Accretions, Oregon Style – Day 4

View from the Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

It’s still a murky gray out over the Pacific at 6:30 as I strain to see if our cliffside is still standing high over the ocean. The fishing boat I’d seen on the far horizon to the north a half-hour before deciding to leave bed is now gone, replaced for attention by an invisible barking seal somewhere below us.

Five to eight waves are lining up as they take aim for the land, while in the distance, a silvery blue belt looks calm. Between it and us, there’s a dark patch that offers an ambiguity I can’t read. A shadowy ocean at least appears mysterious, while a perfectly black sea at night is downright terrifying, though it is fascinating to see the reflection of stars on its surface.

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

Sunrise is still 15 minutes away, just enough time for us to have made it to Tokatee Klootchman a quarter mile south of us, hoping for an easier trail down than the steep descent in front of our cabin, but in the shadowy light before dawn, it looks too precarious, and so we head further south to the uninspiredly (but maybe appropriately) named Ocean Beach.

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

I won’t consider this egret to be looking for breakfast because I want to see it searching for the same thing we are, a glimpse of the approaching morning and arrival of sunrise. Like us, it just stands there listening and watching, its head doesn’t dip towards the foamy water swirling around its legs as if it were looking for morsels; it observes. Maybe it enjoys the music of the sea as we do and wants nothing more than a quiet meditation in the surf before the formalities of the day summon it back to its routine.

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

Time passes slowly, and morning comes in as we let it. The choice is there; we could have just as easily opted to remain in our perch on the cliffside, but the waking world beckoned us so that we might be witnesses for others who’ve forgotten that these things happen with or without them present. Are we then emissaries for cold dark mornings found on distant shores where few care to venture other than us and birds?

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

There are things that can stand out like a sore thumb once you’ve seen them, but until that time, they remain hidden in plain view. On how many other visits to the Oregon coast have we passed such sights and not recognized what we were looking at? At first glance, I understood I was looking at either a tree trunk or a large branch, but what I failed to comprehend was that this chunk of wood was emerging from between solid rock and a rough conglomerate above it. This can really only mean one thing: the tree was knocked down and carried along in what was likely a landslide. For centuries, it lay buried in an oxygen-poor sarcophagus and is now returning to light due to the effects of erosion. Was this from another episode of earthquake activity in the Cascadia Subduction Zone?

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

Bird and visitor alike look upon this scene, both interpreting a sight almost incomprehensible, aside from the possibility of both finding it appealing. While I stood before this tranquil image, astonished by the colors transitioning over surfaces, any sense of the magnitude and mechanics of nature were kept at bay by my shallow ability to see, hear, and think outside the grip of senses holding this fluid reality together as something to behold. It is only after bearing witness to such things that we start sorting what it was that challenged us to understand the appeal of what ultimately is infinite to our puny minds.

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

In each cubic foot of sand, there are approximately 1 billion grains of those fine particles. In another post, I mentioned the 86 billion neurons in your head; try this thought experiment at home: measure off a space of 4 feet long by 4 feet wide and 5 feet high. The cubic dimensions of that space carved out of your living room would be 80 cubic feet. Now fill it with sand, and you’d have close to 86 billion grains of sand in that cube or the number of neurons packed into your head. What patterns would you make out in the depths of your collection, not in the sand but in those cells that populate your brain? I’d wager most would find a symphony of junk culture streamed into their experience that reflects nothing about who they really are. At least the sand actually represents the mountains, rivers, rocks, sea shells, and other bits and bobs of where it all came from across time.

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

Accretions, the Oxford dictionary describes them as such; the process of growth or increase, typically by the gradual accumulation of additional layers or matter. Our foundation, if we are lucky, is built upon love and care. For the less fortunate, they might be a hodgepodge of neglect, violence, and hunger. Even for those with good beginnings, it is not uncommon for the wheels to come off the cart of emotional security as anger, bullying, betrayal, and lies start to accumulate upon good intentions. Now layer in the superficial nature of a consumer society that convinces one and all that one becomes complete through consumption. So you pile on the designer clothes and celebrity-sponsored shoes, you buy the car and home just slightly above your pay grade, you diligently watch the series and seasons of dramas and sports so you own the right language to be popular among your peers, or maybe you become sidetracked by conspiracy, religious fanaticism, hate, and intolerance. For a while, the layers accumulate of hard pretense or of spongy swamp-like mud as you are drawn into someone else’s scheme, their alternative reality.

You never realized that the deeper foundation was no longer able to support a healthy outlook from the toxic topsoil poisoning the surface of who you thought you were. The flowers and happiness that you thought you were cultivating turned out to be sour bitterness that obscures your vision and leaves you feeling that you must plow under everyone else who fails to see the world as you do. Once I learned some 40 years ago that the computer phrase GIGO (garbage in, garbage out) had real-world consequences for not only data but for humans too, I began trying to shift what the accretions of John might look like.

Cellophane Tube Worm casings at Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

It was not easy to determine what these things are or what created them, but I finally learned that they are cellophane tube worm casings. Neither of us remembers ever seeing them before, and maybe for good reason: they typically live in the sand near the low tide line. My understanding was that negative tides weren’t due until Thanksgiving, but (and we’ll see more later in the day) maybe they arrived early. As for the molted shells of crabs, those seem to be unseasonably out of character, with females molting in spring and males during the summer, so why here, near the end of fall, did all these crab casings wash up along millions of worm filaments?

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

Maybe this is a tiny part of the earth’s brain. It holds the knowledge that what might appear permanent is potentially volatile and can reconfigure itself in the blink of an eye. With humans, on the other hand, the process of change can be glacially slow to the point of imperceptible. One big storm could hit this shore, and a wave could consume the evidence of this landslide, dragging all that is seen here into the sea. Those who never saw it with their own eyes will not understand the truth of what things looked like before their own arrival. In this sense, wave after wave of knowledge can crash into us humans, and yet we remain impervious to change and unable to understand the vast landscape before our arrival.

Ocean Beach in Florence, Oregon

Water runs back into the sea, humans too often run into self-constructed walls made of their own short-sightedness.

Big Creek Bridge in Florence, Oregon

Big Creek Bridge is as far south as we get before turning around, now satisfied we’ve felt the warming rays of the sun and functioning imaginations.

Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

Back to the Nest for breakfast of unintended scrambled eggs, potatoes, and bacon. We ended up needing to render the bacon fat so we’d have some oil to cook the hashbrowns we’d picked up at the market in Yachats last night after dinner, but as soon as those potatoes hit the grease, it disappeared, leaving nothing for the eggs. With some quick thinking, I chopped the bacon and scrambled the eggs so I could toss it all together and hope for the best. The coffee percolated, and before we knew it, we were serving up a perfect breakfast, at least the part that wasn’t holding past to the frying pan that I’d be scrubbing for days. At least we didn’t have to go to town, and we had the best view ever.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Incredibly, the weather is looking quite favorable this morning, so we’ve decided to gamble that it will hold long enough to take a walk down at Carl G. Washburne State Park and the old familiar China Creek Loop Trail. The sound of the surf across the way is everpresent while the trickle of China Creek lets us know it’s just below us in the ravine. The faint sounds of birds are near, but almost always they remain unseen. That held true while we were still on the Valley Trail but as we reached the small bridge where the loop trail turns off, there were a bunch of chickadees fluttering about. There will be no crossing the obviously broken crossing as the damage is too severe, plus the park service has blocked the passage with a notice posted that the trail is closed. But this is a loop trail, so we made it a bit further on over the Valley Trail and while the China Creek Loop was taped off, that was easy enough to bypass.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

There’s a different kind of tranquility out here, knowing we are alone. On other occasions, people walking through can be loud, boisterous, and simply rude in our estimation. In the exceptional quiet we’re experiencing, we can hear more birds, smell more forest, and see more plants.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Similar to looking at a familiar place through a rearview mirror and seeing it differently, walking the loop trail in reverse changes our perspective. And then there’s the recognition that we’ll be taking all of this in twice since we must return from whence we came.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Trail upkeep has taken a hit because why clean the trail when it’s closed? It’s fascinating how quickly the forest encroaches upon the trail, starting to erase our presence.

Squirrel at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

This was the first squirrel we spotted today, but it wouldn’t be the only one. Before one sees the squirrel in the rainforest, one hears the squirrel. Hearing the squirrel, though, is only one tiny part of the enjoyment as its tail appeared to be part of the apparatus that helped it offer a louder chirp because, with each new chirp, that tail behind it was hard at work pumping back and forth in time with its commanding voice.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Have I ever known that this is beard lichen? Maybe I thought it was moss, but whatever it is, I do know that it adds to the lushness of the environment and helps exemplify the still atmosphere that glows in the radiant light of day wherever the sun spills into the forest.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

We walk with soft steps, not wanting to disturb the majestic awe that inhabits this place. Everything feels delicate requiring that we travel without disturbing the forest that only shows its true tenderness when we arrive with the kind of respect that desires to be here in a symbiotic coexistence.

Mushroom at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

While I was down here on the ground, lying on the damp earth, looking to capture a moment from this mushroom, I could only see the fungi of my photographic desire. I had to breathe lightly lest I move the camera or disturb the fragility of the scene. What I hadn’t seen was the mushroom to the left just breaking out of the earth. What I cannot see no matter how close I dream of looking at this tiny world, is when the spore started becoming mycelium before its branches give rise to mushrooms or the microscopic addition of new cells in the branching mosses that are everywhere.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Why can’t we humans find a way to live in such harmony with our environment as the elements of sun, soil, plants, and creatures do? How is this so wild for our senses that we must denude it and then plant grass over the top of it in order to bring uniformity, sterility, and ultimately a sense of death to the places we inhabit?

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

This visit to the China Creek Loop Trail has probably seen us more unprepared than any previous visit, for had we known just how deserted the forest would be, we would have been well advised to bring a blanket in order to lie here and take it all in for hours undisturbed by anything besides our own biological needs.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

White Worm Coral Mushroom is not to be confused with Ken Russell’s film Lair of the White Worm.

Caroline Wise and John Wise at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Two old friends find solemnity in a wonderful forest of grace and enchantment.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

I know this curve and believe we are approaching the broken bridge. We’ll soon have to turn around for the indulgence of experiencing the trail a second time in just one day.

Mushroom at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

The pallor of corpse skin draped over this mushroom screams poisonous, but the eye of curiosity says stop and take a memory home with you.

Mushroom at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

What you don’t know about these posts, especially one where there are more than 60 photos, is that I often struggle to write something fresh in the narrative, as it is my task to write at least a little something about each image I post. At this point, I’ve already written 15,000 words that are published in the previous days’ posts and in today’s post so far, while in my handwritten notes, I’d guess there are nearly 7,000 more words waiting to be transcribed. If I follow my pattern, this 11-day post will end up being approximately 35,000 words long. It’s easy to have doubts if I’m using my efforts to the best of the time I have available and if I share anything new at all, but then Caroline reminds me how I never tire of these photos featuring many of the themes we’ve seen countless times before. So, like photography, where I shoot 5,000 images to hopefully have 400 at the end of a trip that I’m in love with, I’ll just keep writing these verbal snapshots, and if from 35,000 words, I might pen I have 2,500 that are tremendous to me, then I’ve won, and this ends up being deeply meaningful.

Mushroom at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

At times, it seems that the mushroom cap is effectively the face of these fungi, at least as far as wild mushrooms are concerned.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

I’m well aware of what it means to be sentient, and I hope I remain rational enough not to want to imbue the inanimate with such qualities, but when it comes to trees, plants, and the earth’s creatures, there’s always this creeping sense that I cannot be fully certain that there isn’t something there at a level of os sentience I cannot fathom. Sure, it might just be the idea that I’m projecting myself into the position of thinking, “If I were this tree sitting in the forest, I’d….”

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

As our species has understood so little during our time on this planet, I can’t help but wonder how much more there is yet to know as we try to portray our knowledge as being full of absolutes.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Everything that has preceded our arrival on earth was obviously instrumental in laying the foundation that would usher in humans, and yet each of those key pieces is at risk of extinction, in large part due to the heavy hand we wield without discretion when we feel we need something that improves our brief existence. While I cannot tell you what the exact utility is of a carpet of moss in a coastal rainforest environment, I do know that I find it aesthetically wonderful, and my senses would be crushed if one day I were to arrive for a return visit and this had all been clear cut or burned off the face of our planet. Come to think about it that is exactly what we are doing in countless places.

Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

I understand the need to use lands to cultivate the products or mine the elements we need to sustain us, but we are not treating our planet as we would our home. If this were your toddler’s favorite place to play in your backyard, you’d want to forbid an entity from coming in to scrape all of these fragile details out of existence in order to make a company already worth billions an extra milkshake under the guise that even those poor souls in faraway land “XYZ” should have the opportunity to taste a milkshake too. Maybe we shouldn’t all have a milkshake at the exact moment we want it, and instead of giving in to instant gratification, we should help people understand that if we remove all that is beautiful because Joey doesn’t have a McMansion-size playground in his backyard, we’ll soon have none of the original things earth offered us that started the lessons of what was essential and beautiful.

Squirrel at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

Mr. Squirrel would likely agree with me.

Squirrel at Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park in Florence, Oregon

The bridge we would typically cross at the start of the China Creek Loop Trail turns out to have been impassable going on a year now, and it shows. We’ve never seen squirrels in this forest, nor could we hear as many birds, so the implication is that without us humans, wildlife is returning to the area. Regarding our observation that there were no newts out here at the ranger station, we learned that this was due to the dry weather, which would also explain the relative dearth of mushrooms in comparison to previous visits.

View from the Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

For the astute with a keen sense of spatial awareness, they will notice that we are obviously no longer in the rainforest. As a matter of fact, we have returned to the Shags Nest for some reason or other. As we left Washburne, the idea was that we’d visit the Devil’s Churn and then continue up the road to Luna Sea restaurant for lunch.

Flower at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

Those plans were fungible with other plans as no matter the direction, we’d still be at the ocean doing things we love, and so instead of a left turn heading north, we went to the right to pay a quick return visit to Tokatee Klootchman should the light of day make the short descent any easier.

Tokatee Klootchman State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

Our idea here at Tokatee Klootchman, oh how I love that name, was to negotiate the steep trail down and find a way to scramble over the rocks to get over on our side of the beach below Ocean Haven and try our luck at ascending the cliffside access trail back up to the Shags Nest followed by walking down the street back to where we left the car or with my fear then conquered, we could just return the way we came. Nope, couldn’t find a way over the rocky outcropping with the Tokatee Creek running right through it.

Tokatee Klootchman State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

Might as well see what’s here.

Anemone at Tokatee Klootchman State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

Oh, it’s a forest of anemones in an aquarium-like setting, except it’s the ocean.

Anemone at Tokatee Klootchman State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

Sure, there are more anemones here, but the center of my focus is on the chiton, a.k.a. gumboot, a.k.a. Loricate, which, for some reason, has me thinking about the Lorax from Dr. Seuss.

Anemone at Tokatee Klootchman State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

I could simply write that we’d seen an abundance of anemones on our walk through the rocky shore but when a picture speaks a thousand words, this sentence just got a lot longer with the inclusion of yet another image of an anemone.

Chiton at Tokatee Klootchman State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

One of 940 different recognized types of chitons, how many will you hold in your lifetime?

Stonefield Beach North in Florence, Oregon

Leaving Tokatee, we were now ready for lunch, right up until we saw the sign for Ten Mile Creek and thought, we should make a quick stop here as we’d never visited this place before. With it right next to the ocean, we’ll only be a minute. Well, we were there less than a minute as we didn’t feel like crossing the creek and getting around to the right looked to be a hassle, so we went back to the car and off to Luna Sea for some fish. That was until we saw that Ten Mile Creek’s sign marker specifies this as location 85 while Tokatee Klootchman was number 87, so where is location 86?

Note to Caroline for future reference: we wouldn’t have needed to scramble down the rocks and cross the creek, there’s a small trail sliced through the trees that take visitors to what is the north side of Stonefield Beach.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

About 50 feet south is the small driveway to a parking area for maybe half a dozen cars serving location 86, known as Stonefield Beach.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

There were more than a few people down here, with most everyone congregating near Ten Mile Creek. Feeling they knew something, we joined them, and sure enough, the reflections in the shallow water on the beach were beautiful. While it was obvious that we were here at low tide, we didn’t fully understand just how low it was.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

So we continued to walk along the shore, admiring the glistening water as we strolled to the south with no urgency to reach anything in particular.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

To the best of our recollection, we’ve never visited Stonefield Beach before, so our expectations are zero, and we simply take our time to enjoy our first encounter.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

These wide, flat expanses, or somewhat textured as this one is, are certainly on our list of favorites because when they are wet and reflective, we love seeing the sky mirrored in the surface below.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

Keep changing your perspective; what you gaze upon becomes another essential part of how you’ll interpret reality, but if you only see things for how you think they are at first glance, you’ll miss the nuances that might alter your certainty that you’ve seen and understood all there is to be known.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

If I’m being redundant, it’s only because I want to bring everything home with us.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

So here we are, approaching what might be a good turnaround point to head back to the car as it appears that the sun will soon disappear behind a thick cloud bank, dashing hopes for a spectacular sunset, but who cares? We’ve already had a tremendous day with unexpected great weather. But we’re close to the rocks that failed to attract anyone else’s attention, and Caroline wants to investigate.

Sea stars at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

Whoa, the tide is so low that the entirety of life in the ocean is being exposed, all of it! Why oh why were those people near the creek, and nobody was down here? This is like the beginning of an entirely new day of experience.

Barnacles at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

A negative tide has exposed a huge swath of ocean floor, and we’re down in the middle of it. Astonishing is a weak description of what we are ogling; nothing in our previous experiences of low tides comes close.

Anemone at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

I’m going to make my life here easier, and instead of trying to find something profound to share about anemones, these two are husband and wife, and after having moved here back in the early 1950s, they are now in retirement, having spawned thousands of little anemones over the past 77 years. Now, in their sunset years, they just kick back, swaying in the waves, happy to have lived such wonderful lives on the Oregon shore where the waters were always cold, and people stepping on them were kept to a minimum.

Caroline Wise at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

There’s no way of knowing how many gazillions of bivalves, anemones, barnacles, and sea stars we are seeing. Maybe we could have counted the sea stars, but we’d have ultimately been drowned by the return of the ocean to take back what belongs to it; this does not include my wife.

Sea stars at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

When we see sea stars, they are typically firmly attached to something, just like this giant orange star holding fast to the rock and mussels that are temporarily hanging out above the world they normally live in, that being the ocean. Returning to subjects captured in my photos time and again, I need to stretch in finding something worthwhile to say about what I feel compelled to share and so it is with this beautiful specimen. A simple search for interesting facts about sea stars taught me that not only can sea stars reproduce sexually, but they can also reproduce asexually. While a sea star can regenerate a lost limb (this I knew), that broken-off wayward limb, if detached close to the body, will have all of the essential organs to regenerate an entirely new sea star thus, the species is able to reproduce itself.

Anemone at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

Just when I think I’ve taken too many photos of anemones, there’s that one photo that spurs me into asking questions about the anatomy of this sea creature, and it’s there that I learn that the main part of the body is called the column, but that’s not exactly what I was curious about. We’ve seen this before: the column appears to be covered with debris. This would make sense when the anemone is out of the ocean during low tide, and I’m left thinking that the receding waters distributed the shells and small stones on its body and will simply rinse away when the tide returns.

This anemone is in the water, and it was while looking at this that I finally realized that it was not the first time I had seen this kind of patterning. Sure enough, this type of anemone has sticky tubercles (a small rounded projection or protuberance) that it uses for intentionally attaching shells, sand, and other small debris. Reading the article I linked to also informed me that this anemone has fighting tentacles (usually retracted), but the truly mind-blowing lesson for the day is that in the phylum of cnidarian, there are two forms, polyps and medusae, with anemones being of the polyp type, and jellyfish belonging to the medusae type. The fact that jellies and anemones both belong to the same phylum isn’t a big deal as my knowledge of biology is nearly nil, but when the author pointed out that jellyfish are essentially untethered upside-down anemones, well, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Hmm, imagine that eyes popping out of our skulls was the way humans reproduced.

Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

Do you see the sadness out on the horizon? That’s the face of nature wearing a wistful expression that this human who should have been able to do better has reached what is likely the final quarter of its life and only now finds the awareness that it took the creatures living near the seashore for granted. The backward idea that it was all just stuff that, while beautiful, was simply the things that were there.

Anemone at Stonefield Beach in Florence, Oregon

Then it strikes me: these anemones are essentially like the majority of people around me; they arrive in different colors, shapes, and ages, but for the most part, they lack intentionality, and so, while pleasant to look at, they are easy to take for granted. Their flourishes might be attractive and their forms seductive, but at the end of the day, they are attached to routines that allow them to exist, but they rarely affect outcomes. Among us humans, there’s a tiny fraction that attempts to harness deliberate consciousness to action, believing they can loosen the binds that tie them to doing things the way they were always done. Lucky us that anemones, jellyfish, and sea stars haven’t evolved intention. Then again, unlucky us that the same holds true for so many around us.

Devils Churn at Cape Perpetua in Yachats, Oregon

Finally made it to the Devil’s Churn, but as you can see in the waning light, the churn is calm, so we didn’t finish the walk down and instead opted to finally fetch a very late lunch / early dinner back at Ona Restaurant for our second visit. Yes, last night’s meal was extraordinary enough that we are returning for a repeat performance. Tonight’s menu must be mentioned as a reminder to Caroline and me to come back to Yachats and eat at Ona once again if we are so fortunate. Our first course was smoked local maitake mushroom pâté followed by clams in vermouth and then another beet salad, as we enjoyed the one last night so enthusiastically. For the main dish, Caroline opted for miso ramen while I took on the stuffed sole. What perfect punctuation for an exquisite day.

Knowns and Unknowns in Oregon- Day 3

Coquille River at Bullards Beach State Park in Bandon, Oregon

It’s the quiet serenity at the break of dawn, and the externalities of being human are kept at bay. Stand at the edge of a river looking toward the sun behind a thin shroud of clouds while the forest across the way obscures that there’s a bigger world beyond the trees and try to consider that the majority of the humans that came before us only knew themselves as another element in nature, not the megalomaniacs who’ve convinced themselves through self-ordination that a god gave them dominion over a planet.

Coquille River Lighthouse at Bullards Beach State Park in Bandon, Oregon

The light of being should emanate from within like the beacon of a lighthouse. Instead, we’ve foisted the dollar, organized religion, cult-like politics, and celebrities to act as our guiding lights. We get our compass and our evolving intellect from our parents; there is no need for corporate interests to use the media to bombard us with their capitalistic agendas, but that’s how we now exist. Rarely is the message that one should take a sabbatical to reconnect with the real, the meaningful, and truly profound. With the conclusion of this trip, Caroline and I will have been away from home and work for just shy of 80 days this year, and if we had another 30 days, we’d have no problems filling those moments with more grand experiences.

Caroline Wise at Bullards Beach State Park in Bandon, Oregon

Love of life, one another, and our rare moments in time connecting to the larger world found in raw nature are the greatest things we take from life. I’m a broken old record by now, considering how often I’ve repeated my message to focus your loyalties away from things outside of your control that have been placed upon your shoulders by external forces who require your servitude to their concerns, but then again, this beach was all ours, no one else was here to disturb our experience. There we were, just two of us out of 8 billion others. Maybe I should change my tune and thank all of those people nestled cozily at home making toaster waffles, waiting for Uber Eats to deliver their coffee as they check social media, e-mail, TV, or some other important aspect of their lives in expensive homes so Caroline and I can go about exploring our world in the beautiful solitude of perfect days.

Coquille River Lighthouse at Bullards Beach State Park in Bandon, Oregon

Right out there in the cosmos, in the vast wonderment of a universe of exceedingly infinite potentiality, the light of curiosity illuminates a way forward that seems to insist that happiness is found in learning about what you didn’t know yesterday. Seeing the unfamiliar and touching the rare alights the being of our humanity and fuels the desire to explore more of what we didn’t understand in the moments prior. Of course, the seed of yearning is not equally distributed, and through neglect, it’s easy to kill the chance of it ever moving beyond the nascent sprouting stage. If only continuing nourishment had been offered, the child might have taken a path that would have taken them farther.

Jetty at Coquille River Bullards Beach State Park in Bandon, Oregon

There are many paths that lead nowhere, and in the age in which we live, these are the destinations that best serve those who’d love more out of life. While I find it selfish that the haves would rather offer false destinies and aspirations to the masses, I reluctantly have to concede a hint of genius to this blunt method of oppression as I, for one, love the civility found in the serenity of a place that’s not been cluttered with the grotesque stupidity of crass, unrefined people, their boisterous obnoxiousness and displays of their gaudy self-image.

Bandon Marsh National Wildlife Refuge in Bandon, Oregon

There are beautiful things, and there are ugly things, and while we would prefer to remain immersed in the aesthetically wonderful, it’s inevitable that we’ll be encountering the ugly, typically in the form of people.

The beach, river, surf, jetty, lighthouse, and marsh do not have a political affiliation. Those places and things aren’t afraid or angry about perceived injustices and conspiracies. Our last visit to Oregon was in November 2020, it was our Remote Isolation Vacation, and as such, we had very few encounters with others, certainly not indoors. We know full well that Oregon is largely a conservative state, regardless of how people want to portray Portland. This is a state, after all, with a charter that featured a black exclusionary clause, and while those pockets of liberalism exist, the rural enclaves can be quite oppressive.

This contrast between the pleasing and the vulgar shows up every once in a while. It’s Sunday, so more people go out for breakfast, and the other nearby restaurants seem to have fallen victim to the pandemic, “if you want to call it that,” pipes up the man in the “Let’s Go Brandon” cap sitting next to us at the counter. As I said, our visit in 2020 might have had us encountering 3 or 4 people, and all of them were outdoors and keeping their distance, while the year before, in 2019, the right’s God/King was still sitting upon his Orange Throne, and all was perfect in the universe. I’d like to say, “Enough of this distraction that should remain but a tiny part of our time on the coast!” is but one more thing.

In trying to understand more about the local history and mentality, Caroline is reading about the racist past of Oregon and came across that point in time when Oregon ratified the 14th amendment, you remember, the one that reads, “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.” But then, a couple of years later, they rescinded it when they decided that black people were not entitled to citizenship. Sure, they eventually fixed this act of poor discretion, but NOT until 1973! Oregon’s history with its Chinese population might be worse, but before we go down that rabbit hole, it is time to stop the history lesson.

That old saying that one bad apple spoils the barrel might hold true as the stupid man with an off-the-cuff comment and his abhorrent hat had us reevaluating our perception of a state where we most typically find ourselves inspired while looking outward toward the sea, up to the mountains, through the forest, or within our feelings of love.

Tayberry Jam at Misty Meadows in Bandon, Oregon

Speaking of fruit, while we had to do some minor backtracking this morning, Caroline required a visit to Misty Meadows south of Bandon as this might be the best chance for her to collect a sweet gift for a friend of hers in Germany. Oh nice, banana slug and tsunami zone stickers for my computer and Tayberry jam for Caroline, friends, and family.

On the Coquille River in Bandon, Oregon

For one reason or another, on the return north, we stopped in Old Town Bandon. Maybe we wanted to take stock of what the pandemic shuttered, or was the bathroom calling, oh, how that candy store? After evaluating the shops and restaurants, we made our way toward the dock and public restroom before walking along the southern shore of the Coquille River. Come to think of it, we were in the car and leaving when, nearly simultaneously, our eyes caught sight of a sign that read Cranberry Sweets & More. The combination of cranberry and sweets demanded we turn around and make a visit; we didn’t leave empty-handed. And what’s more, we also made a stop at Face Rock Creamery for a sweet ice cream treat on our way out of town.

Gorse at Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

We weren’t even 5 miles out of town when a sign pointing to Whiskey Run caught our attention. good thing it did, as it brought us to this gorse fantasy. While not everyone’s favorite scourge of a plant, there’s no denying that this oily cousin of the pea plant is a sight to behold.

Gorse at Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

Lovely pea-like flowers are said to have the scent of coconut, but I wouldn’t know. [Coconut and peaches, in my opinion – Caroline]

Gorse at Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

One must first get past some of the worst thorns known in the plant kingdom to gather a sniff at the flowers, and one would be a terrible fool to become entangled in this otherwise beautiful bush.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

This is Whiskey Run Beach and yet another place we have failed to visit previously. I’d like to be cheeky and blame it on the idea that to get down to this beach, we have to drive between two golf courses, but that would just be me trolling the reader that my disdain for golfers is that great; close but not that bad.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

To the south, there are some vehicles and seeing that we’re on foot, we’ll walk the other way where not a car is to be seen.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

Our long walk north pays off as we’re here at low tide. Not that we’ll be seeing a lot of sealife this afternoon, but we’re not so difficult to scoff at a dearth of sights; we can appreciate even the littlest of things.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

I shouldn’t imply there’s a payoff due to seeing sea life when any and every moment out here together while we are just walking along inventorying the shore and counting the number of visible droplets from splashing waves sends us into matrimonial bliss.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

When the inventory is finished, and all the droplets that can be counted have been accounted for, Caroline breaks out the calculator and graph paper and starts to plot how much water volume is in the clouds as sampled from a 22.5-degree angle of the ocean’s horizon to a point 22.5 degrees above sea level. In this particular game of “Guess the Volume,” she ventured a bet that there would be about half a cubic kilometer of clouds in our sample cube if they were collected in a single cloud. This would equate to about 250,000 kilos of water or the same as measured by liters. For you Imperialists, that would be about 66,000 gallons of water lofted into the sky in front of us.

Caroline Wise at Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

When not performing beach geometry, Caroline can be found collecting clumps of mussels.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

Meanwhile, I busy myself over here trying to find patterns in the rocks that would imply an ancient civilization had once lived here, leaving these foundations of their dwellings and rock carvings that tell the story of their alien overlords that planted them here over a million years ago.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

Clearly, I’m suffering from sun poisoning and not in my right mind. That’s not true, but I have to make something up as we walk along in a mindless trance of wonder.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

I’ve lost just too much time trying to discover why erosion is working on these rocks in just this way. It’s nearly maddening how difficult the search is with Google Images absolutely failing while Bing Images at least identifies that they are from Whiskey Run Beach, but what the rock is and how these cavities were formed is a mystery.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

What’s not a mystery is that these rocks are tilted nearly perfectly at 90 degrees from where they used to sit, meaning they fell clean over. This has me thinking about earthquakes and that 1,200 years ago, movement of the Cascadia Subduction Zone dropped some of the coastlines just north of here at Sunset Bay and deposited a large part of the forest into the ocean, thus creating a “Ghost Forest.” What, a ghost forest? Now that I understand this, I want to visit Sunset Bay again and Neskowin where there’s another ghost forest. So, regarding these titled rocks, I could see that they might have fallen over during that cataclysm over a thousand years ago. I can only wonder when we might be able to witness another event of such great magnitude.

Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

Worms, sand-peckers, crabs, birds following worm track? I’m at a loss; let’s hope sleuthy Caroline finds a bead on just what creates these patterns in the sand. [Nothing so far – Caroline]

Jellyfish at Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

This is either a baby jellyfish or it’s an adult with the shortest tentacles of all jellyfish.

Sand Dollar at Whiskey Run Beach in Bandon, Oregon

If there is a saying that reads, “Money on the floor brings money in the door,” then I wonder if there is good luck to be found in “Sand dollar on the beach – beautiful experience within reach.”

Seven Devils Road south of Charleston, Oregon

A John-and-Caroline road trip may not be complete without at least some dirt road as part of the route. Today’s off-road adventure brought us down old Seven Devils Road to avoid a road we’ve driven before. Just before getting back on pavement to return to Highway 101 via Charleston, I had to pull over to capture at least one image of our trek down dirt. There were far more impressive narrow parts of the road with hairpin turns and just enough room for one car, but those are not the places I’m inclined to stop, get out of the car, and snap an image or two when I have no idea if Joey Badass in his big truck is cruising along, figuring that this little-used road will likely be empty, especially as he enters a blind turn.

McCullough Memorial Bridge in North Bend, Oregon

Before anyone goes telling me that I’ve posted the McCullough Memorial Bridge in North Bend half a dozen other times, so what? I’ve also posted everything else you are seeing on this blog at least one other time, too.

McCullough Memorial Bridge in North Bend, Oregon

But have I posted an image of the bridge from this exact spot while crossing?

Tahkenitch Lake Boat Ramp in Gardiner, Oregon

Tahkenitch Lake is such a beautiful place, but I’ve yet to find a place to stay nearby, as in on the lake shore. There’s a campground, but it literally sits just a few feet away from Highway 101. Maybe kayaking across the lake to a remote campground could be a thing so I turn to the internet to find such places, but instead learn the following from Wikipedia, “Brazilian waterweed limits the lake’s usefulness. The weed, which has formed a dense mat over most of the lake bottom, hampers swimming, boating, and fishing. Introduced to the lake in the 1930s, it has resisted all attempts to control it.

Tahkenitch Lake Boat Ramp in Gardiner, Oregon

It turns out that Brazilian waterweed flowers could necessitate a visit outside of the time of year we typically visit, but would we really be willing to sacrifice tranquility for the potential crowds of summer if that is when flowers bloom?

North of Big Creek Bridge in Florence, Oregon

We’re about to reach where we need to be on the map, not necessarily at an optimal place to witness sunset but where our lodging is for this evening.

North of Big Creek Bridge in Florence, Oregon

Another mile or two, and we’re there, though you may not know it. We pulled onto the property, and as this wasn’t our first visit, I had to step over to the grassy rise in front of the main house to take yet another sunset photo should this one prove to be the best I captured today.

Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

We are now set up in the Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon. No yurts for the next four nights as we luxuriate in grand opulence and extravagance as though there were levels of the incredible above the lofty yurt experience.

Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

If ever there were a good reason to bring the tripod, it would be right here to take HDR (high dynamic range) photos of this setup so I could get the light balanced between the interior and exterior. Then again, I’m taking these images for our memories first and foremost, and for that purpose, these suffice.

View from the Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

Does this look suspiciously similar to the photo just above the interior Shags Nest images? Well maybe, but this was taken from our private deck that allows us to own this view for the duration of our stay.

Caroline Wise at Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

It’s two years later, and once again, we try heading down to the beach on the narrow cliffside switchback of a path only to get exactly to where I was stymied on my previous attempt back then, the exposure is too much as the idea of splattering on the rocks below remains an unappealing potentiality even if my better senses try to reassure me that it’s highly unlikely. Maybe this is the “one thing left undone” that is meant to bring us back to Ocean Haven for a third stay in the Shags Nest?

View from the Shags Nest at Ocean Haven in Yachats, Oregon

From my original notes from that evening: Here I am at the end of the day with little left to say; if there’s nothing, it’s likely because so much has been said before. Oregon and its coast have made deep impressions and might be the subject of more of my writing than all other places. This exercise begins while at dinner at Ona Restaurant in Yachats, but like all inopportune moments of trying to slip some thoughts into a notebook, I should get my attention over to the process of dinner and paying attention to our server and the woman sitting across from me, namely Caroline.

Back at the edge of the sea, for more than a few nights, in fact, though the exact number is unimportant, just that there’s more to come of our time at the Shags Nest. It’s completely dark outside and a cool 47 degrees (8 Celsius), and maybe not a lot warmer inside the nest right now as the windows are open to let the sound, fresh air, and sense of the sea drift into our tiny cabin that feels like it has more windows than walls. We’ll not close the windows nor will we turn on the heat; we’ll not draw the curtains as we try to maintain our relationship as close as possible to these moments at the edge.

Highway 101 is nearby behind us but cannot compete with the constant roar of the crashing waves. From time to time, we hear the compression and heavy collapse of a wave that sounds larger than those that preceded it. Out in the darkness, the tide is shifting with high water approaching us. The thought creeps in that without being able to see the churning ocean; it could soon be lapping at the cliffside, the same one we’ll be trying to sleep in front of.

Not content writing here under this convenience of electrical light; the time approaches when I must grab a flashlight and go out to our deck to confirm that I can still see nothing while still hearing so much. Fog is coming up, and the surf is significantly louder outside. Standing here, I’m no longer certain how much land extends out in front of our cabin as everything disappears into the dark. As my eyes adjust, I can make out the whites of the cresting waves that look extraordinarily large and maybe bigger than I want to imagine. This has the effect of having me listen closer with my feet. Do I feel earth vibrations through my shoes that might suggest we could go surfing tonight?

A mere 10 minutes after I returned to the warm light of our room, I’m nagged by my curiosity, which tells me to investigate if conditions out there have changed. I know full well that this ocean has been pounding the shore on this section of the coast for many a year and that the dark sky has descended over the land for more years than any of us alive today have lived. Still, I need to know, is anything different? Can I find something of awe just by seeing for myself that the world remains as I suspect it is, or is it ready to deliver the unfathomable?

Nothing has changed, although there were a few stars poking through the overcast sky and fog. Light pollution from the north and south can be seen in the distance, triggering the thought that I may never see a truly dark Pacific Coast. Back inside, it’s cold in here, even with my wool base layer, a shirt, and my fleece on. The inner whine of wanting comfort, i.e., instant gratification, says, “Close the windows and turn on the heat,” but I cannot have ears for that as the constant song of the ocean demands that we sleep to its serenade.

All and Nothing in Oregon – Day 2

Rockway Beach Trail at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

The encroaching morning began to overwhelm the incredible cozy factor that wrapped us in blissful sleep in our yurt. With the awareness that sunrise might be rare over these days, we peel out of our toasty zone to venture into the beauty zone.

Rockway Beach Trail at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

We have made it outside before the sun pokes over the horizon not only due to the science of how morning light spilling into sleeping spaces typically wakes people but also due to the biological process that alerts you that you’ve held your water long enough. On our short walk to the loo facilities, we saw what we couldn’t during our arrival in the evening and what we had conveniently forgotten in order that novelty would once again play its hand: we are mere steps away from the ocean.

Rockway Beach Trail at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

How we missed this Rockaway Beach Trail on one of the many previous visits to Harris Beach State Park might be described as a mystery, but when the eyes dart about faster than the sense that searches for luxury, we find ourselves at the place of instant gratification. I’ll explain how that works as we approach the end of this walk. From the cliffside, the trail led us to this narrow path sliced between rocks that would have otherwise been difficult to access. Thank you to the mole people who carved this narrow passage that enchanted us with an opportunity to slither through.

Rockway Beach Trail at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

Before reaching the point where we practiced our snake routine, we nearly fell into regret at the lack of foresight to bring the binoculars or zoom lens with us just as some river otters went scampering across the beach before disappearing into the rocks we were about to walk over. We were just too far away for a worthy photo, so instead of finding regret, we recognized how amazing everything can be when our will is able to propel us out of routines, even when sacrifices have to be made to experience the extraordinary or things turn out less perfect than planned.

Rockway Beach Trail at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

And so we walk forward instead of rushing back for what was forgotten as the evolving light of the early morning will not wait on us. With sunlight starting to be captured by the waves, molten splashes of daytime fireworks jump above the rocks they crash into, and we are reassured that our decision was sound. With the rising mist glowing in golden-orange light peaking around the corner of a particularly large rock, I gawk in awe, wondering how far this sight can extend into the realm of magnificence.

Yurt at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

Ah yes, our tiny castle by the sea with every bit of splendor the Wises look for when going coastal. While we lack television, wifi, room service, a toilet, shower, microwave, sheets, blankets, running water, and a breakfast buffet, our yurt features a sense of opulence found when the two of us walk through that door, and the place takes on inexplicable qualities that likely can only occur when those passing the threshold are truly in love. Yep, that must be it.

Matties Pancake House in Brookings, Oregon

Now full of romance and sunshine, it was time to fill up equally on breakfast. Our meal at Mattie’s Pancake House might have turned out ordinary if it weren’t for the second Sun of the day rising over our table in the form of Peggy. She’s a waitress in the classical sense, where people with such jobs used to understand something more about customer service and engagement. One is not fully served by Peggy if one refuses to acknowledge the rarity of being offered time to engage in banter. In exchange for the playful back and forth, we were offered a tip on a small, infrequently visited beach just up the road and a look at this vintage postcard of Mattie’s Pancake House that recently came into their possession.

Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

Here we are at Mill Beach in Bandon, Oregon, with gratitude being sent Peggy’s way for the tip. This is also where my notes for the day took a break until the final glimmer of light danced over the sands and sea during sunset many hours from now. What follows are the musings of memories, impressions, desires, and the necessity of fingers representing a mind to record things that will allow Caroline and me to revisit this place in our days ahead and possibly inspire someone else to follow in our footsteps or craft their own journey that takes them to previously unknown places.

Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

Hmm…a new configuration of rocks, water, and sky. This can only mean one thing: we must up our vigilance to ensure nothing gets by our keenly tuned senses that are looking for what’s out of place and especially for what’s in its rightful place.

Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

Splashy water, check.

Caroline Wise at Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

Smiling hagfish on the beach, check.

Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

Alrighty then, this beach has my seal of approval. Yep, I went there.

Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

We stand on the seashore under the warmth of a sun that sits 93 million miles away while our planet zips around that sun at 67,000 miles per hour and don’t forget that our entire solar system is racing around the galactic center at 490,000 miles per hour which equates to 136 miles per second or 219 kilometers per hour. What this means is that we are hauling ass even when standing still and contemplating what sets this scene apart from one seen yesterday. Looking these numbers up, I come to realize that if we spent only 15 minutes at this beach, we’d have moved 122,500 miles through space, which is the same as circumnavigating Earth almost five times. I swear I’m not stoned (high) as I write this stuff, but as one thing leads to another, over the course of a lifetime, we’ll have traveled 340 billion miles through the vastness of space or for a way to better understand such big numbers, you make 1,823 roundtrip journeys between the sun and your home. I wanted to share how many roundtrips this would equal if it were to the moon, which would be 1,423,189 times, but then that number starts getting difficult to comprehend while 13.6 million trips around our own planet wouldn’t even allow one to see anything other than a blur.

If you got this far, my point is that even if we stand still, we are in motion, but then again, we are not unless we’ve engaged our senses to the changing world that hurtles forward in much the same way we are passing through time and when it comes down to it, 29,000 days in a lifetime is an ever so brief moment to be out here standing still before the ocean wondering why we’re so fortunate to contemplate abstractions.

Caroline Wise at Mill Beach in Brookings, Oregon

Meanwhile, crazy hagfish lady performs an ancient Teutonic dance from her childhood to bring on the wind in order to fly her kite. Little does she care that just above our sky, the solar winds are blowing by at 1 million miles per hour; she should try flying her kite there.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

So John, what big thoughts do you have on fern-lined paths through the forest? The mind swirls around fantasies of nymphs, imps, pixies, and gnomes, and no, I’ve not eaten a mushroom along the way. Regarding our location, we’ve left Mill Beach and traveled about a dozen miles north to hike the Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

Is this really just the second day out here in Oregon? Oh yeah, time is dilating due to our awareness that we’ve already traveled 12.7 million miles around our galaxy. For those who travel far, we are presented with riches of experience that have no rival; for proof, just consider this moment in time that was captured by Caroline and me on our walk down this trail. We were the only ones out here, as evidenced by the lack of other cars in the parking lot, while the play of light and color with this exact configuration of elements will have only ever been witnessed by us. Why is that? Because we traveled far and invested in our potential for experience in order to gain just such moments of wonder. In a sense, this becomes the religious journey in much the same way others travel into the Bible, the Koran, the Rig Veda, or the Tripitaka, searching for moments that show them the truth. We find the visceral affirmation of life standing at the precipice of nature where the hand of man remains invisible.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

Who doesn’t love shield lichen? Whoa, the rabbit hole that opens should you search for info about edible lichen offers things such as the tasty fact that the partially digested lichen eaten by caribou and harvested from their rumen is called stomach icecream while on a tastier side of things, lichen is used in various masalas of India and is said to impart an umami flavor to foods cooked with it.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

I’ll wager you are smacking your lips together right about now, wondering what kind of culinary achievement you might whip up with a couple of tablespoons of these lichens.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

Often, when I’m writing of these days after we’ve returned from vacation, I’ll listen to something in order to block the sound of the coffee shop I’ve taken up in and to set a mood that feels congruent with where I was mentally while walking in the environment. As I looked at this photo, I was wondering if there was a song that fit the sense I was feeling from it and that maybe it could kickstart this return to my narrative. I’m caught between two songs: the first is from Röyksopp, titled Lights Out, and the other is from Beach House, titled Space Song. Even before writing this, I also made consideration of songs from Rüfüs Du Sol, Odesza, and Ólafur Arnalds’ track So Far + So Close, meaning it’s taking a while to get these words going, but the music is nice. Needless to say, the trail was far better than any song, hence the difficulties in finding one that really hit the mark in my attempt to trigger a flow of descriptive words. If nothing else, I put a reminder here in a post that will refresh my memory about what I was listening to in late 2022.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

I don’t believe I thought of this before, but in some ways, these photos are like the pop songs we were listening to on the days we were out on vacation. One-day wonder hits such as The Trees with On The Arch Rock Trail or DJ Peggy’s remix of Mill Beach, followed by Wet Feet performing I’ll Fly My Kite.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

Somewhere nearby is the Kabouter, a mushroom sprite, just out of sight, maybe in the shadows, or is he hiding under the cap? Calling a Kabouter is futile as they appear when the magic of the moment suits them, and in any case, one should be careful around mushrooms as the treacherous Giftzwerg could be close at hand.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

I may well be mistaken, but I’m going to guess this is Spruce Island. I know that we are close, and I know that there’s an official overlook, but we’re not at that signed overlook, and the other images I might compare to on search engines show me Arch Rock, so who knows?

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

This is the end of the trail for us as we just about reached Secret Beach. There was a hint of trail that continued down to the beach level, but my fear of exposure to precariously steep slivers of earth held me back. There was also the matter of needing to cross Miller Creek down there that I allowed to give me pause, and while we stood here well satisfied with our third walk of the day, now that I’m writing this, I do wish we’d gone all the way down to the beach to see the view from that perspective. On the bright side of regret, everything about this beautiful trail would invite us to a return visit, and what’s more, we have a solid reason to come back.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

And this is the other part of the namesake that identifies this trail, Arch Rock. With so many years traveling this coast, I’m astonished that we could find three new places to visit today that we’d never been to in any of our previous adventures here on the western edge of Oregon. I can only wonder how many hidden gems still exist outside of our view that we are yet to experience if we are so lucky in the years to come to visit yet again. I can share with you that just writing that is an invitation to drop what I’m doing and start scouring maps and travel blogs to find what we’ve missed while dreaming of coming back next November.

Arch Rock to Secret Beach Trail in Brookings, Oregon

There’s really nothing in this photo that hasn’t already been shown in the previous few images, but the shift of where we are on the trail has it looking brand new to us. That or we are reluctant to let go of such a delightful stroll and are trying to bring it all back with us.

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

The reassuring shark tooth/fin of Meyers Creek Beach. One of my all-time favorite images of this place was shot back in 2006 on a gray, blustery day; click here to take a look. Maybe I should explain why it’s reassuring. Down south in California at Garrapata State Park in Big Sur, we’ve watched the beach change in incredible ways where large disappearing rocks are somehow buried in shifting sands or they’ve been broken up and taken into deeper waters. Yet the shark tooth here in Oregon has become a homing beacon for us over the years. But John, aren’t you contradicting one of your basic tenets, and that is that you love change? Anyone who really knows me knows that I’m capable of contradicting almost everything I tell others I believe; such is the fluidity of being able to change my mind.

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

Lest we forget, this is the northern view of Meyers Creek Beach with Highway 101 on the right, so should you find yourself driving down the Oregon coast, you too will have the chance to view this favorite stop of ours, even if you should decide not to scramble over the boulders to reach the beach.

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

But you should make that scramble as the reflections down here seriously worthwhile.

And according to Caroline, the water is fine, maybe not for a swim but certainly for a late fall walk in the surf.

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

While I was ready to go, Caroline insisted that we at least make our way over to the back of the shark fin/tooth, and wouldn’t you know it that her intuition (I meant insatiable appetite to see it all) proved right as I nabbed yet another image I feel worthy of sharing. By the way, Caroline is standing on the left, and if you look closely, you can see her and better understand the scale of this giant rock. After I snapped this great silhouette with the sun just peeking up over the corner, Caroline was flailing her arms about crazily, and she didn’t even have her kite in her hands. She was probably hollering something, too, but who can hear anything over crashing waves?

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

As I approached she was pointing to the sea stars, anemones, and countless mussels and barnacles – score! You’d think my wife had found the leprechaun with a pot of gold due to her wild enthusiasm. I have no idea how many thousands of sea stars this woman has seen, and each time we encounter them in their natural habitat, her inner six-year-old is spirited back into existence as she lets her exuberance flow.

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

Maybe you think she’s any less excited by barnacles? You don’t know her. From the patterns, gradations of color, textures, and sharp edges, along with the clicking sounds they make as they move around in their shells, Caroline is right there studying these crustaceans, looking for a detail she might have overlooked on one of the other 412 encounters with these tidal dwellers. Come to think about it, and for the sake of honesty, I might have also been describing myself.

Meyers Creek Beach in Gold Beach, Oregon

Okay, okay, Caroline, I’m almost done taking my 50 photos of these fascinating barnacles that are just begging to have their images shared on my blog; well, that’s how I am interpreting the clicking sounds.

South of Port Orford, Oregon looking out over the Pacific Ocean

The elevation change should be the first giveaway that we’ve left the tide pool and are continuing our trek; northward we go as tonight’s lodging is to be found up a ways.

South of Port Orford, Oregon looking out over the Pacific Ocean

These two images are similar, but the first one is not a crop of the wider view; they are a reminder to not just give a glance and move on but always try to see more. While the closeup is great in its warm golden glow, intimating the approach of sunset, the wider view lets you see the sun dog.

Port Orford, Oregon

Sure, we were just at Port Orford yesterday, but that was then, and this is now. Something could be different out here today, and sure enough, it is. A couple of fishing boats entered the bay/port area to be removed from the sea, and for maybe the first time, we’d be on hand to see with our own eyes a fishing boat being pulled from the water as there are no berths here.

Port Orford, Oregon

The dozen or so fishing boats that dry dock here have been seen by us for years, and each time we’ve been here, it seems we learn something new. In addition to seeing the crane at work, we now know that Griffs at the Dock restaurant is no more, likely another victim of the COVID-19 plague.

Port Orford, Oregon

If we are quick, we might be able to make Bandon for this evening’s final remnants of sunset, so off we go.

Bandon Beach at sunset in Bandon, Oregon

No disappointment here as the glow of our nearby star wouldn’t disappear so fast that we’d not be able to offer some oohs and ahhs in appreciation of the spectacular sights that were still on offer.

Light often reacts differently depending on how you choose to perceive it. One minute, it’s warm, but from a second away, it turns cool; light moves as we move and is seen through the filter of our perception and maybe of our expectations to some small degree.

Caroline Wise at Face Rock at Bandon Beach in Bandon, Oregon

Obviously, or possibly not so obviously, we made it to Bandon and the famous Face Rock and did so just as the sun was about to slip below the horizon.

Bandon Beach at sunset in Bandon, Oregon

We’ve been places today, so many that we skipped lunch and only got to dinner after reluctantly leaving this beach. As I write this at the restaurant we are eating at, it’s fully dark out, meaning we used every moment of daylight that was available to us today. While a shared appetizer of clams and a salad started to revive me, I have a lot of nothing to write about at this time. Maybe after we check in to our yurt, I’ll find some inspiration between the countless impressions taken in today.

Bullards Beach State Park is home for the night. Specifically, we are set up in yurt C-39. The heater is on and I’m looking for the switch to turn something on inside of me so the words become as abundant as the skies were blue today. The only thing here in my head with any heft is the weight on my eyes that suggests sleep would be more easily found than inspiration.

With nearly 700 photos shot in the past two days now on the computer, I could review the images of today and write to those, but I nearly resent that the computer is on. It’s only on because I try to make daily backups of the photos I’m taking. As for what’s being written, I’m on page 11 of my Moleskine and have a second pen with me should I put down so much ink, but right now, I feel as though the ink is being wasted.

At 9.5 miles walked today over our 11 hours of exploration, it’s no wonder I just want to do nothing. But who simply stops and ceases to go about not reading, not watching TV, not wanting to go on a starlit walk on the shoreline? There’s no way to bargain with ourselves to call it quits and fall asleep, as remaining in bed for the next 10 hours is a non-starter. In any case, getting up at 5:00 on the coast in November means we’d have to wander around in the dark while the temperature is still in the 30s; there’s no appeal in that idea.

I attribute this apathy to our recent bout of COVID. Nothing like this has ever happened in the past, so I’m in unfamiliar territory. Or am I confusing an insistence to write when at other times I’m content to prep photos and leave the writing to a different day? I find a prolific right hand working my mind’s bidding, typically on lengthy days when the sun shines bright for 15 hours or more. Today, with little more than 10 hours of direct sunlight that facilitates outdoor exploration, I must keep moving during those hours and leave the writing as an evening activity. This has been exacerbated on this trip as there’s an imperative to use our blue skies wisely as the weather forecast gave us two days of clear skies and warned that the following eight would offer rain and cloud cover.

No matter the desire to write, I must concede defeat as all I have in me at this time would read something like this: walked, drove, walked, snuggled, walked, held hands, drove, parked, walked, peed off the trail, walked, said I love you, walked, drove, and in between we kept repeating wow until we ran out of oxygen, finally had dinner. End of day.

Measuring Things in Oregon – Day 1

Fall foliage in Eugene, Oregon

Nothing like being teleported out of the desert into a 24-degree (-4c) Pacific Northwest morning in a rental car without seat heaters or even one of those scraping things to de-ice our frosty windshield. While this disorienting shift of time zones (we gained a whole hour) is allowing for yet more experiences to seep into the potential of the day, we are somehow extraordinarily hungry and waste no time finding the closest establishment to satiate this need for hot food.

Sipping on Elmer’s Northwest Lodge Blend of coffee, we are watching the trees of fall catch the rising sun as we wait for the delivery of our first meal of the day. I’m writing with furious gusto as though that will speed the arrival of the egg dishes that should arrive any second, which in turn will allow us to get on the road pointed at an ocean beckoning for our return. Maybe part of my urgency to bounce out of here is related to our Super Walmart experience last night. Airlines should warn travelers when their destination is a parallel universe which might be contrary to the sensibilities of people who enjoy traveling to Europe, and to brace themselves for the risk of setting eyes on the homeless fentanyl crowd. Open sores and bedraggled fellows, kids hitting us up for cash in a store, that was not our scene.

Still, here this morning at Elmer’s, it is apparent that we’re in a damned slow-functioning resort for the obese, decrepit, conservative, and elderly curmudgeons. While I often enjoy eavesdropping on other tables, I draw the line when the dialog risks lowering my own I.Q. or contributing to the PTSD that grips my well-being when recognizing that I’m somewhere from whence I should try to escape posthaste.

Siuslaw River in western Oregon

Our destination might be the ocean, but in a pinch, a river will do. We’ve pulled over here next to the Siuslaw River after having passed miles of great dark green forest, some of it so frosty as to be dusted in white, and with the coastal plain obviously just ahead, this was going to be one of the last moments to share at least something from the 75-minute long drive from Eugene that has brought us to the cusp of our dreams.

Harbor Vista County Park in Florence, Oregon

Hello again, dream world; it’s great to be back for our first glimpse of the sea here at Harbor Vista North Jetty in Florence.

Harbor Vista County Park in Florence, Oregon

One of us walks in the cold sand with their shoes on…

Caroline Wise at Harbor Vista County Park in Florence, Oregon

…the other must get her feet wet and feel the sand between her toes.

Harbor Vista County Park in Florence, Oregon

There’s no time to think, no time to talk, no time to write about impressions out here in the brisk ocean air that greets the cheeks of the desert dwellers. There is only time to feel, smell, and see something that is at once familiar and new all over again.

Harbor Vista County Park in Florence, Oregon

This thin blue line and the blowing sand keeping the ocean where it belongs is all that separates the land from the sea. Consider that the surface of the United States is roughly about 3 million square miles (8 million square kilometers), while the Pacific Ocean is approximately 171 million cubic miles (714 million cubic kilometers). Remember that this is a cubic dimension and not a square. Caroline and I have spent 25 years trying to explore these American states and have barely scratched the surface; no one will ever know the sea and what really happens in its vast depths.

Darlingtonia State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

Old travel habits are hard to break, so why should today be different than other days? We made it 5 miles before Caroline asked me to pull over to the Darlingtonia State Natural Site, home of the cobra lily of the genus Darlingtonia.

Darlingtonia State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

This is only the second time we’ve stopped at this small wayside, and both have been during the late fall, but from the photos I took back in 2020, this year’s gathering of carnivorous lilies is looking a bit ragged, likely due to environmental factors though there’s not a botanist in sight to ask for clarification.

Darlingtonia State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

The day this plant emerged from its egg, it already had a taste for flesh and blood; else how does one explain a plant that eats creatures and ones that voluntarily crawl into its mouth? What, you say plants aren’t born from eggs? Well, that’s news to me or at least I’d like it to be if I stop to think about carnivorous plants because I’m at a loss for how they came about out of the mysteries of evolution.

Darlingtonia State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

Knowledge might be far away from what little certainty I believe I have, but with my macro lens, I can attempt to bring near those things typically only experienced from a distance, such as smaller details found in this leaf suffering its demise with the changing season.

Darlingtonia State Natural Site in Florence, Oregon

And then there’s this tiny piece of bark that might appear to be close to flaking off its tree, but for now, it’s a symbiotic piece of nature. On its surface, a bit of moss has taken hold, and behind the bark’s edges, I’m going to speculate that there’s a spider family, maybe some mites, or a pathway the local ants travel when out collecting stuff required for the colony. How many squirrels might have walked by or birds dropped in looking for snacks? I’d be willing to wager that I’m the first person to ever photograph this small specimen with such intimacy and that the chances of ever finding it again would be as successful as trying to locate a specific neuron in the 86 billion brain cells I have or a single plankton in those 187 quintillion gallons of water in the nearby Pacific Ocean.

Happy Kamper Yarn Barn in Florence, Oregon

Contemplating things some days earlier, I sketched a few rough ideas of how this first day on the coast might play out, but things are not going according to that guesswork and instead are being usurped by spontaneity and routine. Maybe 500 feet (150 meters) north of the wayside and across the street is the Happy Kamper Yarn Barn that we first visited ten years ago, nearly to the day. As anyone who’s read about our travels and stops at yarn stores already knows, we’ll not be leaving without new yarn, especially this fingering weight yarn that is destined to become yet one more pair of hand-knitted socks for me.

North of Baker Beach in Florence, Oregon

With instincts directing the wheel of the rental car, we drove north, though by now we knew that we’d not be attempting a slow walk in the rainforest of Washburne State Park as by the time we’d get out of that trap of the senses it would be seriously late considering we’d still have to make our way to the south coast where we’re staying this evening. So, if that’s not our goal, we might as well take our time, and it was right about then, while we were discussing options, that I thought I spotted something that required a turnaround. No, not just this view; although it’s certainly worthy, it was a little anomaly in the continuity of the coastal universe.

North of Baker Beach in Florence, Oregon

Just behind the guardrail, I thought I saw what looked like a small trail, and sure enough, that tiny gap quickly descended to a well-worn trail that took us right to the ocean’s edge and a place we’d never been to before.

North of Baker Beach in Florence, Oregon

It’s just a clump of rock with some barnacles on it, but it’s more than that. Maybe it’s part of primordial earth, or did it emerge as lava in the relatively recent past, ending up here on the beach reflecting itself back at me from the wet sand? Like the clouds overhead, it inspires me to find form in its shape; I see a whale here, albeit a small one. Should we ever revisit this particular beach, the likelihood of seeing this rock in just the same way is virtually zero. The sands will have shifted, the rock will give way to further erosion, or maybe a high tide will obscure it, and so in our view, the rock will be forever gone, just like a cloud passing overhead or our own lives passing down the beach.

North of Baker Beach in Florence, Oregon

How many countless steps have we left in the sand, in the transitional, never-to-be-seen-the-same-way-again, shifting earth below our feet? From out of the distant past, we’ve witnessed with our own eyes the impressions of dinosaur feet frozen into stone. There’s a place where a child’s steps are right next to those of a wolf or large dog, and right over in New Mexico at the White Sands National Park are the tracks of a toddler and woman traveling across a playa that includes imprints from a mammoth and a giant sloth, and while those reminders that other species and people have walked over places we can visit today, the majority of impressions left by modern humans will fade and disappear. So, unless I figure out how to cast these words in stone, they, too, will become nothing more than the amorphous fabric that was left behind and recaptured by the elements, leaving no trace of what was there.

North of Baker Beach in Florence, Oregon

Even stone is not impervious to the ravages of time and the elements. All things will return to the sand and gasses of what in another form might have been the sustainers or protectors of life. Bastions, ramparts, armor, lungs, or thick leathery skin is no defense to the passage of this rare commodity measured by days, nights, and the cycles of a planet in relation to its sun. Knowing that you and everything you were will one day disappear, will you be content to simply have existed when, if you are reading this, you were likely born to a kind of privilege the majority of people on our planet can never know? Even if I’m but a grain of sand on this beach, I hope it’ll be the glimmering fleck that captures the eye of something out of the future that is enjoying its brief moment in existence.

Heceta Head Lighthouse and Sealion Beach Vantage Point in Florence, Oregon

In a previous age, the lighthouse was a beacon to seafarers, warning of the dangers that they were approaching land. Nowadays, lighthouses act as tractor beams drawing us to their light, even when those lights were extinguished long ago.

Heceta Head Lighthouse and Sealion Beach Vantage Point in Florence, Oregon

Instead of keeping us at a safe distance, they encourage us to come closer to revel in their rare existence and cherish their unique architectural characteristics. It’s easy to be drawn to a unique building, while a historic one offers intrinsic values that dig deep into our fascination that these things are still around. Take Jonathan, the tortoise who lives in Seychelles: he’ll celebrate his 190th birthday on December 4th this year. None of the curious people I know would turn down the chance to meet and touch this ancient, gentle animal. And for those of us fortunate enough to visit the over 4,000-year-old bristlecone pine trees of the Great Basin of Nevada or the prehistoric redwoods in California, we know the attraction of those things that have survived far longer than any of us gazing into the distant past.

Heceta Head Lighthouse and Sealion Beach Vantage Point in Florence, Oregon

If we take pause and think about it, we also enjoy and are drawn to experiencing the effects nature has played on the evolution of things, such as with sea lions basking in the sun below us as we were positioning ourselves to admire the Heceta Head Lighthouse. It was right here along the Oregon and Washington coasts that it’s believed the first flippered pinnipeds first showed up about 17 million years ago, but when we modern humans stop to look upon a tiny aspect of their lives, it is as though they just emerged from the sea for our enjoyment with little thought given to how many generations of sea lions came before them. My sense is that we have not yet developed an innate ability to appreciate the spectrum of time that life requires to arrive where it has. Maybe this is a negative side effect of religion, where we’ve used stories of magic and the supernatural to explain the mysteries that early humans were unable to comprehend.

Highway 101 looking south towards Florence, Oregon

It is out on the horizon of time (and trying to understand my relationship to it) where I look for the peace of mind that while I may not be able to experience the longevity of a tortoise or bristle cone pine tree, I’m at least capable of considering that I’m able to look back and forward into time’s domain and consider what I’ve learned from its passing and what I might still be able to do with what could lay ahead for me should I be around to explore new moments that are yet to be experienced in the future.

Looking out over the Pacific Ocean from Highway 101 north of Florence, Oregon

Out in the chaos of everything, the order of it all remains in constant flux as the energy of nature shifts things across time. The way I understand it, even constants have slight variations, but the contrivance of the arrogance of humans to find stasis is, in my view, hostile to the nature of our potential. Mind you, particular laws of nature and society should be respected, such as gravity containing oceans in their basins and our rules for penalizing transgressions against fellow humans and probably against the creatures with whom we share our space, too. Not that people are even near the precipice of unleashing our potential as the effect of centuries of uncertainty and the modern age exploiting fear has left our species afraid of the future, hence why we strive to contain variations that disturb the superficial surface of things.

Driving south on Highway 101 in Oregon

Where does the time go? One minute, you’re eating lunch at the Little Brown Cafe in Florence, not Italy, and the next moment, you become aware of the blur of having been driving south for hours, which is required if are going to reach Brookings down near the California state line by sunset. Being inland for much of the drive, it’s not like we could be distracted with a dozen oceanside stops, while the forest roads often barely have a shoulder, so even if we wanted to stop for photos of the afternoon sun lending a vibrant glow to the moss and hanging lichen on tree branches, we were stymied by highway engineers who neglected to add those important pullouts.

Port Orford, Oregon

Choose your battles wisely, they always say, and so it was as the Wises pulled over at Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford for the sunset as it was obvious that if it wasn’t now, it might not happen today if it was our hope to see a spectacular sunset.

Port Orford, Oregon

While the famous Face Rock is found a couple of dozen miles north of us in Bandon, Oregon, this equally well-worn sister rock in Port Orford should be noted as a monument, too. Sadly, it is not, but from where I’m standing, I’d swear this is an Eastern Island Statue Face Rock and deserves recognition as such. Come to think about it, just on the left of it is Nipple Rock, and while you might want to jump to conclusions and see the two humps behind the nipple as boobs, I’d strongly disagree, though, as camel humps, I could see that. So, while not given the status or official name it should have, I present you with Camel Hump Nipple Statue Face Rock. [Nice try, John, but this rock is already noted and has a name – Tichenor Rock – Caroline]

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

As soon as I’m satisfied that I’ve captured the various perspectives available from this overlook, we’ll turn our attention to putting ourselves down on that beach with the others to experience the sunset here.

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

In my intro from yesterday morning, I spoke of things near and far and the lenses I’d bring to capture these spaces. I also offered hope that I’d do the same with the thinking I’d put forward in this post. While I may fail in the thinking and writing, this silhouette image contains elements from two images above the one prior, the trees in golden light and Camel Hump Nipple Statue Face Rock. In those two photos, I used a 70-200mm lens to bring to me what might have failed to be seen in previous visual encounters with the exact same places. The point this opens is that our perspective is often myopic. but more important than our vision being nearsighted, we need to look at our minds and those 86 billion brain cells whose capacity we cannot fathom. What if that gray matter in our skull is like the impossibly giant ocean, but instead of a great diversity of impressions and life, it were filled mostly with goldfish, plastic trash, and a fixed view that everything we know and will ever know is already mostly had? Well, if they are the brains of John and Caroline Wise, we will not relent in trying to discover what’s hidden in the places right before our faces as we share the idea that the onion-like layers of life experiences are near infinite while the time we’ve been afforded to glean them is but a brief interlude on the stage of the universe.

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

As above, does not always convey equally to, so below. While the height differential is minimal, just a short walk down a sandy trail and the changes offered to the senses are tremendous. Above, we cannot touch the shore, the surf, nor hear the world around us in quite the same way; we must go forward inching our way closer to touching the abyss of unknowns. Will the water be cold, the sand soft, and the sounds sharp or pleasant? We’ll not know, and should you accept conventional wisdom, you might come to believe that the Oregon coast would be too cold and hostile for your comfort or enjoyment at this time of year. I’d counter, even dare you to glance over the more than 100 posts on this blog that detail our experiences and see what we’ve captured and enjoyed. You can trust that we’ve heard, more times than we can remember, the voices of uncertainty that challenge our discretion about heading to such an inhospitable destination. I believe these are the same people who are able to convince themselves that most everything outside of their narrow routines could be fraught with discomfort and danger. Discovery is, after all, a dangerous curve that could challenge current beliefs, blinding one to mistaken certainty as though they’d looked into the sun.

While I’ve only been so fortunate to be looking into this face of love for the past 33 years, those eyes that have been searching for knowledge, truth, and deep experiences have, in effect, been cultivating love in her heart her entire life. Instead of crashing into the wall of disappointment that love would never be found and shared, Caroline and I discovered one another and learned how to negotiate bumps on the shore, the gray clouds that occasionally obscure the sun, and have catered to each other’s insatiable thirst for the wow moments available to those who enjoy smiling. When I look into those eyes, I don’t only see a wife looking back; I see a long history of her delight in all the other things I’ve caught her smiling at, such as sand dollars, forests, rainbows, rocks, yarn, art, old people holding hands, a kite taking to the sky, her mom laughing, and words printed on a page. I’m fairly certain that Caroline doesn’t hold any secrets about the universe; I don’t believe she cares about having all the answers, but what I want to feel she has an abundance of is an intense curiosity that’s amplified by having someone with whom to share the experiences that arise from that.

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

What if I told you that the sun setting does not bring darkness but offers inner illumination of the heart for those who witness its descent below the horizon? How can I make such a claim? Caroline and I have watched the sunset countless times by now, and every time we do so, our smiles are beaming at one another for the rest of the day, which can only be explained by hearts bursting with energy fed by the sun, or do you have a better explanation?

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

And what about those who just keep on seeing more sunsets? You guessed it, we likely have to giggle with each other at some point to let go of the abundance of beauty we were absorbing.

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

As for the effects wrought from gazing upon silver blue and golden orange water in those waning moments of the sun? We have not quite worked out how perfection cubed influences what is already beyond the charts of total wowness.

Battle Rock Wayside Park in Port Orford, Oregon

With senses aglow with the giddiness of having experienced a fantastic sunset at a wonderful spot nearing the end of our daylight hours, we were able to continue our adventure south. The dark silvery-gray sheen of the sea on our right, with a thin line of red-orange warmth of civil twilight, kept the purr of happiness moving along with us as the road ahead grew darker. Only an hour left before reaching the next magical place on our travel map.

Yurt at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

The crescendo hits as we drive into Harris Beach State Park and check into yurt C-26. The heater was already on, so the only thing left to do was drag our stuff in and make our bed before heading out for dinner while something might still be open. At this point, our elation nearly falls off a cliff as we’d be a whole lot happier to dip into an ice chest and crate of things from the car, but that was sacrificed in order to claim the extra time along the coast gained with flying up, so back to the car we reluctantly crawl.

Yurt at Harris Beach State Park in Brookings, Oregon

I have always loved pulling up to these tables for a writing session in the various yurts we’ve rented over these many years. Tonight, though, I find myself lethargic, apathetic even. As the pen meets the paper, the mind feels like the tide is going out. Sure, we are nearly 15 hours into this day, and a myriad of reasons can easily be identified, including last night’s late arrival, the difficulty found in sleeping on the first day out, a timezone change, my recent COVID recovery, and of course, that taskmaster called aging but none of these factors are welcome here on our vacation. I have demands, one is that I find productivity in the exercise of word transference from the mind through pen upon the open notebook that won’t be filling itself.

If I can find 10,000 steps, I should be able to locate a couple of thousand words that emerge from an experience that took in countless impressions. Instead of playing with a flow of words, I’m being drawn to the great outdoors, where stars beckon our imagination with silent calls to stand in awe of their magnitude filling the expanse of the inky sky we can hardly comprehend. The wind picks up and shakes bits and bobs from the trees that fall upon our yurt, nearly tricking us into believing it could be raining, though we know full well that the clear star-filled sky is the canopy set high over this campground tonight.

The rumble of crashing waves blends with the occasional passing of vehicles out on the highway, not that we expect the world for merely $50 a night but from our perspective, we are getting just that – the world. This form of perfection may not fit other’s ideas of luxury but for the two of us here this evening, our shared time is too fleeting not to understand the gift of the incredible when we find ourselves within it.

In my tired mind and body, I can find no profundity to wring out the intensity of today’s experience, which remains elusive to my right hand. Instead, I flick my wrist and see the clock ticked into the next hour, which can be perceived to be later than it is, at least back in Arizona. Now, I’m struggling to continue this splashing of ink onto paper and must concede that it’s time to splash a sleepy mind upon the waves of dreams that lay over the horizon of wakefulness. If I’m fortunate, tonight’s sleeping adventures will sneak in from the ocean, blow in on the breeze, or simply emerge from the delight of two traveling nerds deeply in love taking refuge in a cozy yurt.

In Love – All Day, Everyday!

Cambria, California

We easily remember transgressions, one-liners, and bad jokes but try to remember the crashing waves at dawn, a sunset of purple-orange gold, or the sound of a bird chirping as it glides over a river. Try to see in your mind’s eye the pelican’s wing flirting with the ocean, the smile of a best friend no longer part of the world, or the voice of someone who told you they loved you many years ago.

Cambria, California

It is only through words that any of these things live on and are able to be recalled and then shared with others.

Cambria, California

Writing is the exercise that all who claim to be human and have meaningful experiences should be practicing, else these precious moments are as easily lost as the last wave that crashed ashore and is now gone forever.

Cambria, California

Carving names and dedications on trees and benches, drawing them on rocks and walls, attaching locks to cables, bridges, and branches, we try to leave something that offers a kind of permanence that we or someone we’ve loved has been here.

Cambria, California

Leaving a symbol so that we might return someday and find it still there is full of hope that someone should stay in our hearts and memories well into the future. Maybe more of our lives should be spent practicing writing our stories in order to give a larger space to the meaning of the moments that inspire us to not forget those we’ve loved and the special places we’ve shared with them.

Cambria, California

To that end, I must share how I smile at Caroline standing at the cliff’s edge, looking over at me and the small amount of fog between us. She smiles at me and then returns to watching the sea. When pelicans pass by I know she’s taking mental note if they are flying in a V formation overhead or as a string following one another over the waves. My wife is certainly aware that as the morning sky brightens with hints of pink, blue, and a pale gray due to the late summer fog that’s rolling in, the sun crawling over the horizon will be making dramatic changes to the entire scene. To her left, waves have started to capture the first rays of direct sunlight; we are seconds away from seeing the sun for ourselves.

In the transition zone between night and day, there are a few others out here: some dog walkers, another photographer, and the surfers who were here before all of us. The waves grow larger in the advancing day, the fog thickens, and we must get going as nobody gets to linger forever.

Cambria, California

Just one more moment, one more walk to take a seat before the seas and gaze at all that must remain unknown. At night, we’ll do the same as we ponder the void and countless stars that will never warm our brief existence. Though we may never visit the bottom of the sea or a distant planet, storytellers have the ability to bring us places that remain out of reach for most people. When we write our own story, we have a reference point to revisit later in life. The adventures of our younger lives become the narrative of that long-forgotten self whose journey was possibly vastly different than that of the person approaching their sunset years.

Cambria, California

There may come a day we find ourselves sitting at a favorite place by the shore, missing the other who had shared our smiles, joy, and gaze of amazement as we dream of what adventures might still lay ahead. Look out there, out into the distance, and then try to pull it all within you. None of it will stay long as the next horizon beckons, but you should leave yourself and others these breadcrumbs of memories upon the page; one distant day, they might just bring delight to someone looking to remember their time at the seaside when they were lost in love and wonder.

Cambria, California

We must turn to writing in the same way we each care for our own physical health: by exercising. Just as the bird flies as a large part of its nature, humanity uses words for all that we do, and yet we most often simply satisfy ourselves with how we verbally express ourselves, even to the point of being oblivious of our own poverty of vocabulary. At my age, approaching a stage of late-life maturity, I still see the fledgling wordsmith trying to master the flight of narrative that might one day glide effortlessly as birds do over the ocean. The truth is that strength is an evolving asset that must be cultivated on a regular basis, or the skill will atrophy.

Cambria, California

I’ve learned over time that the same might be said about our ability to see and that far too many people are blind while their eyes are still perfectly functional; only their minds have taken their sight away. Truth and beauty may be subjective, but the desire to paint the world as unworthy or digging deep to find truth too demanding is the domain of the human returning to the animal or, worse, a kind of death. To be present, we must be alive and vibrant, riding in on waves and gliding into our potential but can the majority of us bring this idea or reflections to the page? Pride in driving a car, owning a home, and winning a game, are surrogates of distraction to knowing one’s self. When you write, you codify your thoughts and risk exposing that you possess a great inability to articulate thoughts deeper than the thickness of skin, able to tolerate the ridicule of yet being stupid. Writing makes you vulnerable; hence, the majority avoids it.

Cambria, California

But one day, you will be gone. Who might remain that could have enjoyed exploring the depths of the person they want to keep on remembering? What about children, great-grandchildren, or future relatives a couple of hundred years from now interested in looking into the history of their lineage? Who among us wouldn’t treasure the diary of a distant family member writing of their time, surviving in a world so vastly different than the one in which we find ourselves? Our age makes this capturing of fragments so simple, allowing me to sit here in front of the page exploring the brief experiences Caroline and I have so we may never need to sit alone after one of us takes permanent leave.

Cambria – All Day!

Cambria, California

After our intense 16-hour day yesterday, we skipped setting an alarm, but our internal clocks didn’t seem to appreciate the effort to sleep in as we woke shortly after 6:00 anyway. We looked out our hotel door over to the ocean and while there was plenty of light out there, the sun itself was yet to appear. The same might be said about us getting ourselves out on the other side of said door as we sat in the room reading and writing. At any moment, I’m certain one of us will take the initiative to shower and it’ll be in the middle of that when the sun barges through a window and has us feeling lazy.

Now aware that we might miss the greatest sunrise ever, I get to the adulting and get this ship of Wise underway. Because I know readers are looking for the smaller details, I’ll overshare by letting you know that just seconds prior, I had doffed my drawers and was heading to the shower when Caroline pulled her head up from her searching for English words related to weaving in her quest to translate some things for her friend Claudia and told me she was just about to do the same. Shooting her some side-stink eye, I turned around and put those still warm and slightly funky underwear back on because who wants to sit their bare ass on a hotel chair? I got back to writing. Later, when Caroline gets to editing this post, she’ll be wishing she’d let me go shower instead of adding this little tidbit regarding my musky nethers in need of washing being aired out here on these pages. Oh good, she’s already turning off the water right before I start in on describing my bowel movement.

Cambria, California

From my butthole, we head out for breakfast which is a short 1/2-mile walk north along the ocean. Yeah, I, too, am hoping my chocolate starfish, or the more politically correct Fudgy Seastar, does not become a theme for this beautiful day.

Caroline Wise knitting in Cambria, California

Breakfast at the Oceanpoint Ranch Canteen was finished, but our coffee was still hot, so why not sit a while, knit, read, write, and sip that coffee for a while longer? Our plan, or lack of a plan, with nothing etched in stone or even drawn in the shifting sands, was as amorphous as my occasionally missing maturity. We could drive up the coast attempting to find the one spot we’ve not been a dozen or more times before (not to imply we wouldn’t enjoy it all over like it was the first time), but sitting here in the cool 63-degree sea air (17c) with me writing and Caroline working on those socks using the yarn from our trip to Rügen, Germany, last year, also by the sea, it starts to feel like we should have a down day. Why not just stroll along the beach, grab more coffee, and return to the Moonstone Grill for lunch while incorporating more of this post-breakfast activity? That sounds perfect, and it’ll be just what we do.

Cambria, California

Across the street to the boardwalk and trail that we’ll follow to the north, further than we’ve ever traveled on this path. For unknown reasons, we never made it this far on our visit last year. Then again, I could be forgetting things, but to the best of our collective memories, this is our first time right here.

Cambria, California

How could we have missed this beach?

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

We’ve traveled this 100-mile length of coast more times than most Californians ever will, and still we are enchanted by this opportunity to be here again and again regardless of the effort or cost. That we are still able to stumble upon places that we’d somehow missed might baffle us, but we explore them and the familiar sights like they were all found during our first visit here. It’s as though living in a desert prepares your senses with a kind of sterilization process to see the vibrancy in the verdant world where everything is new all over again.

Cambria, California

While we are not looking for jade here on Moonstone Beach, as we are looking for moonstones, of course, that doesn’t mean Caroline won’t pick up the nicer examples of some pretty jade and share them with me. Many years ago, we owned a rock tumbler and used it exactly zero times, and ultimately handed it off to Goodwill. Trying to find the balance between hoarding, collecting, and not getting to attached to things, we do our best to fight impulses to have it all, but as I just looked at new tumblers over on Amazon for only about $100 I can’t help but want to nudge Caroline into getting another one we can store in our closet unused for 5 or 10 years before giving it away too.

Cambria, California

Regarding this photo, I took no notes while out on the coast and so I’m in Phoenix right now trying to find what I’d like to say about it. On my headphones here at Starbucks, I’m listening to Max Richter’s On The Nature Of Daylight, looking for an emotional context to paint the right image, but even with some of the most beautiful music I can find to help inspire me after I’ve left a place, it’s not always easy to find meaningful words that might accompany a photo I found worthwhile to share but difficult to write about. Such is the nature of beauty.

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

Went as far as we could before realizing that we could sprint around a corner and that if the tide came up, we could return by the road on our right-hand side. What you might not see with clarity is that Caroline is walking on pebbles instead of sand, rock hounds paradise over here and the place where she hopes to collect a solid half a dozen moonstones to take home with us.

Cambria, California

So there we were, all by ourselves, on a private beach of sorts due to the circumstances of nobody else being here, aside from lots of birds. Why no one else is here is a mystery; it’s Labor Day, a holiday, and there’s not a soul unless these feathered friends have souls. Is everyone else bolting home already? And was there ever an everyone else out here? Guilty admission time, yes, for photographic purposes I triggered this seagull blizzard that I’ll from here forward refer to as a “gullard.”

Cambria, California

There’s the matter of a lone surfer, but he’s out in the waves, seemingly content to float alone and enjoy the moment of solitude, not appearing to offer a care about riding the many waves that pass under him. I suppose the same might be said for us as we have an entire beach of sand, and Caroline even found a pink bucket, yet we are not building sand castles.

Cambria, California

It all looks so well laid out, somewhat permanent, really based on the ice plants behind the bleached driftwood, but the reality is that one storm will roll in and redesign everything. So the truth might be that we have been on part of this beach before, entering from the northern end, but on that visit, the configuration was so different that today, we recognize nothing other than the joy of being here.

Cambria, California

Not feeling like we’d walked enough, we continued right past the stairs that brought us down here and around another corner at what appeared to be the south end of how far we could go, but again, we could pass easily enough. Ah, there are stairs down there, so we can go back up the cliffside on those.

Cambria, California

Nope, that wasn’t going to work unless we were about to start entertaining a latent death wish due to the surf cutting between us and the other side where the stairs promised us a path to lunch. Maybe we could have gotten there, but a vertical cliff with what might be a precarious trail to some young bucks screamed at us who are full of age-instilled wisdom with brains that measure the rocks with jagged edges and consider our buoyancy factor determining that if we enter that rollicking water, there were hints of serious injury if not total annihilation.

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

Are you sure that’s the best place to grab a seat to rinse your feet before putting those sandals back on?

Cambria, California

Finally, off our private beach walk and four miles later, we see that our path is going to take us right over to the Moonstone Grill for some seaside grub. How it became this late is one of those great unanswered questions, as it felt like we just left breakfast. Caroline insinuates that we’ve been lollygagging.

To celebrate such dawdling, Caroline raised a toast with a Manhattan and set in for an extended lunch of resting our feet and senses as just how much ocean can one take in at a time. From previous experience, we knew that no matter what we had for lunch, a dessert was going to be had, and it was the ice cream with hot Oregon berries because, oh yeah. After this indulgence, it was time for more sounds and visions of the sea, and that boardwalk across the street was beckoning.

Cambria, California

Caroline coined a new term today; feel free to Google it after I share it, as it simply never existed before today and will be published for the first time in history right here on this blog. The word, with a drum roll, is “pelicanado.” It describes the masses of pelicans that fly in to drop down to the sea where a bunch of other birds has gathered, as there must be a school of fish below that they are feasting on. As waves approach, the pelicans scramble out of the water (not always successfully), returning to the air but circling back around just to dive bomb right back to where they were feeding. Well, she’s right; it looks like a pelican tornado, a.k.a. pelicanado. Regarding my summation about the school of fish or if this was a social gathering, I willingly admit a total ignorance in the way of pelicaning.

Cambria, California

A young couple sitting at the seashore, they are us, we were them. There were others before them, and others will follow. For the moments we sit there, we are the first and only to see exactly what it is we are witnessing, and these times influence who we are beyond the minutes we’ll take up the bench and claim it as our own. Putting into words what we’ve taken in and shared with our minds and imaginations is as impossible as teasing apart the sand from the surf and sky, and yet we’ll sit there knowing that we are somehow in love with more than the person on our side.

Cambria, California

After walking the length of the beach, this is, in fact, the end, we headed over to some stairs away from the hot sand to find a bunch of benches, a pool, some massive barbecue facilities, and other amenities such as nice cool shady trees here at Shamel Park. A break was just what we needed.

Cambria, California

Somehow, it’s approaching 4:00 in the afternoon, and it feels as though we’ve done a bunch of nothing or, again, in Caroline’s parlance, we’ve been honing our lollygagging skills. Unable to do a thing while we sat doing nothing, we tried rubbing our two brain cells together to muster a plan and realized we needed coffee like pelican need fish. It was awful nice just remaining at our picnic table, planted under the cool canopy sheltering us from the now oppressive sun. The sea breeze wafts over us at a pleasant 72 degrees, and our only complaint might be that we can’t take some with us tomorrow when we point the car towards home. Realizing these perfect conditions, I don’t believe anyone could blame us for this momentary proclivity into zero action and total laziness.

Surfing in Cambria, California

Eyes are heavy by the time we reach our hotel, where the car is parked. We have two options for that coffee, with the second one closing in an hour; it’s the one we’re going to. It’s called the French Corner Bakery. On the way over, I called ahead to Robin’s International Restaurant, where we have a reservation for 8:00, to see if we can move it up to 6:00, no problem. We sit down for our coffees after meeting Justin, the guy behind the counter, and start a nice chat with him instead of doing much writing or knitting.

As the bakery is about to close, we only have to walk a short way across the street, and we’ll be at Robin’s. Our original dinner date was to ensure we’d be on hand for sunset, as we just love sunsets. So now we might miss our cherished moments as the sun dips below the horizon, but we’re practical enough to know that we can’t have it all. Then again, maybe dinner goes by quicker than anticipated and we’ll be back on the other side of Highway 1 before dark. This being our last night out, if we weren’t satisfied with things yet, this trip would have been for naught as you can’t capture perfection in the last hours of a multi-day trip.

Sunset in Cambria, California

Maybe we skipped dinner? Not a chance; we simply didn’t dilly-dally. We got down to business and felt that we’d just have to get back to the ocean for one of these moments of golden glistening ocean and warm orange sky.

Sunset in Cambria, California

Since when was one photo enough when 3 or 4 can better get the point across because choosing one was impossible?

Caroline Wise and John Wise in Cambria, California

Selfies of Caroline and me are obviously not as frequently shared as images of her because I’m the one behind the camera. At some point down the road this or last year, Caroline had said she didn’t feel we were taking enough so I’ve made the effort to get us to pose for these more often. To this end, I scrolled back through the blog this year; 17 pages with seven posts per page took quite a long time, as I’ve probably shared thousands of images this year for Mexico alone. Anyway, it looks like I’m fairly well represented on these pages, though I think I could share more photos of me with my hair out for the mad scientist look.

Sunset in Cambria, California

And this, as they say, is that. The end.

Aquarium, Coast, and Whales – All Day!

There was no sleeping in today; we were out at the first moment the sun peeked over the distant horizon. Golden light spilled into the sky, accompanied by a blinding streak of white slicing over Monterey Bay. Over in Germany, some of our family are spending this Sunday together for their annual September reunion. Over WhatsApp, they share smiling faces; we share a view of the rising sun over the Pacific.

Strangely, there are only about a dozen of us out here for the start of the day, well, us people, the pelicans, some seagulls, a few others, and a splashing seal putting on an acrobatics show. The sound of the surf and birds don’t appear to offer the local group of women exercising under the trees enough of a background, so they’ve brought a soundtrack the rest of us can listen to as we pass by. The same goes for some of the walkers and runners who somehow don’t think that they might be disturbing others who prefer to listen in on the natural environment.

We move away to find another beautiful spot under the riot of nature, unpolluted by the ugliness of our fellow humans. Once we’ve basked in the cleansing light of the sun but not yet burned to a crisp, we’ll need coffee to wash off the grime of disdain for the rude people around us. That’s right, we bathe in boiling coffee before trying to drown in it. And where does this ablution occur this morning? At the Red House Café on 19th and Lighthouse. Any ill will towards others that I might have gathered was temporarily kicked to the side as a father passed by with a baby and a toddler in a stroller and their dog in tow. The toddler excitedly announced to us and everybody in earshot that he’d just seen a fungus. That four-year-old boy was serious about how amazing the sight of a real live fungus was, and if that enthusiasm isn’t able to put a smile on someone’s face, nothing will. Not to imply that I’m not generally happy, but I cannot turn off my annoying trait of always paying attention to others, something at which Caroline is coolly adept.

The day had started to resemble yesterday as we were the first in line again and we found ourselves at the same table on the patio, only I order something different while Caroline opted for the yummy frittata again. Last year, when we first ate here, Caroline pointed out how unbelievable it was that we were now sitting here on the cafe’s sunlit porch while on our earlier visits to Pacific Grove, we wouldn’t have wanted to afford the place nor join the line. By the way, this patio and house is not where we ate breakfast; it was just a nice little bungalow on our way there.

Back to the similarities between days: we’ll walk away from the Red House Cafe after our breakfast for a return visit to the aquarium. I’m fairly sure, though, that it will be like visiting for the first time as all the swimming creatures in the cold seawater tanks will have reorganized themselves just for our time among them. Of course, I’ll be taking plenty of photos to prove this. Not that this matters, but I’d like to point out that I’m not, in fact, ignoring Caroline right now as I write these musings as she’s practicing her texting-fu chatting with her German bestie, Claudia. Not only are they communicating across the oceans as Claudia is somewhere in Europe, but my wife is smiling like a loon from time to time. The reason I can’t be sure about Claudia’s whereabouts is that she and her significant other seem to vacation as much as we do if not more. [Nobody we know vacations as much as we do, I reckon. – Caroline]

The parallel universe of coincidence again sees us walking the water’s edge to the aquarium. Is it the exact same time we are arriving for the 9:30 members-only opening, or is it slightly earlier or later?

Once inside, a glitch derails our move to the always-beckoning Kelp Forest, and instead, we are drawn to the Open Sea to experience the jellyfish all for ourselves. Not content to just have my photographs and potentially nonsensical blog posts, Caroline saw the opportunity to bring videos of the jellies home with her.

Was our time among the jellies two minutes, or was it a half-hour? It’s hard to tell now that we’ve learned that these gelatinous Medusozoas warp time with their tentacled ancient arm things. After more than 500 million years they’ve evolved to a level of sophistication that allows them to live in a timeless infinity, pulsing through an ocean traveling forever; that, or they lay in wait to sting a hapless human to death.

After our psychedelic jelly encounter, Caroline needed to maintain the visual intensity, and what other than laying down under a school of sardines could come close?

Try as I might, I cannot understand just why the hammerhead shark evolved with its eyes so far away from its body. What kind of wicked sensing system is in that crossbar that holds eyes that cannot possibly see what it’s about to eat? I should probably do a little bit of searching before making such assumptions, as it turns out that hammerheads have 360-degree vision thanks to their peculiarly shaped heads. Combine that kind of vision with the old ampullae of Lorenzini, and I’m growing increasingly certain that the ocean is stuffed chock full of aliens.

I’m noticing a trend with animals that sport some level of transparency, such as man-killing jellies. These predatory tunicates are able to swallow whole scuba divers who approach too closely. I know they don’t look that big, but that’s because we are looking at them through rearview mirrors, so we can see their immense size in such tight confines found here in the aquarium.

You could wager that I’m now fearful of searching for information about the brittle stars, and I don’t mean the ones from Hollywood. First of all, I came to see that this is not what I thought it was; it is a sea star of the Brisingida family, meaning it’s a predator (hopefully not like the one from the movie). Not your ordinary sea star, of course not; this one doesn’t just filter its meals from the current of water around it. According to an NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) article, “Their spines are covered in tiny claws which act as sort of a “starfish Velcro.” Using these claws, they snag all passing life (regardless of size, I’m speculating) and then pass their meal down to their mouths using tube feet.

Here you go; it turns out that Brisingida sea stars are related to brittle stars, and before I got to the NOAA article, I opened a page from Scientific American about how brittle stars see. This won’t be good, and spoiler alert, the details are about to be shared. I’ll paraphrase here, “Their arms are loosely coordinated by a nerve ring in the animal’s core, almost like eight co-joined monster animals with a mutual interest in where to go, what to eat, and making little monster stars.” And people have the audacity to complain about paying taxes when we are able to go to a restaurant, sleep in a cozy bed, and live on land in houses instead of in this underwater world of nightmares?

Time-warping hallucination-inducing jellies, people swallowing tunicates, and now these f&%#ing hagfish. Blind and toothless, they eat the dead, from the inside no less! Not enough horror for you? They are known to suffocate other fish that try eating them by the copious amounts of slimy mucus they are able to produce; we’re talking serious bucketload amounts of the stuff that clogs the gills of the fish, and if that’s not doing the trick, they can tie themselves into an overhand knot while in the fish creating more difficulties for the idiot fish that won’t be trying to snack on this creeper again, should it survive.

Right after we return to Phoenix, I want to find out if there’s a doctor performing hagfish stem cell therapy so I can be the first man on earth with a self-lubricating slime penis.

After our encounter with the self-lubricating seaworms snarfing on death, we were psychically contacted by the flamboyant cuttlefish to pay a return visit to the salmon snailfish. How did we miss this yesterday? Their bodies are semi-transparent, which does not portend good things, and what about those mesmerizing hypnotic eyes? Oops, too late! Caroline was the first to be put in a trance by the blue-silver eye that allowed the fish to communicate to her that, as a species, they do not like their scientific name of Careproctus, which was derived from Ancient Greek where κάρα or kara translates to face and πρωκτός or prōktos is translated as anus meaning they are Butthole Faces. I want to adopt one.

Are things weird enough for you yet? Do you see those chin fins? The salmon “asshole-head” snailfish uses them to look for food in the sand as it plants itself face first on the sea floor, see photo from yesterday. By the way, you might notice its eyes are now black; that’s because this “Po-Kopf” (German technical term) has met its match with a bigger asshole-head who is stealing its powers in order to crown me King Facia-prōktos.

See that crab? Salmon snailfish are known to use them as repositories for their eggs; yep, you read that right: the fish with butt face uses king crabs parasitically by installing its eggs in the crab gills, turning them into a mobile home/incubator for their offspring. Jesus, Caroline, what are we doing here in this house of horrors?

This is the point in the aquarium where all truths gleaned from any loose-lipped Perciformes will be erased using the kinetic color pulsing living embodiment of the “Neuralyzer” as seen in Men in Black (oh my god, John, just how hypocritical are you?). Obviously, it didn’t fully work on me, and I can only surmise that my good fortune in retaining the truth about the secret marine culture that uses us for its entertainment has been left partly intact due to our particular sequence of events whereby some strange chance I took notes prior to my mind-washing and didn’t trash the crazy stuff I wrote. Trust me, I thought twice about sharing what’s in my notebooks but this is what I found there.

No, seriously, where did the first two hours of the day go? We cannot leave the aquarium without a pilgrimage to the Kelp Forest, but getting there could be problematic as we suffer from “Needtoseeitallagainitis.”

Any number of things could distract us on our journey that must conclude with finding the exit. Oh, what’s this? It’s the old boilers used here when prior to the aquarium taking over, this was a sardine cannery. Funny how, in all the years of visiting Monterey, I think this is the first time I’ve ever photographed the old sardine processing equipment near the entry.

Well, sure, that is a kelp forest out there, but we’re looking for the one with that old familiar musical accompaniment that makes us all sentimental when we listen to it at home in the weeks and months between visits (MBA Kelp Forest Live Cam).

Ah yes, the soundtrack of Jaws starts its haunting throb as the shark approaches.

And with that, we have to bid adieu to another visit to one of our favorite places ever here at the great Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Obviously, we broke free of the aquarium, which is more than any of the fish can say (not that fish say a lot, as far as we know). Though a magic sardine whispered at us that Queen Elizabeth would die in four days, but come on, how could a sardine know that?

You can trust this isn’t just some more lollygagging for the sake of wasting time; we left our car at the motel as parking anywhere near the aquarium is difficult at best and an underwater horror story at worst. Regarding this never-before-seen view of the bay, by us anyway, there’s a small passage between the Hopkins Marine Station operated by Stanford University on the left and the aquarium on the right. The white sand beach is Cabrillo Beach and appears totally inaccessible to those of us on the wrong side of the fence, which is apparently anyone not working at the research facility.

We know we are inching towards the next exit, that of leaving Pacific Grove and the Monterey Bay area. Heavy hearts weigh on empty stomachs having us consider our lunch plans. Oh no, the Mexican joint we ate at yesterday doesn’t open for lunch on Sundays! Lucky us, I called ahead to the Borg that we’d be a bit late picking up our car as we were looking to have something to eat first, and our choice of grabbing a bite at Peppers was nixed; well, the mysterious voice on the other end commanded us to go to the Monarch Pub and Restaurant for some English grub. All of a sudden, the words of the sardine were haunting me like this was some kind of foreshadowing or were the butterflies trying to message us?

Klingeling! That’s the sound a German bike bell makes and has brought me around from my fits of hallucinatory madness, which propelled this writing. Now, back in reality, I’m here thinking of that wonderful post I wrote in Germany just last year that featured 23 images of bicycle bells and some thoughts about the process of aging. You should read it if for no other reason than to cleanse the mental palate of the things drawn out of my imagination, you might have endured in the paragraphs above.

It was 3:00 when we hit Highway 1, traveling south. We were well aware that we couldn’t afford the indulgence going down the coast that we took on our way up. With only 4 and 1/2 hours of daylight remaining to our still glorious day, we’ll be measured, discriminating, and intentional about where we choose to spend our precious time under the sun.

Knowing this limitation, we hadn’t planned on the heavy traffic with two complete stops at construction sites and a serious backup at the Bixby Bridge.

We were about to sail right past Big Sur, or so was my intention, before Caroline wailed about how beautiful the view of Point Sur was, so I quickly pulled over.

Did we even make it a few miles before the view had us pulling over again? Nope, this is looking behind us from the same pullout where I photographed Point Sur, but it is beautiful that way, too; I just had to include it. Now, we’ll hit the gas and get moving, as we have a long drive ahead of us before we pull into Cambria for the night.

Oh, this is nice, but so were the other stops along the way that I’m not including in this post because I’ve already included 42 photos, and that’s simply enough, along with being the answer to the Great Question.

How had it taken us 90 minutes to get this far? The Henry Miller Library is in Big Sur. We’re hardly crawling along at a snailfish pace, but the library is open which for us is surprising as we are typically on the wrong side of the clock for a visit. This can only mean we MUST stop.

For those who don’t know, Henry Miller is considered a literary innovator and has been said to be a major influence on the original generation of Beat writers. His works were banned in the United States for many years, likely due to the sexual content. When I was in my early 20s, I tried reading Tropic of Cancer and Sexus, and neither title gelled with me; they are now long gone. As I cannot deny his influence nor the respect I have for an author who inspires so many other writers, it was fitting that we’d take this opportunity to stop in and even support the place.

While I feel my interest in the Beats has passed, and I read On The Road by Jack Kerouac many years ago, I’d never read his book titled Dharma Bums, and so that was my title of choice today. We didn’t have a lot of time to make choices as we’d arrived shortly before they were closing. Caroline chose Straits: Beyond the Myth of Magellan about, you guessed it, Ferdinand Magellan. This is a beautiful little bookshop full of interesting titles for those interested in alternatives outside the mainstream books that are not typically carried by the dominant big box store.

Leaving the library and enjoying the art and grounds here next to Highway 1, a fully naked, bubbly young lady flutters by as if this might be how she goes about life every day. I keep my camera aimed at this old typewriter as I must control my creepy old man persona trying to escape.

Not 10 miles down the road, the massive view beckons, and we easily oblige, but it’s okay as we are getting close to the halfway point to Cambria at a mere 55ish miles down that way or so. Caroline had already gotten back in the car, and I was about to do the same when something caught my eye.

A spout of water is what flashed into my peripheral vision, and not two seconds later, a whale breached. Yelling at Caroline to jump back out, she was soon next to me. Not only did the two of us see the breach, but the crack that followed was amazing, too. The lens I was using is obviously not ideal for capturing whales more than 2,000 feet away from shore and maybe 150 feet below us, but that’s what I had. I took a lot more photos than this, as we witnessed several breaches in a row, but this was the best one. I also photographed them spouting, but from this distance, those plumes look like tiny, rather unspectacular white splashes.

We sat here a good while, waiting to see the pod surface again and hoping for more breaching, but it wasn’t on the menu of events that blew minds on this great day. Well out of sight, was a barking seal that likely wasn’t breaching. As we continued south, we saw more pods spouting in the distance, but taking photos of them didn’t work out; the memories were terrific enough.

Here we go stopping again as we saw more spouting. No seals within earshot, but we did see some pelicans and some old architectural thing. That’s the Big Creek Bridge built back in 1938, just a few miles north of Lucia Lodge, which is also about the halfway point between Pacific Grove and Cambria.

Now, on the next stop for even more whales and some excited Germans looking for wildlife. While the distant cetaceans spouted there would be no breaching, we left quite satisfied I hope the Germans were too.

There comes a point in time when, as daylight is slipping away, my mind goes to work on the geometry of what lies ahead, where we want to be, and the position of the sun in the sky. There’s no reason to be in a less-than-optimal place for sunset, so we have to pace ourselves; hence, this stop to sprawl before it all.

This photo is only here as a reminder that while traveling Highway 1, there is not only the ocean side of things. Not sure you can see it but there’s a house in the center of the image and something like an artists workshop cabin on the right.

This looks promising, but I think there’s better, so we keep going.

But not before I snap this perfect photo of Caroline smiling in the golden late day light on a curvy coastal road with a background of pampas grass, little fluffy clouds, the moon, and sea while wearing her Mayan motorcyclist t-shirt picked up from Taller Leñateros in San Cristobal, Mexico, earlier this year. What a life.

The last stop during daylight hours, as this is the place we’ll watch the sunset. It has vibes of “best spot” to me. We crawled under some barbed wire and stepped onto some crumbling coastline to find the position that would be just right for this curtain call.

We’re still about 20 minutes from Cambria and were not leaving this spot before that sun fully disappears from view. It is Sunday night, and not sure what restaurants will still be open after 8:00. We opt for a poor excuse for a Mexican place in San Simeon, but who cares when we’ve been feasting on all the wonderful sights found on another perfect day?