Crane Island Journal

Readers who love nature and seasonal memoirs:

These books immerse readers in the rhythms of the natural world, from the changing light of autumn to the slow unfolding of spring. The detailed observations of birds, trees, tides, and weather make the series deeply engaging for those who appreciate the quiet beauty of seasonal change.

For those who find solace in the works of Thoreau, Annie Dillard, or May Sarton, Crane Island Journal offers a deeply observed portrait of life attuned to nature’s cycles. Through daily entries spanning four seasons, John Ashenhurst captures the shifting moods of the Salish Sea, the habits of island wildlife, and the simple pleasures of a life shaped by the land.

Fans of Off-Grid & Remote Living Stories:

The series provides an authentic look at the challenges and rewards of living on a private island with no ferry service, no grocery store, and a self-managed water system. Readers interested in self-sufficiency, rural life, and the logistics of island survival will appreciate the firsthand accounts of maintaining a home in an isolated setting.

What does it take to live on a remote island where every boat crossing is weather-dependent, firewood is a necessity, and the nearest hardware store requires careful planning? Crane Island Journal takes readers inside a way of life that blends self-reliance, problem-solving, and a deep connection to place.

Memoir Readers Interested in Aging, Community, and Reflection:

These books explore themes of retirement, identity, and belonging, all set against the backdrop of a small, self-sufficient island community. Readers who appreciate introspective memoirs about later life, personal evolution, and friendships over time will find much to relate to.

As the seasons change on Crane Island, so do the lives of those who call it home. Through thoughtful, honest reflections on aging, relationships, and the meaning of home, Crane Island Journal invites readers into a world where small moments—an evening by the fire, a conversation with an old friend—carry deep significance.

Travel & Place-Based Literature Enthusiasts:

The books don’t just document island life—they also capture journeys through the American Southwest, coastal Canada, and the Pacific Northwest, blending travel writing with a strong sense of place. Readers who enjoy literary explorations of landscapes and the connections between people and their environments will appreciate the rich descriptions.

From the misty shores of the Salish Sea to the high desert of New Mexico, Crane Island Journal follows the interplay between home and travel, solitude and connection. Whether navigating the waters of the San Juans or tracing the paths of old literary figures in Taos, these books weave journeys of place and memory into a compelling seasonal narrative.

Readers Interested in DIY, Home Projects & Sustainable Living:

Each book details the ongoing work of maintaining an island home, from kitchen renovations to water management to firewood storage. Those interested in hands-on projects, home improvement in challenging environments, and the art of making a place one’s own will find inspiration in the practical aspects of the series.

Home is always a work in progress. In Crane Island Journal, John Ashenhurst chronicles the joys and frustrations of island living—hauling firewood, troubleshooting water systems, and tackling ambitious home renovations, all while adapting to the unique challenges of remote life. A must-read for anyone who finds satisfaction in shaping a home with their own hands.

Bookstore Owners & Librarians Looking for Unique Regional Literature:

This series offers an intimate, well-written chronicle of life in the San Juan Islands, a region with a strong literary and cultural identity. It will appeal to readers who appreciate local history, Pacific Northwest settings, and independent publishing.

A beautifully written, season-by-season memoir of life on a private island in the Salish Sea, Crane Island Journal is an essential addition to any collection of Pacific Northwest literature. Thoughtful, engaging, and rich with detail, this series captures both the practical realities and quiet poetry of remote island living.

Haust – Life on a Remote Island in the Salish Sea

Haust (Autumn), the first volume of Crane Island Journal, chronicles ninety-two days of life on a small, private island in the San Juan archipelago. Written as a daily journal, it offers an intimate and detailed account of self-sufficient living, community dynamics, and the changing rhythms of nature as summer fades into winter.

John Ashenhurst brings readers into his world with observations that are both practical and philosophical. His days are filled with tasks essential to island living: scavenging, cutting, and splitting firewood for the winter; maintaining the island’s self-managed water system; and navigating the challenges of boat maintenance when the only link to the mainland is a personal vessel. He contemplates the environmental impact of burning wood for heat and the trade-offs between convenience and sustainability.

A major preoccupation throughout Haust is the remodeling of the kitchen—an ongoing project that sparks debates over design, cost, and practicality. From researching countertop materials to considering whether a larger sink is worth sacrificing counter space, Ashenhurst and his wife Yvonne wrestle with decisions that blend aesthetics, functionality, and the realities of island logistics. The project serves as a microcosm of the broader themes in the book: the push and pull between ambition and limitation, between idealized plans and the constraints of remote living.

The book captures the spirit of communal life on Crane Island, where residents manage their own roads, water supply, docks, and emergency services. Ashenhurst, serving on the homeowners’ board, wrestles with questions of governance and fairness—how to balance shared responsibility with individual freedom, how to enforce policies without alienating neighbors, and how to plan for the island’s long-term sustainability.

Beyond the practical, Haust explores the beauty and solitude of island living. Misty mornings bring hidden spiderwebs into view, ferry horns echo through the fog, and ravens call from the treetops. Encounters with wildlife, from mink scurrying along the shoreline to beetles navigating the gravel roads, highlight the intricate ecosystem of the island.

Ashenhurst also engages with broader themes. A community gathering for fall cleanup becomes a meditation on cooperation. A conversation about the island’s medical care system turns into a sobering reflection on the fragility of rural healthcare. A discussion with friends about annotating Sailing Alone Around the World leads to musings on the nature of adventure and solitude.

For readers drawn to memoirs of place and season—akin to Thoreau’s Walden or Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek—Haust offers a compelling, real-world look at the joys and complexities of a life shaped by the land, the sea, and a small but dedicated community. Whether you are fascinated by off-grid living, Pacific Northwest landscapes, home renovations in remote locations, or the quiet richness of everyday life, Haust provides a deeply engaging portrait of a season lived with intention.

Vetur – Winter on Crane Island

Winter on Crane Island arrives not all at once, but in shifts—the lengthening nights, the first frost on the dock, the creeping damp that settles into everything. Vetur, the second volume of Crane Island Journal, spans ninety-three days of this slow transformation. The firewood stacked in Haust is now essential, and the routine crossings to Orcas Island become more treacherous with frost-slicked decks and thick morning fog.

The season demands constant adjustments. Some mornings, the frost is so thick that the boat’s windshield turns opaque, and only a bucket of saltwater will clear it. Even on foot, travel requires care—grass crunches underfoot, but where water has pooled in the low spots of the meadow, it stays stubbornly unfrozen. Everything takes longer in winter, and so much of Vetur is about learning to work with what the season allows. The water system, which in summer seems simple enough, reveals its complications in the cold. When a neighbor reports that his meter is moving despite being shut off, Ashenhurst investigates, using his camera to magnify the numbers when he realizes he has forgotten his glasses. Over time, the island has trained him to adapt, to use whatever is at hand.

Inside the house, the kitchen renovation continues. In Haust, the project was still in planning, a set of decisions waiting to be made. Now, Yvonne is painting walls and climbing ladders, adjusting the space to match the reality of daily life. One moment, she is standing at the top of the pantry, brush in hand, determined to finish. The next, the ladder starts to slide, and for a brief second, everything hangs in the balance, the memory of an earlier near-fall from years ago flashing back. Home improvement here is never just about the house—it’s about persistence, about finding ways to make a place work while knowing that perfection is impossible.

The island itself quiets in winter, but life doesn’t stop. The weekly Greybeard meetings continue, with conversations ranging from local water policy to questions no one quite knows how to answer, like whether a neighbor’s declining health is something the community can help with or something beyond anyone’s control. There are practical tasks, too—letters to be written, donations to be requested for the no-wake zone buoys in Pole Pass, small repairs that pile up faster than they get done.

But winter is also a time for looking outward. There are phone calls with his son, James, who is now a teaching assistant in a neuroscience course at UCLA and amused that some students believe fly brains contain mushrooms. There are publishing projects to manage—books to format, corrections to be made, the slow process of working with Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing to push new versions live. There are old friends to catch up with, and some who won’t be there to catch up with anymore. A note from a widow prompts Ashenhurst to reconsider an old friendship he let slip away, the distance between past and present narrowing for just a moment before stretching back out again.

Through it all, there is the steady presence of the island, changing in small ways with each passing day. The moon sets over the water one morning, its reflection forming a perfect silver path leading to Vancouver Island. The buffleheads return, gathering near the dock, while a solitary gull watches for scraps outside the kitchen window. There is the heavy, damp stillness of the air, the way footprints linger in the dew long after they should have disappeared.

Winter is a slower season, but it is no less full. In Vetur, Ashenhurst captures both its difficulties and its quiet gifts—the need for patience, the way work expands to fill the hours, and the moments of unexpected beauty that make it all worthwhile.

Vor – A Season of Movement, Change, and Renewal

Spring arrives in fits and starts. The buffleheads and mergansers disappear from the shoreline, the days stretch longer, and the first hints of green appear in the meadows. On Crane Island, the land is waking up, but so is the restlessness that comes with the season. Vor, the third volume of Crane Island Journal, moves beyond the island, tracing a journey through familiar landscapes of the American Southwest before returning home to the quiet work of spring—planting, repairing, reflecting, and adjusting to the season’s shifting rhythms.

It begins with a road trip. Ashenhurst and Yvonne leave the damp chill of the Pacific Northwest behind, heading south through Colorado and into New Mexico, a route they’ve traveled many times. The mountains rise to their right, the plains stretch endless to the left, and the sky hints at snow. They pass through Walsenburg, a town still bearing the weight of its mining past, and stop for lunch at George’s Drive-In, where the conversation shifts between practical matters—an iPod cable that won’t connect to the car stereo—and the larger question of how places change, which ones remain touchstones, and which are slipping into memory.

In Taos, they settle into the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, an adobe structure layered with stories of the artists and writers who once gathered there. They walk the grounds, imagining D.H. Lawrence painting the windows of the bathroom upstairs, Georgia O’Keeffe capturing the starkness of the landscape, Mabel herself orchestrating an ever-changing salon. That night, over dinner at Orlando’s, they meet up with longtime friends, their conversations laced with laughter, the kind that comes from decades of shared history.

Chimayo is the real destination. The Good Friday pilgrimage to El Santuario has become a tradition among their circle, each year a little different, but always carrying a weight of its own. As they walk the dusty roads, they talk about the reasons they are here—prayers for family members battling illness, personal struggles, the need for clarity in the face of uncertain transitions. Alan, once unwavering in his commitment to academia, is questioning his future, torn between continuing his research or stepping away from the university system. Dave, approaching retirement, wonders who he is without the structure of his career. This year, unlike years past, their conversations are less about their children’s lives and more about their own.

Back on Crane, spring unfolds in its slow, deliberate way. Yvonne is ready for the garden, though the soil is still too cold for planting. She builds an intricate bamboo trellis for pole beans, the first step toward the season’s harvest. The madrones are flowering, their scent thick in the evening air. Dandelions blanket the airstrip, bright and defiant. Some changes happen suddenly—overnight, the ferry terminal grows busy, the seasonal residents begin to trickle back—but others are so gradual they are nearly imperceptible until one day the island is undeniably in bloom.

The practical work of the season begins. A long-overdue dump run requires four boatloads of trash and debris, including the final remnants of the winter’s kitchen renovation. The firewood supply is measured, the calculations of what remains versus what will be needed running through Ashenhurst’s mind with each log split and stacked. The water system needs tending, and the homeowners’ board is once again discussing policies that will keep things running smoothly for another year. The Greybeards gather, as they always do, but today the conversation turns heavier. Brian, once fiercely independent, has lost his ability to drive, a consequence of his worsening health. He listens as the group offers suggestions—ride-sharing, local services—but there’s an unspoken truth lingering between them all: loss, in one form or another, is inevitable.

Amidst the tasks and the conversations, there are moments of stillness. A walk across the island, the scent of damp earth rising after the rain. The moon reflected in the quiet waters of Pole Pass. The sudden realization, while stepping off the boat after a day on Orcas, of how deeply home has settled into him, how the shape of the island has become imprinted on his own sense of self.

Spring is a season of movement, both external and internal. Vor captures this balance—the pull between travel and home, between the past and the present, between the work of maintaining a life and the reflection that comes with each passing year. The book moves through landscapes, conversations, and quiet moments, weaving them together into a meditation on change, renewal, and the subtle but certain arrival of another season.

Sumar – A Season of Fullness on Crane Island

Summer arrives gradually, the long days stretching out, the light lingering on the water well past dinnertime. The airstrip, empty for months, now sees a steady stream of small planes coming and going. Neighbors return to their summer homes, voices carrying across the island. The rhythm of life quickens, shifting from the solitude of winter to a season of movement, conversation, and shared meals. Sumar, the fourth and final volume of Crane Island Journal, captures this fullness—of people, of work, of long summer evenings when the sky  darkens reluctantly.

The season brings visitors. James and Keith arrive from Los Angeles, bringing Keith’s parents and brother, turning the house into a lively gathering place. Later, friends from Boulder fly in by seaplane, eager to experience island life. Days are spent on the water, checking crab pots, watching river otters dart along the shoreline, or heading out for a whale-watching trip that delivers an extraordinary encounter—a mother orca and her two sons, the youngest rolling onto his back, peering up at the passengers. Evenings are slower, filled with long dinners on the deck, ukulele songs by the fire pit, and the kind of conversations that stretch into the night.

But summer is not just for leisure. There is always work to be done. The house, the boats, the garden—everything requires attention. Discovery, the 20-foot Ranger sailboat, is hauled out of storage and prepped for the season, a process that involves checking trailer tires, rigging the mast, and coaxing the reluctant four-horse outboard back to life. Yvonne’s garden thrives, trellises heavy with climbing beans, the greenhouse producing a steady supply of greens. Water, always a consideration, is carefully managed—one evening, rain fills the collection tanks, allowing her to water the garden without tapping into the island’s supply. Small victories, but meaningful ones.

Beyond Crane Island, summer is a time for travel. A trip to Victoria and Vancouver offers a brief immersion in city life—afternoon tea at the Empress, a visit to Butchart Gardens, a night in a high-rise hotel with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. Another outing takes them to Jones Island, a state park accessible only by boat. The journey requires planning—anchoring safely, ferrying guests to shore in the dinghy, navigating the winding trails. On the beach, they marvel at a Garry oak tree bent nearly horizontal by years of coastal wind. It is a reminder of the quiet adaptations required to thrive in a place shaped by the elements.

Amid the movement, there are moments of reflection. Conversations drift toward the realities of aging, of change, of how much one can truly help another person. A friend, newly retired, wrestles with what comes next. Another, losing his ability to drive, faces a growing dependence on others. The journal captures the subtle weight of these shifts, woven into the fabric of daily life.

By the end of Sumar, the visitors have gone, the boats are secured, and the first hints of autumn are in the air. The golden days of summer have passed, but they have been fully lived. The season, like the journal itself, is about connection—to people, to place, to the steady rhythms of a life shaped by the land and sea.

We just got back from Electra Lake,  collected our mail (which included Haust which had been on hold for weeks),  we both dove into your book immediately ( Dave and I share it with different colored book marks) and we both have become captivated!  What a remarkable tribute to your time on Crane.  It is well-written, a really lovely book, to hold and to read, to look at the illustrations and brought our visits to Crane and Orcas, and  our Chimayo conversations we had about your life there vividly to mind. I truly don’t know how you had time to write in such detail plus accomplish all you did during those years!  

I remember talk of your kitchen remodel, I remember seeing your lovely cabinets and counter tops, but now that I read about the monumental task of  lugging all those boxes  the parts back and forth in and out of the van, on and off the boat, up and down the boat ramp, the parts to complete and add, the color matching, etc. I now have  more of an understanding of how many hours, how much of your life was actually devoted to getting each and every task done.  And this was one of many, many projects!  I now have  a deeper appreciation of the lists you must have kept, how far ahead you needed to plan a dinner party, the preparation needed for planning a meeting.  

 If anyone I know talks about the romance of moving to an island, the joy of living remotely in nature with the comforts of a really beautiful home, I would put a copy of your book into  their hands to read about the decision-making process and to understand the sacrifices  it takes to make such a life work. Think of how many tasks you became proficient at!  

Your book is about the the logistics of chopping, splitting, stacking wood out of the rain on your porch to keep your house at an even temperature, cleaning up after messy mink escapades, remote meetings, attending meetings (and meeting people getting off boats). 

Annie and Dave Phillips, Boulder, C O

I immediately noticed a difference between the parts. Some are quotidian, and some are poetic in their simplicity

I just finished reading your first 20 part selection of Haust. I (and Dean) enjoyed it very much, probably because, as you had mentioned, we’d “been there.”

I immediately noticed a difference between the parts. Some are quotidian, and some are poetic in their simplicity. I must say that I loved the wood gathering focus with all the complexities and images of decay and mist and fog. And then you got a splitting maul, what a gift! Those parts were thoughtful and quiet, solitary. I loved the otters. Turtle Knob - nice.

I loved the troubleshooting of the starter on the boat. Very funny with your frustration - sounded just like you.

An over-all thought is that self-sustainability is definitely back in the zeitgeist. Again, I just loved the wood gathering and forest knowledge parts; I learned stuff, but I thought that your empathy showed up and not your ego (thanks Karl Ove.)

Barb and Dean Beasley, Boulder, CO

An interesting, and personal exploration of place, memory, and the pace of nature

I found John Ashenhurst’s Haust: Crane Island Journal an interesting, and personal exploration of place, memory, and the pace of nature. Spanning four volumes, this journal offered me a glimpse into John’s reflections on Crane Island, weaving together observation, philosophy, and poetic musings.

I especially enjoyed John’s writing which I found rich in detail, capturing the changing seasons, the play of light on water, and the subtle shifts in the natural world that often go unnoticed. I found his writing meditative, and was drawn into the stillness and solitude of Crane Island.

For me, the four volumes together formed an interesting combination of thought and experience, in synch with rhythms of the island itself. 

Haust is rewarding and immersive read and one that invited me to pause, observe, and embrace the quietness of nature.

Rick Morgan,  South Fork, CO

This a beautiful tale of a dream fulfilled

When I first read your request,  I thought you wanted a few sentences  that could be put on the back cover of the book. But now I see you want something different.  My first thought:  This a beautiful tale of a dream fulfilled.  Living on a remote island in the Pacific Northwest with breathtaking views of the mountains, the sea and the forested land was not without its challenges.  Among the many challenges were procuring firewood, fixing a broken boat, insuring that there was enough fresh water for the small population and renovating a kitchen.  

Following along this adventure is an adventure in itself.  So, on a more personal note,  I did have some trouble following your work on the books you were transcribing (?). Because, as you know, computer work is not my forte.  I did like the description of the flora and fauna,  the sunsets, the weather, etc.  as it reminded me of our life on the Chesapeake Bay.  I also enjoyed your stories of family and friends as that is my particular interest.  I also thought the pictures added a great deal to the book.  

If I could critique anything it would be that sometimes I followed, with great interest some aspect of your journey but never found out how that little piece of the story ended.  But then again the story could be picked up in your next book.  If you asked me now to give an example, I couldn’t give you one.  I would have to go back and read it again.  Anyway,  I enjoyed reading it.  I felt like I was there.

Glenna Brown Sheerin, Tucson

Loved your 3rd book - Vor! I read it three times - it spoke to me of Orcas and my late husband Garry.

We lived across Pole Pass from Crane for 27 years and it’s been a delight to read all four Crane Island Journal books. I read Vor (Spring) three times. It was absolutely, absolutely true to our experiences. It was just like being on those beautiful islands again. You describe keeping track of the water tank on Crane but we didn’t have a reliable well on Orcas and it usually ran dry by August so Garry would borrow a fire truck and bring back water to our house and fill our cistern so we could cook, and wash, and take showers.

Phyllis Carney, Seattle

Not an Ordinary Retirement

Looking forward to life beyond career, what is it that stirs the imagination and becomes the content of an intentional retirement lifestyle? John Ashenhurst’s Haust (Autumn), the first of a four-volume memoir, provides thoughtful insight for those contemplating life off the beaten path.

Ashenhurst was a successful writer, editor, publisher, software developer, and tech guru to the insurance industry. Toward career’s end, the lure of Puget Sound’s San Juan Islands beckoned – a yachting paradise for the adventurous in search of a life close to the water, requiring a boat, and filled with peace, quiet, and scenic beauty.

Ashenhurst writes, In the 80s when we cruised through the San Juan Islands with our young family on a big green and white Washington State ferry, I wondered what it would be like to live in this beautiful place of mountains, forests, islands, and boats. Sounds tempting, doesn’t it? Perhaps you’ve wondered something similar. If so, Haust needs to be on your reading list.

I’ve enjoyed island living and my sailing days were satisfying, but they were far different and easier compared to Ashenhurst’s experience. Oahu’s sunny days and trade wind breezes were not punctuated with the unsettled weather of clouds, rain, fog, damp, cold, and tidal variations that enshroud and impact life in the San Juans. I didn’t need to rely on the ferry system or my own boat-handling know-how to get to a big city.

Ashenhurst’s memoir describes the daily and mundane activity living on a small island where boat ownership is a necessity. There was the problem of the 15-month-old, post-warranty microwave. Panasonic gave me the name and phone number of a Seattle repair shop. The microwave hadn’t cost much over $100; it wouldn’t make much sense to take it to Seattle.

It includes observations and lessons learned by doing what’s necessary to get things done – like cutting firewood. Some types of wood burn faster than others. Douglas fir burns slowly and contains lots of heat; alder burns much more quickly and produces less heat. So how much we needed would depend on what kind of wood we had as well how much heat we needed to generate each day. Not exactly the kind of hip pocket know-how city-dwellers need, is it?

Haust also includes anecdotes of everyday community life that center around church gatherings, holiday events, life around the marinas and docks, post office, island and homeowner’s association, food bank, flu shots, hardware store, etc. But again, life in the San Juan’s is not like life in Seattle and personal interactions take on a different character. It’s the nature of smaller interdependent communities populated with an eclectic assortment of different personalities.

Speaking of Seattle, my favorite chapters include details of Ashenhurst’s trials and tribulations traveling to the IKEA store in Seattle to buy kitchen cabinets. What for many might be an enjoyable do-it-yourself experience became a Herculean effort transporting boxes across Puget Sound to their island home, transferring them from a boat to a dock and then to a truck, assembling them, and making additional visits to IKEA to exchange doors that didn’t fit, and finally installing their finished kitchen. The van was packed with our new IKEA kitchen, more than 100 boxes, some small and light but others long and heavy. Four round-trip cart loads between the boat and our house 200 yards from the community dock. The rain had strengthened, and water beads clung to all the boxes.

In my opinion, memoirs are meant to be read slowly. I like to imagine the setting and location, the scenery, the time of day, the sights and sounds, the atmosphere, and the characters and personalities. With Haust, it was easy to imagine my friend and former colleague and his family go about daily life in this somewhat idyllic and romanticized corner of northwest U.S.A. Yet, for all the details that recount the challenges of life on a small, somewhat remote island, Ashenhurst has time to be a poet of sorts. Writing toward the end of this first memoir, he observes As I wrap the forward line around a cleat on the Crane dock, I look up at the night sky and am overwhelmed. The Milky Way crosses the sky north to south. The Big Dipper is within reach. Orion well above the eastern horizon begins his trek across the sky. The sod crunches under foot, its surface frozen in this 26-degree night, as I cross the meadow to our house, the walkway to the front door flooded with warm light.

Steve Brightbill,  Bellefonte, PA