Is this age rearing its ancient head? We slept for nearly 10 hours. Sure, we had fitful sleep the night before due to not being in our own bed, and yes, we’d driven 700 miles to get to our motel yesterday, but we dropped into bed by 9:15 last night, certain we didn’t need an alarm. Well, that was until the blackout shades let us sleep until 7:15. So it goes. We were on our way to Oregon in the rain, and from the looks of things, we’d be in the rain all day. Approaching the state border, we were anticipating taking a selfie of the welcome sign until we saw the “Stateline Cannabis” sign, letting us know that this was the first stop in Oregon where we could buy recreational weed. Good thing we were hungry for breakfast instead of edibles; otherwise, the rest of the day might have been spent right here in the car.
I thought we came to the coast to indulge our senses with the sea, sand, ocean breezes, and lots of coffee, but Caroline had other ideas, such as seducing her need to fondle yarn, eyeball wool, and capture notions. Welcome to our version of communing with the rampaging hordes on Black Friday. We are in Brookings, the southernmost town of coastal Oregon, and we are visiting what will likely be one of many yarn stores along the way. This particular shop is called By My Hand Fabric and Yarn Store.
The rain has stopped, but not the threat. In reading that last word, you should not infer negative connotations, as they are not intended. Our vacations on the Oregon coast on so many late November visits are with the full awareness that should a tempest howl at our presence; we are here to bask in its persistent ferocity. While others may associate sun and frolicking in the surf as de rigueur elements in order for fun to be pursued, we are content not only with that scenario but also with the melancholy gray and wet brought by a late fall transitioning to winter. Remember this view from Harris Beach State Park, as we’ll be back a week from today on our way south before starting our return to Phoenix.
The berries at Lone Ranch are gone with the passing of summer, just as the tourists are. We are out here alone on the hunt for all things still wrapped in beauty. Occasionally we find a small blackberry, but we are yet to find one at this time of year that doesn’t make us pucker at the sour it delivers.
Wildlife abounds for those willing to find it while out on the lonely path. Just right there on the side of the trail was an elusive banana slug who held fast and steady, trying to remain quiet so as not to draw our attention. It was almost successful until it poked one of its antennae out, scanning the world when the motion caught my peripheral vision, allowing me to hone in on its camouflaged spot among the grasses. Let this be a warning that rice-free banana slug sushi is not good eating, or so says my wife.
The mystery and misty beauty of trees bathed in the low fog below heavy skies is the equivalent in art value of works any of the Dutch masters offered as they looked at their European world so many hundreds of years ago. We are not necessarily connoisseurs (though I have been known to behold some of those qualities) as much as aware humans who enjoy the luxury of making relatively small sacrifices in order to put ourselves in places where the payoff can only be in enjoying every possible moment offered by nature and the passage of time.
Just as the intricacy of this developing pattern on a piece of driftwood has taken form and the surf has tossed it on the crashing waves before it landed at this location, we too are developing patterns of knowledge and experiences that life tosses on its waves of chaos. We then present to one another the self that draws the other in to find the qualities that might make it worthwhile to invest in appreciating what we’ve become. The alternative is to sink to the ocean floor in the dark abyss of being lost in the mud, of ceasing to exist.
Our progress up the road is being hampered by the need to take every left turn that leads us to the sea or at least as close as we will get. Cape Ferello viewpoint is our third stop of the morning, not counting the yarn store and breakfast at Mattie’s Pancake House. It’s been some years since we’ve visited the south coast of Oregon. On previous visits to the state, we’ve flown into Portland. From there we drive out along the Columbia River to Astoria before starting our trek south, rarely progressing much past Newport. Many of our earliest visits to Oregon started right down here, and so the return feels as though we are visiting an old friend.
Maybe Caroline and I are like moss, never really able to separate ourselves from the host. Our time on the Oregon Coast hand-in-hand is in some ways similar to this image. The moss does not care if it is sunny or rainy, windy or calm, seen or unseen. It is in a symbiotic relationship where existence and togetherness are realized perfectly in its natural setting. Our natural setting is when we are inside or outside exploring and finding our most human characteristics: a sense of wonder, love, and learning something new during these short lives we’ve been afforded.
Have we ever visited House Rock before? We may have pulled off the 101 and glanced at the overview in years past; maybe we even walked one side of the trail or the other. I might check my old blog entries, but we rarely have a strong enough signal out here to do so at the moment we are wondering. I suppose I should have kept a list of places we visited in Oregon, but never in our wildest dreams did we think we would be back again and again. So today ended up being like the first time, or maybe it was, in fact, the first time we stopped here. Faced with the decision to take the north or south trail, something about the southern path down through the forest drew me towards it.
While still out here at House Rock, the sun cuts through the clouds, giving us our first glimpse of blue sky, and even casts rays upon Caroline’s face. Basking in the sun, she suggests that one of these days, we should plan on hiking between the parks along the Oregon Coast Trail. This then might hopefully work as a reminder to her and myself, should we just so happen to read it prior to our next trip to Oregon.
Stopping at every turnoff is slowing our progress to a near crawl which is the perfect speed for snails to travel at. It’s already 1:00 pm, and we still have more than 100 miles to drive before arriving at our yurt at Carl G. Washburne State Park. With less than four hours of sunlight left, we tell ourselves that we should make a serious effort to get up the road, but then we’re confronted with the question of whether we’d ever walked along the beach here at Pistol River North before. We decided that we hadn’t and that we should take advantage of our break in the weather to enjoy the daylight and fair weather.
Our mission was to find a piece of seaweed long enough for Caroline to jump rope; we accomplished that task. Next up: finding wings to try the Icarus trick from one of the local cliff sides.
We try to forge our way ahead and drive north, but every beautiful horizon demands we pull over before clouds obscure the view and rain has us wishing we’d stay in the car where it is warm and dry. This is Sisters Rock and the reason why it is known as that was not made clear to us on this day.
This was our first chance on this trip to see the sun glistening on the surface of the ocean from high above the sea. The silver sparkle delights the two of us without fail. We have seen this countless other times, and each encounter with this sight elicits our oohs and aahs as though we were witnessing it for the very first time. We should never be in a state of mind where we take this for granted, especially when we consider that the majority of humanity will never see this for themselves, even once during their lives.
We have stood here at the dock at Port Orford many a time and, on one occasion even had the chance to feel that we were looking into the deep sea right from the dock. The ocean was wickedly angry with the wind howling mad that day. The view here has never looked the same way twice, or so says my memory. I wonder if people who live in the area ever notice how dynamic the shifting views are.
Not exactly hungry but that doesn’t matter because Griff’s On The Dock is open. Plenty of previous visits to the dock, and Griff’s was closed; better take advantage of this when we can. For years, we had to wonder if this joint was ever open as we could not time our visits to coincide with when those opening hours were actually happening. In any case, who doesn’t have room for a pot of steamed clams and a beer in the middle of a sunny afternoon along the sea?
Due to the timing of our visits, the fishing boats of Port Orford are typically out of the water and upon the dock for the season. Caroline is certain that we’ve seen Moxie down there at the end of the line of fishing vessels on every one of our previous visits. Knowing her memory, she’s probably right.
Welcome to yarn shop number two: The Wool Company in Bandon, Oregon. Caroline wasn’t just fondling the goods; she was taking those with her.
My Yarn Shop in Coos Bay has to be the most well-stocked yarn store on all the earth. From top to bottom and from front to back, this place has a little (sometimes a lot) of every yarn brand and type made in the past 20 years. Caroline saw yarns she’d read about but had no idea of where to get them anymore. It should be noted that this is the first time in Caroline’s lifetime that she’s visited three yarn stores in a single day. I suppose if you asked her, she’d tell you that this was the best Black Friday ever.
We made it to our yurt in the dark of night. After a quick drop-off of our stuff, we headed north another dozen miles to Yachats and the home of Luna Sea Fish House. This is our second visit since first learning of this establishment, and again, they didn’t fail to delight us with some great steamers, scallops, lingcod, and halibut. In all, we dined on a bit over a pound of fresh fish, and Caroline even had the chance to try mincemeat pie for the first time.
Back at the yurt, we were lulled to sleep in minutes as the patter of raindrops struck the canvas roof while the crashing ocean in the distance gave company to our dreams.
