Nestled in the San Juan islands is a remote gem called Decatur island. With a population you can count on a few hands and no police present I figured why not make the trek. After a 6 hour drive and a 40 minute boat ride from a man named Rock I ended up on Decature’s shore. Everything reaches this island by boat or airplane. I slung my backpack on my shoulders and the hike began. A 70 year old man named George picked me up on the side of the road in his early 90’s mini van that has no ignition. He places a marijuana pipe into the hole where the ignition once was and turns it. Bah Bah wamp wamp the mother fucker is running. Down the road is a cabin built in 1867 that belongs to the woman that cooks me dinner a couple nights a week. The Lamb family has been on this island since native times and they still live the simple life. History books have failed to take note that the Lamb’s previous an-sister was the first native woman to vote which pre dates Susan B. Anthony. These hills are scattered with arrow heads and deer. Everything that has ended up on the island since the early 1900’s has never left due to the cost of barging it away. Time warp!