The luxury of our Jetboil never ceases to amaze us; the best camping purchase we’ve made in years. Typically, we would break camp and head for a restaurant or have sandwiches or granola bars at the ready. Making oatmeal in the Jetboil is not only fast, but the hot food enjoyed in the camp where we stayed is perfect. Not only that, we are saving a ton of money from going to town. We also purchased the optional French Press that stows perfectly within the Jetboil, so we have coffee, too. (Now, if only this thing were self-cleaning…) Over breakfast, I’m still reading through Austin Kleon’s “Steal Like An Artist” and want it to last forever. It is a short book that will too soon be over; I wish I could give it to everyone I know.
The next hours are spent out at the ocean; we are easily lost in the magnificence of the coast and could stare at the patterns in the sand for the entire day.
The sky will never look much different than this right now, though the sun, on rare occasions, will punctuate their outlines and lend some minor drama to the show. We’re okay with this; it’s quiet, feeling isolated, and quite alone – we can deal with this.
Netarts Bay and the village of Netarts lay motionless on this autumn day. While it’s already noon, the golden light being filtered by the heavy overcast skies betrays the reality of what time it really is, with the illusion of sunrise just now creeping upon the landscape.
There’s a small community of folks living on Cape Meares, just four or five streets right up against the ocean. On the south side of “town” is the Cape Meares National Wildlife Refuge and on the north is the Bayocean Peninsula County Park. The beach here is one of the more remote on the coast, as we are a good distance from Tillamook and a short drive from the main road that most tourists seem not to consider going down. As such, there isn’t much parking here, just enough for about a dozen cars; there are three, including us, here today. A tip for you: keep your eye peeled for the Bayocean Dike Road on the bayside of Cape Meares; it takes you out to a more accommodating parking area with a trail that crosses from the Tillamook bayside to the ocean side where you can enjoy a few miles of beach nearly all to yourself.
We’re on our way into Tillamook, though the majority of the place is closed for the Thanksgiving holiday. Just north of town in Garibaldi are neighbors competing for the appetites of travelers offering bargain prices for their interpretation of the feast. We opted for the more expensive one, thinking it must be the homemade version, we weren’t disappointed. Kellie is the owner of Parkside Coffee House and had her family on hand to help serve up dinner, but it was her daughter Olivia who made our meal perfect. What she lacked in skill (she’s likely about 11 years old) she made up for with her cutey-pie attitude and a hint of shyness. Mom’s sister was there to look over shoulders just in case, and everything was delightful, from the turkey to the marionberry pie.
Kelli directed us to a nice pullout up the road overlooking Garibaldi Bay; we were certain we’d need a nap after that stuffing; instead, the view invigorated us, and after a short pause, we were again traveling north. Our next stop was here at Rockaway Beach.
Time for a long walk, the first long walk on the beach of the trip, and what a beauty it is. We walked south down toward Twin Rocks on this flat, wide beach made more so due to it being low tide. The wet sand mirrors the sky above, pushing for the horizon to disappear. It’s mid-afternoon, and the majority of people must be eating their Thanksgiving feasts about now. I say this because we are mostly alone out here. Soon, maybe within the hour, it will get busy on the beach, as this has been our experience during other Oregon coast holiday trips. After food and football, the throngs head to the beach rather than risk coronary attack as the weight of indulgence grips their hearts. Throngs, in my view, will be ten people.
There are riches to be found out here, not of monetary value, but of aesthetic value that holds immeasurable wealth. Sand dollars are nature’s way of telling you that you have been following her yellow brick road and that Oz is just around the corner. We keep walking that path.
No, this is not an interpretive piece of art depicting mountains in China or a bunch of hooded monks in procession; these are random patterns in the sand, and tomorrow they will be gone forever.
Thinking she’d found a soggy didgeridoo, Caroline tries getting the thing to play. Sorry, wife, kelp is not the indigenous instrument you thought, nor is a flute or even a blade of grass that whistles. What she should have done instead of blowing was suck so she could have enjoyed a nice belt of saltwater from her sea straw. We are now at Hug Point State Park where we decide to linger instead of trying to make Ecola State Park for the night. We are close to Nehalem Bay, where they have a yurt for us, so we took it. By the way, Hug Point is not named for a romantic notion; it took its name from the old stagecoach that ran up the coast and was forced to wait for low tide so it could “hug” the rocks to stay out of the ocean.
Not even 5:30 and it’s dark out, well it’s winter and we certainly knew what we were in for. The heater is on to warm our luxury tent. No TV, no internet, no phone, no texting, no laptop to distract us. Caroline pulls out her knitting, me the writing gear – a Moleskine and a pen. While I write about the day, Caroline is turning some bison wool our friends Rob Lazarotto and Jerry Roberts picked up for her as a gift while on vacation in Pennsylvania this summer into gloves. The bottle in front of her is a hard cider from Carlton Cyderworks in McMinnville, Oregon, called Carry Nation, used to “Slake Your Thirst!” As for me, I write about vacation costs, DNA, and evolution, striking back at humanity for neglecting its responsibility or a bunch of nothing really.