The spit extends from the parking area like a natural pier, a sand-and-gravel causeway you can walk end to end in twenty minutes. On one side, Skagit Bay stretches toward the San Juan Islands; on the other, a protected lagoon hosts herons fishing in the shallows. Driftwood of every dimension—from fence-post thin to truck-bed thick—has washed ashore and settled into silvered sculptures that children scramble over and photographers circle with tripods.
“A true spit where you can stand with two different moods of Skagit Bay on either side of you, driftwood piled waist-high along both flanks.”
Credit: FlickrIslands in the mist
Low tide reveals acres of wet sand and mudflats where you can walk hundreds of yards offshore, your boots squelching in the silt, clam holes bubbling around your feet. The Olympic Mountains notch the western horizon, and on clear days Mount Baker rises to the northeast, its glaciers catching afternoon light. Wind is constant here, carrying the salt smell of exposed kelp and the occasional cry of gulls wheeling overhead.
The grassy picnic area offers shelter from the breeze, with tables under gnarled shore pines. You'll see multi-generational groups unpacking coolers, toddlers tottering toward the water's edge with plastic buckets, and retirees with binoculars scanning for the bald eagles that nest nearby. It's a beach for wandering rather than swimming, for tide-pooling rather than sunbathing, and for watching the changing light paint the water in shades of slate, bronze, and pewter.
