The Place: Sullivan Lake, Washington

From the time I went on church retreats as a girl and had to rise early, find a solitary spot on the banks of a lake, and think spiritual thoughts as the fog slowly vanished over the water, I have associated lakes with serenity. I’m drawn to most any kind of lake, but perhaps the one in the Inland Northwest that comes closest to perfection for me is Sullivan Lake.

Sullivan Lake, East Sullivan Campground

A few facts:

Clear water

Located in Colville National Forest in northeast Washington, Sullivan Lake nestles in the foothills of the Selkirk Mountains. Some four miles long, its shape resembles a squat worm. Though it reaches a depth of 320 feet, the water is clear and relatively comfortable. Half a dozen homes are scarcely seen in bordering forest. A road skirts the lake to the west, a hiking trail to the east, and two popular campgrounds on both ends. East Sullivan Campground (to the north by my account) has a long beach and an airstrip for small planes. Fishing enthusiasts catch trout, kokanee salmon, and burbot (a type of cod), and sightseers arrive in late October to view the aspen and western larch in golden splendor.

Nearby places of interest include Metaline Falls, 6,000-foot-high Hall Mountain, trails into the Selkirks, Gardner Cave, the Boundary Hydro-Electric Dam, and Z Canyon for kayakers.

First encounters:

I first saw Sullivan Lake when we were visiting my in-laws while still living in Puerto Rico. We stopped for lunch at a small café on the main street of Metaline Falls. Long ago a settlement for native Americans, more recently for traders, miners, and lumberjacks, Metaline Falls today is a scenic community of a scant 250 residents. After lunch, we viewed a small reservoir known as Mill Pond along Sullivan Creek. [The pond no longer exists as the dam was recently removed to return the creek to its natural state.] Our final stop was Sullivan Lake. The day was chilly, the campgrounds in deep forest shade, and the lake, when I stuck my hand in, seemed — compared to the Caribbean — dauntingly cold.

The great crossing:

The rock

Several years ago my husband and I, now living in Spokane, drove to a small motel near Sullivan Lake. The first day, he took off to climb Gypsy Peak, and I headed to East Sullivan Campground. New to navigating lakes, I’d only recently graduated from a large inner tube to a good quality inflatable kayak. First, I opted to hike most of Lakeshore Trail, some four and a half miles long, as it wound through lush cedar forest before following the edge of the lake. By the time I got back to the day-use site and onto the water, the winds had whipped up. I paddled hard for quite some time, only to reach a relatively close strip of beach, where I saw a beautiful quartz rock the size of a large hand. Though I wanted to take it with me, I feared tearing my new kayak and decided to return the next day with a towel to pick it up.

Me and my kayak

My husband and I got there early, and off I went. The water was calm as glass, mine was the only vessel to be seen, and I skimmed forward effortlessly. After a bit, I started searching for the strip of beach with the rock. It couldn’t be found. Paddling farther, I passed one point after another, tiring but refusing to turn back: the beach had to be just around the next bend.  One more bend, and my heart leaped to my throat: in front of me was the opposite end of the lake. I had kayaked almost four miles! Suddenly nervous at my daring, I stroked back with great care. Relatively close to the campground, the strip of beach with the rock came into view.

The moral — you can go a lot faster and farther when there’s no wind.

Epilogue:

Every summer, my husband and I plan a trip to Sullivan Lake, he to hike in the Selkirks and I to paddle on the lake. One summer we missed when there were fires in the area. And this summer? It would be bleak indeed if the coronavirus keeps us away.