The Island Beyond the Island

Washington Island, itself reached by the ferry through Death's Door per the Door pieces of these pages, keeps a quieter island beyond it, the state-park isle off its northeast corner, reached by a second, smaller ferry, carrying no cars, no bicycles, and no commerce whatsoever, just trails, cobble beaches, a historic stone boathouse built like a Viking hall by the eccentric who once owned the whole place, and the oldest lighthouse in the county on its northern bluff. It is the quiet coast of these pages taken to its logical conclusion, two boats deep and silent.

The island's inventory is spare and sufficient, the great boathouse at the landing, its limestone arches and massive hall the improbable monument of the inventor who summered here a century ago, the trail system looping the island through hardwoods and along bluffs, the lighthouse reached by a walking hour and touring in season, and the cobble and sand beaches facing back toward the door the mainland's crowds never pass. The camping, walk-in sites above the water, constitutes the county's most coveted quiet, booked ahead per the standing rules.

The day trip runs on the ferries' arithmetic, the crossing from the big island's harbor timed to allow four or five hours ashore, which the trails and beaches spend easily, and the packing doctrine applies in full, water, food, and layers carried, since the island sells nothing, which is precisely its charm. The stone hall's cool interior handles the midday, and the beach below the landing handles the wait for the boat.

Take the double crossing on a clear day, walk to the lighthouse first while the legs are fresh, and give the last hour to the cobbles with the water doing the talking. Pack out everything, per the island's whole premise. The Door's crowds thin at each crossing, per the peninsula's pieces in these pages, and at the second landing they vanish entirely, leaving stone, water, and trail, which is the quiet coast's final destination, and worth both boats.