Return to the Coast

"When it clears, it's really pretty," said Andy as the sun popped out. The metal roof of a barn sparkled and horses, draped in wet blankets, grazed contentedly along Route #20 as we headed back toward the coast. A lumber truck zipped past, sending splats of water from the puddles against our windshield. Deep green blanketed the hills of the coastal range with interspersed patterns of lighter ferns, yellow aspen and gold maple. A few puffy white clouds dotted the blue overhead. "We should just about get to Newport when the next rain wave comes in," said Andy.
"Poetic justice," I told him. "I just composed descriptions about the sunny day."

Cape Foulweather, named by Captain James Cook in 1778 when he couldn't even land, lived up to its name this morning. But sun broke through momentarily at Yaquina Bay Lighthouse, built in 1871. "I'd move in right now," Andy told the gift shop volunteer.

"You and a very long list of others, and you'd be at the bottom of the list," she answered. In the early 1870's, Yaquina Bay was a choice appointment for Charles and Sarah Peirce and their nine children, West Point friends of Ulysses S. Grant.

A young couple stood looking out to sea at Ona Beach, their fishing poles propped against a boulder. "I've lived here all my life, and I've never seen this before," said the young man. It was nearing high tide. The waves broke and washed into a tidal inlet, flooding the beach above the treeline. "We got caught by a big one just a few minutes ago." Just then a small black spot appeared in the surf. Just as quickly it bobbed out of sight. "That's a seal out fishing," said the man. "No use staying here. He's getting all the salmon that head for this inlet."

Waves and Pelts

"It comes in waves," said the ranger at Fort Vancouver National Historic Reserve. "I'm actually from Vermont, and this weather is nothing like the Vermont where I grew up."

Sheets of rain pelted on the window of the visitor center as we entered the theater for the film about the Hudson Bay Company, the hub of an extensive fur trading network that utilized a geographic range from Russian Alaska to Mexican California and from the Rocky Mountains to the Hawaiian Islands. The fort area, on the north bank of the Columbia River in Vancouver, Washington, was the region's first military post. Later it housed Pearson Airfield and still later Kaiser Shipyard.

When we stepped out after the half-hour movie, the sun glittered off the droplets on fence rails and rose petals in the English formal gardens. That hour reprieve gave us enough time to walk the grounds of old Fort Vancouver, built in 1824 to protect the growing fur trade and the settlers who pushed west in waves to seek land and fortune.

A volunteer blacksmith explained how the employees of HBC forged more than 10,000 beaver traps, the major product, and how the town adjoining the fort was a melting pot of 25 American Indian tribes, Irish, French Canadians, English, Americans and Hawaiians. A company town, each group had its own street, but life on this far western frontier was surprisingly cultured.

Then the heavy clouds rolled in, and rain pelted again. "Waves," I told Andy. "That's what the ranger said."

Later in the day we stopped at the Korean Veterans Memorial in Wilsonville, browsed in the stores of the Outlet Mall in Woodburn, and walked through the gardens at the Oregon Capitol Building in downtown Salem. All day waves of clouds rolled by, and alternately we dashed between downpours, regarded rainbows and strolled in the sun.

Cruising the Willamette

"I know lumber rules, but the clear cutting here makes me sick," I told Andy as we again drove past sections of forest that had been leveled.
"But those areas have been replanted," he pointed out.
"It still looks terrible, and it will be years before the trees grow back."
"Better here where they grow fast though," he argued. "I'm not for it either, but there are two sides. I read this morning that a judge ruled that the Oregon Forest Service is not managing the lumber companies correctly. Too much erosion is going into the streams, and it is affecting the salmon production. I guess they will be clamping down."
With four days of rain predicted for the coastline and dangerous winds expected tonight, we headed inland to Salem, with stops for short walks at Van Duzer Forest Wayside, Fort Yamhill State Park, a historic site area, and Baskett Slough.
"I think there is a ferry near here," commented Andy as we headed toward the city.
"Wheatland Ferry is on the map, and the sign said turn left toward Willamette River," I told him.
Sure enough. The car ferry carried nine vehicles at a time on an electrified cable across the river. I read the sign: passengers, free; bicycles, free; motorcycles, $1.00; cars $2.00. Larger vehicles cost more. "But that's not exactly the way we want to go," I said.
"That's okay," he responded, parking the car. "I'm taking you on a cruise. I spare no cost. Over and back, a romantic trip across the Willamette."

Caught on Film

"For a little state population-wise, Oregon does an amazing job with its parks and waysides," said Andy as we walked along Newport Beach just before dark. The tide was out and several couples walked dogs and played fetch with rubber balls and sticks.

Prepared for miserable weather, we decided not to travel too far from the spectacular ocean backdrop. But instead of rain this morning, we woke to blue skies and sunshine. So today was a time to retrace our travels, catch the morning rays and revisit the overlooks of yesterday from Neskowin Beach to the Devil's Punchbowl.

At North Fogarty Creek Andy skimmed the information board and headed toward the water. I stopped on the sand to snap photos. "The tide is going out," he called from the basalt island rock extension just offshore. The information board warned about sneak waves, driftwood logs, submerged rocks and rising tides.

I looked up. He stood half way up the rock outcropping, maybe 15 feet above the water, grinning and waving. I snapped another picture.

Just then a series of waves crashed behind the island, swelling high and sending spray every direction. Andy shrugged his shoulders. Picking his way down the rocks, he was ready to start back on the narrow isthmus between rock and beach. But now there was no isthmus.

"Take off your shoes," I yelled over the roar of the water.

He held up his hands and looked around for a way back. He was marooned on the island.

Cupping my hands, I called again, "Just take off your shoes!"

Instead, he waited through four or five waves. With each one the water filled in a little more. With the ebb after the fifth breaker, he dashed across the partially submerged sand bar.

"Low tide, huh?" I teased. His pants showed a high water mark around the ankles and his shoes squished and bubbled with each step.

"It was, I swear," he insisted. "In Tillamook this morning it was high because the whole bay was filled in. I should have just waited a little longer."

"Yeah, right," I said. "And I got a picture!"

Playing the Odds

Today we outran the rain.

"If weather reports are correct and the storm is moving in for at least five days, we are going to make the most of today," said Andy this morning. "The Oregon coast is spectacular, and we should try to get as many pictures in the sun as possible. I just hope it clears."

Our first stop was Astoria Column, a 125-foot decorated pillar built in 1926, that artistically marks the milestones in history. We paid our $1.00 parking fee and climbed the 164 steps to the top. In spite of a heavy cloud cover, sun rays broke through, and the world stretched beneath us.

"There's a patch of blue sky over there," Andy pointed out as we arrived at Fort Clatsop. Named for the local American Indians who inhabited the region in the early 1800's, the winter fortification of Lewis and Clark on the Netul River offered a glimpse into history. The 33 explorers arrived in dugout canoes, chose the site for availability of food, clothing and building materials and constructed a log fort guarded by a single cannon. For four months they endured the misery of constant rain. We studied the museum displays, visited the reconstructed fort and walked the trails; our blue sky mini-patch soon disappeared.

Thirty-mile per hour winds gusted at Cannon Beach as we checked out the volcanic sea stacks and traipsed back through the sand.

The Tillamook Cheese Factory and Blue Heron Cheese and Wine Shop offered samples for tasting, as well as tours. "Just a little shopping?" I begged. Most visitors ate ice cream and carried bags of goods.

"No, you cannot buy any gifts," ordered Andy. "How in the world will we fit them in the car?"
And so we headed for the shore and 50-miles of lighthouses, overlooks and short trails. One step ahead of the rain, we battled winds that increased to 50-miles per hour and watched the clouds billow in off the water. But it never rained, not until evening. The weather forecasters were right, and our pictures provide the evidence.

Coastal Meanderings

Leisurely, we wound our way along the Washington coast towards the Columbia River and Astoria, Oregon, following state routes #105 and #101. Vegetation changed from Douglas firs and aspen to scrub growth where the winds whipped the shoreline back to 100-foot blue spruce and 75-foot paper birch at Cape Disappointment. The shoreline changed as well, from huge expanses of sand beaches to steep jagged rock cliffs, punctuated by lighthouses.

At Bottle Beach, the asphalt walkway through marshland crawled with fuzzy striped caterpillars and banana slugs. Hundreds of birds migrated over the beach, but the shore itself was quiet in the early morning sun.

Short hikes to Lighthouse Point at West Haven State Park and to Grays Harbor Light Station provided panoramic views of the ocean. By 11:40 a.m., we walked in shirtsleeves in the bright October sunshine.

"We need to make the most of the sun today," said Andy, "since the rain is moving in Thursday for at least four days."

So all afternoon we explored the Cape Disappointment State Park, where Lewis and Clark camped before the winter of 1805. The area had been named in 1792 by Captain John Meares when he failed to find the source of the Columbia River. The 70-degree temperatures made being outside a pleasure. We walked the beaches and hiked the trails: North End Lighthouse, Beard's Hollow, Cape Disappointment Lighthouse, Waikiki Beach, North Jetty and McKenzie Head.

On November 18, 1805, William Clark climbed McKenzie Head with a small group of 11 men while the rest waited below. On top of the cliff he wrote, "The waves appear to break with tremendous force in every direction quite across." We too climbed a couple hundred feet up the steep trail to McKenzie Head late in the afternoon. Waves roared all around us. But history had left another label there. At the top were two gun turrets and the concrete ammunition storage bunker, remnants of World War II. History indelibly intertwined, and we were witnesses.

From Sea to Shining Sea

A raw morning fog settled over Lacey, Washington... 41 degrees. We watched the weather channel forecast for promises of clearing. "Even if it lifts today, when the front moves in for the weekend, we'll have nothing but rain from Thursday night on," said Andy. "We're not going to the Olympic Peninsula."

We headed west, past miles of forest. This is lumberjack land. Timber haulers, piggy backs loaded with Douglas fir logs, zoomed past us. "Do you think he was doing 50?" I asked Andy.

"Let's put it this way. If he had to slam on the brakes, Truckin' Maniac would be dead," Andy answered.
After a brief stop at the Quinault National Fish Hatchery, we meandered north along Route 101.

"We came through here in 1978, and the area was utter desolation," said Andy. "It was totally clear cut. At least the lumber companies have reseeded." A solid wall of young evergreens and undergrowth lined both sides of the road, so dense we couldn't see 15 feet in. "Let's spend the day around Lake Quinault," suggested Andy. "At least we can say we visited Olympic National Park." Pacific maritime climate. Moss dripped from the huge, old cedars, with the canopy of aspen underneath still green. Ferns in green and brown carpeted the floor.

By mid-afternoon we drove west again, this time as far as we could go to the Washington Pacific Ocean coast at 2:09 p.m. Cross country in five weeks... 36 days. I wonder if Lewis and Clark recorded the time, as well as the date, in December of 1805, when they arrived at the coast.
The sun dropped behind Damon Point at 6:20 p.m. We sat on driftwood logs and photographed the setting, our car parked on the sand nearby. Seagulls swooped overhead, calling to each other and daring the Dungeness crabs to venture forth. Miles of sand, dotted only with driftwood, broken sand dollars and clam shells, stretched as far as we could see. It was a perfect end to five weeks of travel from sea to shining sea.