“In multiple cultures, there’s this understanding of bees as having something to do with life and death,” says beekeeper Annie Reading. “There is this kind of deep, ancient relationship there.”

At Evergreen-Washelli Cemetery in north Seattle, Reading and her colleagues are bringing the custom back—with some twists. On a recent fall afternoon, Reading bent over an observation beehive outside the cemetery’s lobby, reading a message left by a mourner. Inside the lobby, a small display explains the “telling the bees” tradition and offers cards for visitors to write messages to the bees. Reading whispers them to the creatures each time she tends the hive.

Reading is the co-founder of the Catacomb Bee Collective, a group of local beekeepers that also includes Madison Opp, Niya Weedon, and Colin Johnson. While the group first came together at the cemetery in 2021 with a different company, they formed their own operation under the current name in March 2025. The idea for the collective wasn’t born from folklore but from a need to find new spaces for these important little pollinators.

Around 20 colonies of honeybees make their home at the cemetery, pollinating the grounds and surrounding neighborhoods.

Photo by Billy Sigil

At first, Reading wasn’t even thinking about cemeteries. But while searching Google Earth one day for large patches of green, the cemetery’s 140-plus acres stood out. When she approached the cemetery, they were immediately interested, she says.

The partnership bloomed quickly. Evergreen-Washelli, one of Seattle’s oldest cemeteries, offered a large, overgrown corner of its grounds—a space that had once been a wetland and occasional dumping site. Together with Seattle Tree Care and volunteers, the cemetery cleared brush, laid wood chips, and reshaped the land into a sanctuary for the bees. Today, around 20 colonies of honeybees hum through this corner of the cemetery and swoop off to collect nectar nearby.

“It’s been a beautiful, natural partnership,” Reading says. The cemetery gets the ecological benefits of having hives, which pollinate the landscape, and the collective gets to use the space for free. 

The bees, for their part, thrive. Cemeteries, with their mix of native and ornamental plants (plus the occasional graveside flower offering), can offer unusually rich and continuous forage compared to wilder landscapes, where there can be a dearth of food sources at certain times of year. And at Evergreen-Washelli, the staff has made deliberate changes to support the bees.

“We’ve switched almost all of our herbicide applications,” explains Aaron Sholes, the cemetery’s superintendent. Instead of spraying during warmer weather when weeds grow, they now spray in late fall and winter, when the bees aren’t active. “Not only has this yielded a much better end result for us, but it helps protect the bees,” Sholes says. “Being able to host all of these amazing little creatures is a privilege that we do not take lightly.”

What began as a practical partnership has deepened. A few families have even requested burial plots near the hives, Sholes says. “I think it brings people peace to know that even after they’ve passed they can continue to give back to nature,” he explains. The funeral home also offers small jars of the cemetery’s honey to bereaved families—a little sweetness in a bitter time. 

As for concerns about swarming or stinging, Reading says they’ve been few. The Catacomb Bee Collective goes out of its way to maintain gentle bees. And these European honeybees are far more docile than many people think. Plus, honeybees are already around us all the time, she says—at least if we’re lucky.

Educating the public about bees is a key part of the collective’s mission. From spring through fall, the group hosts public “honeybee experiences” at Evergreen-Washelli. Visitors don white bee suits, open a hive alongside Reading or one of her colleagues, and taste honey fresh from the comb. They also lead team-building sessions and presentations for workplaces (Google was one recent participant). 

Two of the collective’s hives now live at elementary schools in Maple Leaf and Bellevue, where students can watch bees at work and learn how pollinators keep ecosystems—and lunchboxes—thriving. There’s another hive at a senior living community in Lacey, where residents sometimes gather in a circle of wheelchairs and walkers to greet beekeeper Colin Johnson’s arrival. 

Reading freely admits she was not a cemetery person before the project. Now, she says, tending to the bees in this necropolis has changed her thinking—and she’d love to expand into other cemeteries too. “Culturally, we don’t really interface with death nearly as often as we could, and as people around the world do,” she explains. “When I come here, it does feel like it’s enriched my understanding of life, my thinking about cycles and thinking about renewal. That’s something that’s been surprising—this space actually makes me feel really alive, really plugged into like what it means to be alive.”

Sholes agrees. “Initiatives like this shift perceptions of cemeteries from mere places of sorrow to ones of life, renewal, and community involvement,” he says. 

Visitors leave handwritten messages for the bees in a box inside the cemetery lobby—a modern take on the old “telling the bees” tradition.

Photo by Billy Sigil

Beekeeper Annie Reading, co-founder of the Catacomb Bee Collective, reads visitors’ messages to the bees as she tends the hives.

Photo by Billy Sigil

Even mourners benefit from the bees, and not just in the form of those jars of honey. The “Telling the Bees” cards fill up quickly with notes to lost loved ones. “We weren’t sure people would want to do it,” Reading says. “But people love it. It’s this outlet—like, ‘I’m holding these feelings, and I can share them with these bees.’”

For those curious about a taste of the honey (the bees made a definite surplus this year), keep an eye on Salmonberry Goods, a spring collaboration with the restaurant Off Alley, and the Catacomb collective’s Instagram for other initiatives, which might include a honey CSA.

That fall afternoon at the cemetery, a finger stuck into the honeycomb yielded honey that was rich and sweet with flavors far surpassing any of the store-bought stuff. While the finger in the comb left a scar, Reading assured me the bees would soon get to work refilling it. After all, they’re flourishing in their new home, and have plenty to spare. 

The post Hives Among the Headstones appeared first on Seattle magazine.

The Organic Farm School, on Whidbey Island, is a learning center. Established in 2009, the organization offers apprenticeships for beginning farmers, agricultural workshops, and community potlucks. What drew my family to the property was the Farm Stay experience, an opportunity to learn about where produce, eggs, and meat come from, be a part of the farm-to-table movement, and eat really good food. Though my five-year-old and three-year-old sons have been to many farmers markets around Seattle, there was still a missing link between seeing food displayed nicely on tables and plucking it straight from the ground.

Harvesting crops, from cauliflower to kale, is one activity that brings visitors closer to the land.

Photo by Kyle Houck / Embrace Whidbey and Camano Island

The cozy, yet modest accommodations at the aptly named Feed and Seed are a welcome respite from city life. With space for up to eight guests, the house let our small family of four enjoy the novelty of bunkbeds, a wraparound porch, and the smell of a woodstove fire. But we came for the food, not the digs, and the spread did not disappoint. Upon arrival, our fridge was already filled with ready-to-go dinner and breakfast, focused on seasonal ingredients picked from the farm. Squash gratin with gruyere cheese, salad greens with vinaigrette, and freshly baked cardamom biscuits anchored our dinner, while overnight oats and buttermilk pancakes topped with a berry compote filled our tummies at breakfast.

The Farm Stay experience caters to each guest’s desired learning experience. There are opportunities to feed animals, pet cows, visit a green house, check out beehives, and walk the garden grounds. Visitors are encouraged to learn about the farm’s mission, which is to support ecological, economic, and social regeneration. A highlight for me, brought to life by our wonderful tour guide and organization executive director, Judith Feldman, was the focus on not being overly idealistic. While the Organic Farm School strives to reduce tillage, use diverse crops instead of monocrops, and employ noninvasive weeding practices, they are the first to claim that they are not perfect.

Vegging out.

Photo by Kyle Houck / Embrace Whidbey and Camano Islands

While exploring, we had nearly two hours to observe and ask questions, and we never felt like we were being preached at. One of the refreshing conversations we had with Feldman was around buying fresh produce. It’s easy to assume that an organic farm would double down on the concept of only buying from the farmers market or solely selecting organic fruits and veggies. On the contrary, Feldman recognized how unrealistic that approach is for most people and gave us some tips for our next shopping trip. Buy what’s in season when possible; most grocery stores have very knowledgeable produce managers who can steer you in the direction of the freshest items. Create special occasions to make farm-to-table meals rather than expecting to eat that way all the time. Thank purveyors at farmers markets and pass on your appreciation for their goods. Many farmers feel underappreciated, and a little recognition can go a long way towards motivating them.

Friday night means a community potluck, with an emphasis on local, seasonal eats.

Photo by Kyle Houck / Embrace Whidbey and Camano Island

Every Friday evening during the summer, the Organic Farm School holds a potluck, where the community and visitors of Whidbey Island can come together around a wood-fired pizza oven and share a delicious meal. Guests have the opportunity to leave with a bundle of produce from the adjacent farm stand or pick some fresh herbs to go. What I loved most about our visit was seeing how comfortable my kids were roaming around. They kicked their shoes off and played in the dirt.  They learned about electric fences that keep predators out of the chicken coop, and what the heat of a greenhouse feels like. Yes, they have had the luxury of picking fresh vegetables from our modest raised garden bed at home, but plucking strawberries from a field of seemingly endless options was eye opening for them. “I never want to leave this farm,” our older son told my wife.

As a steward of the land, it felt like Sher’s gentle nature permeated the farm, making the earth a sanctuary of tranquility.

I also loved meeting Ron Sher, the property owner who has generously allowed the Organic Farm School to operate rent-free on 10 acres of his land for the past decade. In his eighties, Sher bikes around the farm constantly, picking weeds here and feeding animals there. The night before our farm tour, he took us to his sheep corral, something our kids delighted in (minus the experience of stepping in sheep poop). As a steward of the land, it felt like Sher’s gentle nature permeated the farm, making the earth a sanctuary of tranquility, rather than the dirty, smelly, machine-ridden plot of land that many of us think farms are these days.

Driving away from our weekend oasis, I couldn’t help but think about what it takes to be a farmer. There’s a lot of uncertainty, constant challenges, and unpredictability, especially given our ever-changing climate. It’s certainly not for me. But my appreciation for farming grew tenfold in just a matter of hours. While I can’t say I will only buy organic produce or join a Community Supported Agriculture buying program just yet, I can agree that eating directly from a farm is delicious, that getting to know the people who work there is mind-expanding, and that seeing the smiles on my kids’ faces when they bite into a perfectly fresh farm tomato is absolutely priceless.

The post Lessons from the Land appeared first on Seattle magazine.

The Old Farmer’s Almanac says this moon once helped farmers work late into the night, its steady light stretching harvest season before electricity existed. It also rises at nearly the same hour for a few evenings in a row, giving us that lingering golden twilight at the edge of fall.

In Seattle, the moon will rise around 6:18 p.m., with dusk settling in soon after sunset at 6:40 p.m. Look east as the sky darkens to see it at its biggest and warmest. The golden tint comes from Earth’s atmosphere scattering the light, the same way it does at sunset.

You really can’t mess up moon-watching. You don’t need to drive anywhere or hunt down a dark field. You don’t even need an app—just look up. If it’s low on the horizon, even better because rooftops and trees make it look huge. Take a slow walk around the block, or catch it from your driveway or deck. And if clouds roll in, don’t worry, it’ll still look just as pretty tomorrow night.

If you’re staying in, turn off the lights and leave the curtains open. You’ll get all the mood lighting you need right from your couch. The next full moon, the Beaver Moon, will rise on Nov. 5, followed by the Cold Moon on Dec. 4.

The post Harvest Moon Rising appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Over Labor Day weekend, my wife and I and our two young children canoed to Washington State Parks’ smallest marine park, Posey Island. I can’t believe we didn’t know this place existed until the week leading up to our trip! The island is just one acre; you can walk the perimeter in about five minutes. There are two reservable campsites with picnic tables and a day-use area, which several guided kayaking groups used during our stay.  

We were “trapped” on the island for two nights, but far from feeling stuck, we felt relaxed and in tune with our surroundings. We became friends with a seal we named Beeley, watched bald eagles flit about, and even witnessed an orca whale swimming just a hundred yards from our island sanctuary. 

Posey Island is part of the San Juan Islands, about a 30-minute paddle from Roche Harbor and a quick two-minute crossing from Pearl Island. Pearl Island is home to several residences, so our campsite didn’t feel far from civilization, making it a perfect safety net for first-time paddle campers. We used a canoe because that’s what we own, but most people use sea kayaks to get around the islands. The island only allows human-powered boats, so no motorboats clog up the space. 

Our one-acre home for the three-day weekend.

Photo courtesy of Washington State Parks Foundation

At first glance, there isn’t much to do on the island. But once we adjusted to the rhythms of the tides, and our senses slowed down, the magic of the island revealed itself. At low tide, we explored small tide pools full of hidden fish and scuttling hermit crabs. The kids entertained themselves by climbing trees, “fishing,” and tossing rocks into the water. We picked sea beans from the shore, which we later sautéed with butter—a salty side dish to remember our time by the sea. 

The San Juan Islands feel worlds away from Seattle, and Posey Island feels like another planet. Kristy and I took turns on short paddling excursions around the island, and I unsuccessfully attempted to catch fish with a fly-reel. We watched fishing trawlers, sightseeing boats, and luxury cruisers float by, and listened to the roar of seaplanes splashing down nearby. The only low point (besides the occasional tantrum from one of the kids) was hearing loud DJ music from Roche Harbor weddings that carried over the water at night.

Paddling to Posey Island opened our eyes to future camping ideas with the kids. Ross Lake in the North Cascades, Lake Wenatchee, Lake Chelan—check. The beauty of canoe or kayak camping is that you can easily bring a lot of gear and creature comforts without feeling weighed down. And there are many relatively short paddles to campsites that would be inaccessible on foot.

Our younger son, Luca, left Roche Harbor hesitantly on our first day, a little leery of being on the boat and nervous about a short open-water crossing. By day three, on our way back, he was in his element, “paddling” the canoe, laughing, and not ready to leave. After three days of rest and full immersion in nature, I wasn’t either. 

The post Paddle Camping on a One-Acre Island appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Right after sunset, we shuttled from downtown Friday Harbor to Jackson Beach, a long sandy shoreline covered in driftwood. Though our guide, Brandon, was a newcomer to guiding on San Juan, he’d spent many seasons working in adventure travel throughout the Pacific Northwest, leading whitewater rafting trips and working ski patrol. 

On the beach, we snapped photos with our traveling companions before putting our camera phones away, knowing the night-time conditions would foil any good picture-taking. We suited up in thick, heavy layers of protective gear and formed a small circle facing one another. With our paddles standing at rest next to us, Brandon provided us with instruction in basic paddling techniques while reminding us to be mindful of the explorer directly next to us to avoid bashing one another and causing “some’r teeth”—some teeth on the ground, some teeth broken in the mouth.

After a short orientation, we climbed into two-person kayaks and launched into the silent dark waters, our guide made visible only by a red blinking light attached to his safety vest. We paddled for what felt like twenty or thirty minutes, towards the shores of Dinner Island, a small private island inside Griffin Bay. Still new to paddling, there were moments when I felt like my kayak would never catch up to our guide. His red light receded into the distance and disappeared entirely at times, only to re-emerge again. We lagged behind the other boats, with Jethro, our second guide, following closely behind. By the time we arrived at our destination, I felt ready to shed my knitted hat and a few layers of clothing.

At Dinner Island, the group floated at rest in the cove. We had undertaken a long journey by sea, and my senses felt opened up by the accidental splash of saltwater on my face and the dull ache in my arms. It felt like the perfect moment for an educational talk. Brandon lectured the group on the natural history of the single-celled dinoflagellates that produce light when the waters around them are disturbed. As if on cue, Jethro plunged one end of his paddle into the water and dragged it away from him, the sea coming alive with tiny lights. 

I skimmed my fingertips along the surface to activate the tiny sparkling organisms, their liveliness evoking a scene out of Walt Disney’s Fantasia. The sea sparkles resembled both starlight and blinking fireflies, moving pinpricks of light with their own life and organic movement. But my private meditation was interrupted by a glowing jellyfish. Jethro had grabbed the creature with a bare hand and tossed it several feet into the air so that we could see the strange, glowing arc of its shapeless body moving through air and space.

As a first-time paddler, I’d felt anxious about making the journey and gone as far as renting a kayak on Lake Washington the weekend before to get the feel of paddling in my body. By the light of day, it had felt overwhelming—the pier I could crash into, the space between water and dry land. But here at night, it was too dark to see other paddlers and felt impossible to judge the distance between boat and beach. Resting in the magical beauty of all that I had set out to see, I sank into the repetition of breath and body that powered the way back to shore.

Bioluminescence kayak tours on San Juan Island can be booked through Outdoor Odysseys, Discovery Sea Kayaks, and Sea Quest. 

The post Kayaking the Bioluminescent Waters of San Juan Island appeared first on Seattle magazine.

I twist and pull, and out comes a light green shoot. Its roots hang like small tentacles caked in dirt. The cattail is smooth, about the size of a scallion, its trademark brown tuft has not yet formed. Later, I’ll fry up the cattail shoot in butter. It’s a little bit sweet, with a nice crunch, much like a leek. 

Foraged fiddleheads sautéed in butter and served with pine nuts, create a simple seasonal dish.

Photo courtesy of David Gladish

Spring is a great time to forage in the Seattle area, and you don’t have to go far to find nature’s tasty treats. At Boeing Creek Park, less than a mile from my house, you can harvest cattails and fiddlehead ferns. Further south, in Carkeek Park, my wife and kids (ages 5 and 3) and I feast on orange, red, and yellow salmonberries. We fold them into delicious muffins, sweet as the sun. In June, we pluck the delicate petals from rose hip blossoms, turning them into sugary lemonade.

Summer brings even more berries—red huckleberries, wild raspberries, thimbleberries, and blackberries. They show up in almost any woodsy park, sometimes hiding in dark, damp places. Other times they’re so prevalent (like blackberries), you can’t miss them. In August, our kids and their grandma bake blackberry tarts, purple juice squirting everywhere and staining their cheeks dark red like little vampires. 

Fall is mushroom season, trickier in nearby locales. Some mushrooms prefer old burn spots or dark, wet areas, but edible mushrooms can still be found in the city. Chicken of the Woods grows on dead trees, and oyster mushrooms cling to logs. Rose hips ripen to a dark red, perfect for syrup on pancakes, and if you’re lucky, you might still find huckleberries outside of the mountains. 

The beauty of foraging is its simplicity. You don’t need much to get the job done, and it feels like a small miracle to find real food in the city. My kids light up when we discover juicy morsels, though it’s hard to save any for home. Sometimes they don’t even like the taste—like when we steam nettles or sauté fiddleheads. But the act of foraging is what matters. It’s so tactile, hands-on, and always rewarding. 

Our go-to book is Pacific Harvest: A Northwest Coast Foraging Guide by Jennifer Hahn. It clearly lays out what to forage, when to pick, and how to use it, including recipes. Until we found this book, foraging seemed daunting, even dangerous. Now, our family goes around the city pointing out what’s edible and thinking up recipes. 

As the season progresses toward winter, it becomes trickier to forage. Hardy greens like chickweed can be used in salads, and acorns can be ground into flour. Perhaps you’ve stored or canned some delicacies for the colder months, or maybe it’s time to rest and prepare for spring. Either way, my kids are always up for an adventure, eager to uncover nature’s secrets—especially if they get to eat them.

The post Trail to Table appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Mount Adams is a 12,276-foot stratovolcano in the Cascade Range, the second-highest peak in Washington, with sprawling glaciers and a broad, sloping summit. After her roommate mentioned the climb, Emma fell into a TikTok rabbit hole of summit videos—watching people travel across the country to tackle the peak. It looked beautiful and challenging, and she’s just impulsive enough to say yes.

She expected sore legs and stunning views. She didn’t expect spiders in the snow or the mental push it would take to keep going. We sat down with Emma to chat about her experience taking on such a big climb and how she prepared for it.

So, Mount Adams—how did it go? What surprised you the most about the hike?

Mount Adams was amazing! It was truly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I was naive going into it. I knew it would be physically challenging, but I didn’t realize how much of a mental challenge it would be, too. The beauty was breathtaking. What really surprised me was the amount of spiders in the snow. We started the summit at 3 a.m., and man, it was spider nation! I also really enjoyed the entire experience of backpacking and camping. It was fun to try something new.

What was the hardest part of the climb?

The hardest part was definitely the false summit. I knew it would be difficult, but I wasn’t prepared for the rocky sections. Normally, the climb is all snow with well-defined footsteps to follow, but because of the warm weather and the fact that we went later in the season, that wasn’t the case.

We had to create our own route up the mountain. With so little snow, we ended up climbing through a lot of rock fields. That was the only time I wanted to stop. I slid down some rocks and was terrified. Not to be dramatic, but I went into survival mode after that. We followed the rocks to another snow-and-ice patch, and I just kept thinking: step, breathe, ice axe, repeat.

This was your first time camping overnight. What was it like being in a tent?

Sleeping in a tent was humbling. I enjoyed it but I have to admit—it’s hard finding your stuff in there!

As someone who’s not a regular mountain climber, how did you prepare for this? Do you have any go-to tips or tricks?

I’m a runner and go on 4-7 mile walks a few times a week. In preparation, I went on a few runs and even ran up and down the rowing stadium stairs at Green Lake. If I could go back, I’d train with a backpack or extra weight and do a few local hikes like Poo Poo Point or Mailbox Peak.

Climbing Pikers Peak, the south end of Mount Adams.

Photo courtesy of Emma Smith

Where did you source all the gear, and how did you know what to bring?

I rented my ice axe, crampons, and boots from REI in Seattle. It was super easy to get fitted after work and return them afterward. The process was quick and convenient, and the staff was incredibly helpful. My only note is that when I was there, I started to worry I might be unprepared—which isn’t far off.

What did you pack that you thought you’d need but didn’t? Or vice-versa—what do you wish you had brought?

I packed a pair of old ski gloves I didn’t end up needing. I used a lighter tech glove instead. I do wish I had packed a baseball cap—the sun is brutal, especially with the UV reflecting off the snow. I wore sunscreen but I was still nervous about burning. Overall, I packed very light and ended up using everything I brought.

Tell us about the day of the hike—how did it feel to finally be out there, and what were the “wow” moments?

Driving to the hike was such a fun start to the trip. We left Friday afternoon with plans to Summit on Sunday. We drove through Mount Rainier National Park, which was absolutely stunning. I didn’t realize just how far the drive would be, but I was glad I had my Kindle to pass the time.

Starting the South Climb to Lunch Counter on Saturday morning.

Photo courtesy of Emma Smith

We camped the night before and woke up at 6 a.m. to begin hiking. About two miles in, my friend told me we were halfway, which was nowhere close to the truth. Things got more challenging once we reached the first snowbank but I felt excited. Setting up camp that night on the mountain was a positive part of the experience—filtering water, preparing dinner, and settling in early since we planned to wake at 2 a.m. Luckily, I slept well.

That morning, the wind was brutal. There was a moment at the false summit where I almost gave up, but I’m so glad I kept going. At the top the view was unbelievable—we could see Mount St. Helens, Mount Rainier, and Mount Hood all at once. My “wow” moment came with the sun rising and the sky being different shades of pink, blue, and purple.

Glissading down the mountain was both thrilling and terrifying. Returning to camp, packing up quickly, and hiking out after a long day on my feet was exhausting.

What was the most surprising feeling you had during the hike?

I’m a little afraid of heights, so I got scared when I was slipping down the rocks. I was also surprised by how emotional I felt after summiting. I broke my ankle last year, so I was proud of myself for pushing my limits.

Emma (left) and her friend Reya at the 12,276-foot summit, the second-highest peak in Washington.

Photo courtesy of Emma Smith

Now that you’ve conquered Mount Adams, would you do a strenuous hike again? Any mountains on your radar?

Yes! I’d love to bring my skis next time and do it as a day hike so I can ski down. Mount Rainier is also on my list. We’re so lucky to have so many incredible outdoor adventures in Washington.

If someone’s thinking about tackling Mount Adams, what would you tell them?

Go with someone experienced. Safety is the most important thing. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable without experienced backpackers by my side.

The post Summiting Mount Adams appeared first on Seattle magazine.

A thoughtful place to spend a therapeutic few days is the Royal Lahaina Resort & Bungalows. A mainstay of the Kāʻanapali Beach scene since 1962, the property recently underwent a careful refresh. The result is a blend of mid-century style and island ease — bungalows with comfy lanais, native landscaping, and just enough polish to feel like a luxury escape without tipping into pretense. The beach is mere steps away. It doesn’t take long to adjust.

Easy breezy

Once you settle into island mode, it’s easy to find your rhythm. For brunch, lunch or pupus, travelers congregate at Lahaina Noon, the resort’s signature restaurant. Named for the rare solar event when the midday sun sits directly overhead and shadows disappear, it’s a clever nod to place: ancient, bright, and distinctly Hawaiian. From there, a stroll around the grounds feels natural. Even if it’s your first visit, something about the atmosphere clicks into place almost instantly. There is a tower as well, with panoramic views, but the bungalow layout feels more peaceful, more intimate.

Don’t miss The Branches, a shaded outdoor lounge tucked under a century-old, 64-foot ficus tree strung with lanterns. In the evening, it draws a mellow crowd of visitors and locals, with live music and cocktails. The hotel is committed to building community under the ancient boughs, with live music every night from 6pm to 9pm, and a roster that includes talented locals as well as Grammy-winner Kalani Pe’a.

The Branches offers cocktails and live music under a 64-foot ficus tree.

Photo courtesy of Royal Lahaina Resort & Bungalows

Serenity by the shore

Designed to be more than just a spa, the resort’s newest addition is a sanctuary of renewal. The Spa at Royal Lahaina is a thoughtful space rooted in the healing power of the ocean, offering guests a place to connect with the island’s spirit. The oceanfront serenity lanai, for example, is a nod to “Blue Mind Therapy,” celebrating the restorative sensory experience of being near the sea. The Pacific stretches out for miles to the horizon, an unblinking expanse of blue, holding its color while the sky above cycles through every shade of day. Treatments, from traditional lomi lomi massages to rejuvenating facials, are crafted to align with the warmth of aloha and the renewing energy of Maui.

Island time

When you’re ready for some excitement, Teralani Sailing Adventures runs private snorkel charters that depart near the resort. Captain Rod Nichols takes visiting seafarers to the artificial, accidental reef off Mala Wharf for some of the best snorkeling on the island — or anywhere. The reef formed from the remnants of a sunken pier and now teems with marine life. With a long swim shore, access by boat is much preferred, and the bright, colorful sea turtles and fish always provide thrills. The crew seems genuinely enthused to lead guests on the water, and if they’re in the mood, you may end up cruising along the shores of a nearby island, hearing tales of the old Club Lanai.

Slip into island time with an exciting snorkel off Mala Wharf.

Photo courtesy of Royal Lahaina Resort & Bungalows

In the evening, immerse yourself in local culture — as well as kalua pork and fire dancing — at the Myths of Maui Luau. The event, held on-site, is known as the longest-running luau on the island. The courtyard hosts a local makers market, giving the locals opportunities to show off their wares and sell directly to visitors. Even the hotel gift shop shows intentionality, with the first outpost of Mana Up on island, ensuring that gifts and goods are Maui-sourced and produced.

Regrowth and renewal

In response to the fires in Lahaina and Kula, the hotel has partnered with Treecovery Hawaii, a nonprofit focused on wildfire recovery and reforestation. The resort now hosts one of the group’s grow hubs — nurseries where native trees are nurtured until they’re ready to be replanted across the region. The partnership provides land, resources, and visibility, but more importantly, it offers something restorative — for the community and for guests.

According to Treecovery co-founder Duane Sparkman, who also serves as the resort’s chief engineer, the project speaks not only to sustainability but to belonging. Many of the resort’s employees were personally impacted by the fires. The hotel itself became a place of refuge and sanctuary for locals who needed basic shelter and food. Seeing trees grow, knowing they’ll return to the land, sends a quiet but powerful message about hope, rooted in action.

Guests can plant trees — the volunteers at Treecovery make it very accessible — or simply observe it in motion, a subtle yet moving reminder of how landscapes rejuvenate. The rest of the day might involve a cabana by the pool, a poke bowl, maybe little else but a long, serene prelude to sunset.

If you do feel like venturing out, Honu Oceanside — a beloved Lahaina institution now back in business — is a short drive away. Feast on freshly caught monchong with open-air seating and an oceanfront view that somehow still manages to surprise.

Why now

The conversation often circles back to recovery, but not in a way that overwhelms. The resort team is candid: yes, visitors help the economy. But what matters just as much is presence, kindness, and curiosity — qualities that will endure far longer than a receipt. It’s still natural to wonder whether it’s too soon. But on the ground in West Maui, the answer is clear: visitors are encouraged, not as spectators, but as travelers who love the place and want to see it thrive again.

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Over the Fourth of July weekend, my wife and two boys, ages five and three, set out for an urban outing that felt like a true adventure. The four of us canoed a short section of the Green River, from Van Doren’s Landing Park in Kent to Fort Dent Park in Tukwila. Equipped with a backpack full of snacks, sunscreen, and a sense of wonder, we weren’t entirely sure what was in store.

Our canoe trip was a micro adventure, a term popularized by 2012 National Geographic Adventurer of the Year, Alastair Humphreys. The beauty of these types of exploits with kids is that they can be just as exciting as more grandiose adventures. Paddling together down a river we’ve never been to — despite it being surrounded by shopping malls and shipping centers — felt somewhat extreme. We went through similar highs, lows, and unknowns as we have taking our kids on multiday backpacking trips, but this time we were only gone for a few hours.

Throughout the four-hour journey, we saw a plethora of wildlife: blue herons, bald eagles, ducks, and beaver dams. There was also a surprising number of abandoned shopping carts sticking out of the water, tarps that had blown from who knows where, and small tent encampments hidden under bridges. The scenery was both serene and gloomy at the same time.

The river water — which indeed looked green — was no longer something I’d want to swim in. The pollution was evident. Yet, it was easy to imagine a time when it had been pristine. If it hadn’t been for the occasional warehouse building sticking up along the banks, or the steady stream of bikers passing by on the Green River Trail, it would have felt like we were alone in a wild place.

One big surprise was a very short section of “rapids” we encountered — enough to freak our boys out a bit. Otherwise, the river chugged along at a leisurely speed, and we were able to slide the boat onto a sand bar for an occasional break to get our land legs back.

Anyone with a little paddling experience can go urban canoeing, kayaking, or floating on the multitude of rivers near Seattle. The Green River becomes the Duwamish, which flows into Elliot Bay. The Cedar River winds its way toward Renton, ending in Lake Washington. Further north, the Sammamish River spills out near downtown Kenmore. Exploring nearby rivers doesn’t cost a fortune, and solitude is easy to find among the craziness of city life.

As we neared the takeout point of the family jaunt, our kids were finally starting to settle in. Our little one had even fallen asleep at one point. While urban canoeing isn’t something that we’ll start doing every weekend, it’s nice knowing there are easy-to-access places in nature that take us outside of our comfort zone and give us the sense that we’re farther away than we really are.

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That’s the part my 14-year-old daughter remembers when she’s getting ready to go again this year. She puts off packing for the week-long overnight camp because she’s nervous. She tries not to be, because it’s her second year, and you’re not supposed to be nervous your second year. But she is. She remembers how hard it was last year, including the master classes and two performances, and she also remembers how much fun it was, and how she came home with a bunch of new friends who live in interesting places (this is a camp people travel for).

I remind her: You chose this place for a reason. In fifth grade, she picked a sleepaway horse camp where she didn’t know a single person, just to meet new people. She had a blast.

Now her younger sister, who’s 10 and a bit more anxious, is getting ready for her first sleepaway camp. It’s an outdoor Girl Scout camp where she knows exactly one person. She’s scared of bugs. And the dark. And that she won’t fall asleep. And that she will fall asleep and wake up in the middle of the night and not know what to do.

We’ve had so many talks. Mostly she asks questions I don’t have great answers for: What if my flashlight breaks? What if I don’t like the food? What if a spider climbs into my sleeping bag? What if I hate it? I try to walk the line between honesty and not being a complete bummer: Your flashlight might break. You might not like the food. There probably will be spiders. And also, it’ll be okay. You will have so much fun before and after anything not fun.

Which is what I want her to know — not that camp will be magical or unforgettable, but that she can handle things being weird and a little uncomfortable, or scary, and still come home feeling proud.

I keep thinking about the way we prepare kids for things. The way we try to make everything easier, cleaner, smoother than it really is. But there’s no shortcut for learning how to do hard things. Growth doesn’t happen by avoiding the fall-apart moments. It happens by going through them. I think the problem is that so much parenting revolves around the fear that our kids will cry, or breakdown, or freak out, and maybe getting to that place — we’ve all been there — is actually the point.

I’ve let my younger daughter know that getting picked up isn’t an option. I worry about how that sounds, but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea — that I don’t think she can handle it, or that I believe the crummy times will outweigh the new-found independence and friendships. She would feel my lack of confidence in her if I were to offer an early-exit plan. It’s rooted in love of course, but what it sounds like is: you probably won’t make it.

And really, that fear is usually ours, the parents. It’s hard to send them away. It’s unbearable to imagine her crying, alone in a sandy bunk bed or wandering across camp at night, covered in spiders and without a flashlight that works. But if we step in too quickly, we short-circuit the part where they prove to themselves they’re OK, and that being filled with all the feelings of a living human animal is thrilling, beautiful, and sometimes, really uncomfortable.

There’s a version of parenting where I say, “You’re going to love it!” and pack the duffel bag with cute notes and hope for the best. And there’s another version where I sit on the edge of the bed and say, “You’re probably going to cry at some point. That’s normal.” Both are useful, depending on the kid and the day.

And guess what? Midweek, we got an email from my daughter at piano camp (she’s allowed 10 minutes a day): “I did the master class yesterday which was highkey scary but I’m glad I took that leap. Everyone here is so nice I can’t stress that enough…I was planning on having an easy time here this year but I’m not complaining, it’s been really fun.”

She’s doing it! She’s playing her song in the concert. Learning a 10-page duet. Freaking out, sure, but doing it anyway. That’s how learning works. You don’t wait to feel ready. As for the Girl Scout camper, we’ll see. I’ll find out more at pickup this weekend. I can’t wait to hear all about it, and to tell her how proud I am.

I want them to go. I want them to leave the toothbrush on the cabin floor and get bug bites in weird places. I want them to perform at the piano camp concert whether they mess up or nail it. I want them to walk across the forest in the dark and realize the worst part is over — they’re already doing it.

They don’t have to love it, they just have to show up. That’s the whole thing. Just do the camp.

Seattle-area sleepaway camps for kids (and parents) who are ready:

Camp Killoqua (Stanwood) – Classic lake-and-campfires setup. Also offers horse, lifeguard training, culinary camp, and a grief camp.
Camp Orkila (Orcas Island) – YMCA camp with cabins, water, lots of boating, and big-group games.
The Mountaineers (Stevens Pass) – Rustic overnight camp for kids who love the mountains.

Not quite ready for sleepaway? Here are a few standout day camps:

School of Rock – Music-focused camps with live performances.
Woodland Park Zoo Camps – Outdoor day camps inside the zoo.
Seattle Children’s Theatre Camps – For the drama kids (in the best way).

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