looked up: a fence encircled a long narrow lily pond and a willow grew at one end. We examined the willow and all the surrounding shrubbery, but found nothing. No Treasure-Seekers we, or too late.

We left that mystery unsolved and watched the tide rise over the seastars. I saw one with four legs and another with three. We saw a seagull scoop a crab out of the water and drop it on the jetty: such a pleasure to see a gull hunt rather than scavenge. And the crows! This is as good a time as any to mention that Washington has the whiniest crows I have ever heard. In Olympic NP we heard lots of loud crows. In Anacortes waiting for the ferry, we saw parents coaching their young in finding food and the babies whining, loudly: "But I'm sick of eating bugs!" And they were worse on Orcas. The group name for crows is a murder but these crows deserved a group name of whinger.

So anyway, the whale watch, she introduces casually.

No orcas, almost no sun, and a lovely trip overall. We saw a bald eagle, harbor seals and harbor porpoises, and Dall's porpoises. We saw waterfowl (which species I forget) that is endangered because it nests only in old growth forests--despite being waterfowl. We cruised into Canadian territorial waters and saw the northwesternmost point of the contiguous United States. We got rained on. Seals were everywhere, in the water peering at us and trying to sun themselves along the high tide mark.

How should I describe a whale watch? I have no idea what kind of boat it was. Smaller than the ocean-going whale watch ferry-type boats I've been on, bigger than the one that took us out to snorkel or scuba-dive in Key West. It had an observation that accommodated six, and as soon as everything shipboard was tidied away and they let us out on deck, RDC and I skedaddled for that topmost deck along with two boys. So we left East Sound with a wonderful view, and watched Shaw Island to port and Orcas Harbor and Doe Bay to starboard slip away. We stayed on top until we saw some folks glance up the ladder and count, and then descended to the foredeck, where I hung over the bow (I was practicing to be a figurehead).

The crew comprised the captain and two naturalists. I never talked to Nina but Mary narrated the scenery continually. The Oakley (sunglasses) family own that (family-sized) island. Paul Allen (Microsoft) owns maybe 15%, not the rumored 60 or 100%, of Lopez Island. That's a [forgotten] widgeon on the endangered species list because even though it's a sea-going bird, it nests only in old-growth forests. That island over there is one of several that belong to the Nature Conservancy--on it grow 180 different species of wildflower. The folks on Waldron Island certainly don't like a lot of attention--a few years ago the FBI busted a huge pot farm there.

Plus Mary told us her repertoire of marine stories. About the two bald eagles who'd watched a doe give birth, dove immediately to steal the fawn, carried it away together, and either because it was too heavy or they're not accustomed to working tandem, dropped it into the Sound. About the pair of eagles on a particular island who regularly raise not one, not two, but three chicks a year, when usually the scarcity of food means the eldest chick kills its younger nestmates. And of course about the orcas in the Puget Sound, who eat salmon not seals and porpoises as I thought all orcas do.

We knew before we boarded that we would likely see no orcas that day. The three resident pods of Puget Sound, J K and L, had all gone north, into the Strait of Georgia between Vancouver Island and B.C. Since we couldn't cancel our seats, we decided just to enjoy a boat tour of the lovely islands. And we did, despite the thickening clouds and mist and eventually rain.

We landed in a light mist but before we'd got halfway home, the rain started in earnest. The only considerable rain of the trip, it had to happen our last night so we'd have to pack a wet tent. It fell so hard and so steadily that RDC abandoned plans to cook soup on the camp stove; instead we had a sleeping bag picnic with crackers, cheese, and cold turkey, and jarred peaches, and Fig Newtons, and a peanut butter sandwich. Much more pleasant than a camping trip RDC and EJB took when they brought almost no food because they were going to catch it all out of Lake Placid. No trout bit and they ended up eating cold canned asparagus in the rain. We were comfily cramped in the tent, dry and warm and full, and after a last quick pee-and-brush scurry, were in bed reading before sunset (though, thanks to the rain, after dark).