As a child growing up in the middle of the 20th century, I lived for a while in Laurel, Nebraska, a small town in northeast Nebraska.  

There was a creek that ran about a mile the north of the town which was a good place to explore, fish and imagine all sorts of things.  Some times during the year there would be an island in the middle of my favorite part.  To get there, a friend and I would make a boat, or a bridge, of what ever was available.  Now that I think of it, to call it a boat or a bridge is to elevate the status of the pile of scrap wood and our building abilities.

It didn’t matter that once we reached the island it was not really a destination where one would want to be stranded for more than 15 minutes because if nothing else, one could be assured of sinking in, up to ones ankles.  It didn’t matter that our island was just a few feet from shore, the view was so... well... just different from the island, it was magical being there.  

So now, some 50 plus years later, I really live on an island... Camano Island... a real island.  Yes, the view IS really different from here; and there is something magical about being here.

To get to Camano Island one takes a real bridge, the Mark Clark bridge, or a small boat.  The Mark Clark bridge goes from the mainland to Leque Island, population, under 10 (I have a map which shows it as Lequi Island), where, during parts of the year, one is assured of sinking in, up to ones ankles.  Then one takes another bridge, so small that I don’t think it even has a name, to get to Camano Island.  If you choose to come by boat, it should be a small boat because there are no piers that would be reliable at all tide levels for a larger one.  Or just take an even smaller boat and plan to get wet as you come ashore... just like our little island in northeast Nebraska so many years ago.  


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