Discovering the "country" of Vashon Island

In 1973, an ad for "island property" put such exotic notions into Olde John Croan's head that he boarded a ferry, made his way down Vashon Island, across the thin strip of land that leads to Maury Island and bought his new place that very day.

"The reason I like this island," says the 79-year-old Air Force and Boeing retiree Croan, who has been using the name "Olde" since 1955, "is because it is country. ... I've traveled throughout the world, and for me, the best place I've ever been is right here."

Some 30 years after Croan did it, my boyfriend and I paralleled his journey, falling in love with our own shy acre of "country." As newcomers, our impressions are still forming. What is it about these two green islands that together form a shape in the Puget Sound that kicks toward the east like an Irish step dancer?

Vashon and Maury's lure, for those who visit and those who stay, is defined by what the islands lack as much as by what they offer. We have no mega-marts, no shopping malls, no sports arenas. No skating rinks or bowling alleys. We have more types of environmentally friendly laundry detergents on the shelves from which to choose than we have restaurants. More animal-rescue organizations than traffic lights and more artists than you can shake a paint brush at.

Because, though they sit smack in the middle of Puget Sound, Vashon and Maury are most decidedly off-center and wonderfully creative. Vashon Allied Arts, the state's oldest community arts center at 39 years, has a database that includes hundreds of professional artists, from struggling to successful, mainstream to fringe. If we ever need the services of a puppeteer, we have that, too.

Commuters watch the sun paint a pink glow across the Olympic range in the morning and do the same to the evening sky. We can photograph boats in Quartermaster Harbor or sift through shells and driftwood on a dozen beaches.

We give directions like, "Make another left at the big fat cow," and we wave to a neighbor out walking her dog and two goats. (The sight of the goats alone makes up for a week of commuting.) In the summer, we can buy fresh corn from kids at a roadside stand, or put money in a tin box and pick flowers as big as our heads from a nearby farm.

After living there for a while, I wanted to get beyond the obvious attractions, away from the beaches and two-lane blacktop and into the interior forests. What better way to explore, I thought, than by horseback? I made a few calls and connected with CiCi Carson, a passionate horsewoman whose Westside Stables is the closest place to Seattle that offers trail rides to the horseless.

"I've lived here 35 years," she told me as she saddled my mount, Honey. "When I came, there were 4,000 people and it cost $2.50 to take a car on the ferry."

Carson talked with the natural ease of an old friend as we walked our horses down the muddy trails that criss-crossed packed gravel roads and meandered through dark pine forests.

She was 5, she said, when her father decided it would be easier to move from West Seattle and buy a few ponies than continue playing horsey for three relentless little girls.

Carson never lost the bug, and 12 years ago bought the land for her stables, camping on it until her house was built. Now she teaches riding to a new generation.

My hour in the saddle was over too soon and we headed back to the farm. I dismounted (without incident) and said goodbye to CiCi, and Honey, to the dog, the chickens, the cat and Rich, the ranch hand.

Olde John Croan's right, I thought. This is country.

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