John Wise

It’s November, and we’re in the thick of autumn on the Oregon coast. All these years we’ve been coming up here during this typically gray month, there has always been the potential for bad weather, but things have mostly been fairly calm and clear, though cold and windy at times. Last night, we had our first encounter with what could be called poor on the verge of bad weather. The trees roared and whipped in the wind with a near-constant accompaniment of the rain at our tent door. Just before 6:00, we call it quits after listening to a diesel engine idle for the better part of a half-hour. It also helps us get moving as the rain has stopped, allowing a race to the toilet house. Next, our new Jetboil is about to be christened here at the Humbug campground. Smart design from the folks who built this thing; before we knew it, our stove had boiled us enough water to make our quick oats with freeze-dried fruit, followed by a pot of coffee using the French press add-on. Broke down the tent, packed up our gear, and headed for the road. We were supposed to hike Humbug Mountain this morning, but the weather says it’s not such a great idea.

Perfect day for a slow meander down the coast, stopping at a dozen or so pullouts to see if the view is the “View of all views!” At Otter Point, we spot a trail that looks like it’s deserving of a hike in better weather. We got here off the Old Coast Road, a drive we hadn’t taken on our previous trips; this hopefully serves as a note to remind us to do so in the future.

At other stops, we linger to watch the wind whip spray off the cresting waves as pelicans weave between the incoming sets. It takes us three hours to reach Brookings, a mere 56 miles south of where we began. We head out to the bay in the south of town and up to another oceanfront view, where I’m lulled to sleep by the repetitive motion of a log being tossed back and forth. I nap. A half-hour later, it’s time for lunch. The Sporthaven Marina looks like an easy choice; it’s here, and there’s a public restroom next door. Their menu proclaims that they’ve been a two-year running 1st place winner for their clam chowder; sold. The soup hits the spot; it’s hot, salty, certainly yummy, and worth the stop. Time to turn around for the drive north.

One more stop is required before leaving: Fred Meyer for some snacks and Dutch Brothers for coffee; now we can go. It’s obvious we’re not going to find a break in the weather; the wind is persistent, and there’s not a hint of blue sky in any direction. That doesn’t mean we are not overjoyed to be where we are; the seething cauldron of an ocean has us mesmerized as we stare into its churn.

Let’s go check another pullout. Once found, we gaze for a long while at the birds riding the frenzy of wind accompanying this storm front. We sit in the dry comfort of our car as it rocks from side to side from the buffeting of the gusts, wondering how bad can this get. Not sure what the answer is, but the thought arises that maybe we should pitch the tent before it’s too windy or getting too dark.

We should be heading for Cape Blanco, but Port Orford beckons. The boat dock is always a draw; during foul weather, it is especially thrilling. Here, we sit on the edge of the ocean, not the beach, but what feels like the deep sea. Behind us are fishing boats on the dock and crab cages; in front of us is this scene here. Caroline and I could sit here for hours; maybe we did.

Up at Cape Blanco, there are no tent sites for people with cars. The cabins are sold out. Plan B takes us to Bullards State Park just up the road. We ask about a yurt as it has become obvious that we will suffer if we stay in our tent tonight. The camp host warns us against taking a yurt as they are expecting 90 mph winds overnight, which could spell flying tree limbs. Not wanting to be tomorrow’s news after having been warned we return to Bandon and check into the Shooting Star Motel for only $50. After dinner at Tony’s Crab Shack, we get back to our room, outside of which the carport awning is making painful sounds in the wind. After a half-hour of creaking and groaning, I move the car to the edge of the lot. Freight trains of wind are bearing down on us and colliding with that roof outside our door. This will be a hard night to sleep through.

We landed in Portland last night, grabbed a room, and slept through the anticipation of what awaited us in the morning. After breakfast at Kenny & Zukes Deli, it was time to worship at the shrine of books – Powell’s. Now, with a new book each and a box being sent home by the helpful folks at Powell’s, Caroline has another stop that has become a de rigueur mandate: visit a local yarn store. This one is called KnitPurl and is one of the few places to find Loft yarns – she chooses four skeins; I take three that suggest they’d make for a nice new cap. Another stop for some food and gear, and finally we are driving south, aiming for the Oregon coast. For 70 miles, we slog down the freeway, not our favorite thing to do on vacation, but an occasionally necessary evil. At exit 228, we are turning off in the direction of Newport – on the ocean. Four hours later we arrive in Port Orford.

On the Oregon coast, we find a gray and dreary day, but don’t confuse dreary with dreadful. These solemn, quiet days are a welcome respite from our sun-everyday existence in the desert. While muted tones make for less than perfectly dynamic travel photos, they give us a reason to snuggle into warm clothes and enjoy some solitude.

I’ve said it before and would hope it needn’t be said again, but I suppose I must: it seems a day doesn’t go by that the sun doesn’t part the sky to smile its kindly rays upon our happiness. We swoon in delight at the beauty and take inventory once more of our incredible luck.

Normally, we stop here to walk up the railroad tracks to a rock feature in the water that has appeared before on my blog, but today, the crossing itself is the center of attention. Oh, how I love these pleasant little surprises.

The view from Umpqua Lighthouse State Park overlooking the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. We’re still driving south and can’t help but pull over to take in some of our favorite views.

Not quite all the way from our perspective, but certainly a double rainbow.

Hoping that we’d arrived with plenty of time, we raced down to the fishing dock and found that the restaurant we wanted to eat at would be open until 8:00 pm. Great, back into the car and hurry the six miles we still need to travel in order to check into our campsite at Humbug Mountain. It’s dark, but it’s not raining! With our tent set up and sleeping bags tossed in, it’s once again time to jump back into the car, but this will be the last rushing around on this trip.

Here we are at Griffs On The Dock. For years, we’ve wanted to eat here but have never managed to arrive during business hours. It’s not that we know anything special about the place; it’s just a matter of being in love with the location and the building. Many a time Caroline and I have sat on this dock and watched the ocean churn with the most ferocious waves and hammering winds. We can sit in the car next to the stone wall, dry and cozy, armed with hot coffee,  and stare out at the sea forever and have done just that. Tonight, though, little is to be seen under the dark, overcast sky, and anyway, our stomachs are yearning to be fed.

Dinner starts with a bowl of steamers before moving on to the lingcod special. After yumming over that, we got yummier with a shared slice of marionberry pie served a la mode. As we are finishing, the last customer for the night comes in. Interested in what we might recommend, we suggest he try the special. Stating he’s a fisherman and is looking for something yummy, we offer our assurance that this is indeed a good choice. Turns out he was up from Los Angeles and hoping to get some serious fishing in before the worst of the anticipated storm set in. The talk continues with gusto as we learn he fishes out of Yakutat, Alaska – the same place we exited our summer rafting trip of the Alsek River. Small world.