Disclaimer: This post is one of those that ended up being written years after the experience was had. Sadly, there were no notes taken so whatever is shared here must be extracted from the images and what memories they may have lent us. Fortunately, there was an itinerary still in my directory of travel plans, so that will help with some details. As to why this wasn’t noted or blogged about, I was in the throes of writing/editing my book Stay In The Magic and felt that any other deep writing would derail that fragile effort.
Last night we spent at the Umpqua Lighthouse State Park in the deluxe yurt with its own bathroom and kitchen. While those things are convenient, they take away from the rustic yurts that feel closer to nature. The idea of a TV in one of these defeats the magical sense of place I feel in the single-light-and-rickety-heater type of yurt I prefer. There was no time this morning to linger in the luxury of our temporary abode as we were out with the sunrise so we could tackle the 12 hours of driving required to get to Santa Cruz, California.
The drive is actually 538 miles via Highway 101, and it would be quicker if we took Interstate 5, but that road is every shade of ugly one could imagine. Time is not important; only life is important, such as this great blue heron.
We cannot stop at freeway pullouts for encounters with the ocean, and even if this delays our arrival time this evening, it won’t be the first time we pull into a motel at midnight.
Every so often, we remember to take some of the various seashells we’ve collected on our travels and part with them by returning them to the ocean. Strangely, the seagulls didn’t think we were tossing food into the air for them which is what I expected.
Something else: lightweight seashells don’t travel far when tossing them into the surf we’ve learned. From those shells taken from their place on a shelf at home, this is the final reminder that for a time, they returned us to other visits to a beach somewhere or other. It’s interesting to think that on subsequent visits, the sand we walk upon might include a solitary grain made from this particular shell.
Hmmm, like our seashells rejoining the ocean, did someone throw this old fishing vessel back into the sea so it, too, might break down into its smallest component parts?
Hey, threat of rain, you don’t scare us! We have arrived in late November, knowing full well the tempests with which the ocean gods deliver their fury on these shores at the time of their choosing, and while we are respectful, we are not fearful.
Blink, and you miss this double arch as you speed your way up or down the 101. Plenty of times, we’ve wanted to stop but were already too far past it to feel safe about backing up on the highway. Here, on an early Sunday morning, we are all alone at the overlook and, for the most part, on the road too.
I might be mistaken, but I thought these were liberty caps of the psychedelic kind. No, I don’t just pick any mushrooms with the hope they are something I want them to be; they were left right where they were growing.
Who knows where we are or who even cares as we delay the inevitable of needing to join Interstate 5 because we chose to dawdle next to the Oregon coast?
A final glance back at the ocean with the longing in our hearts that it won’t be long before we return to once again stand in awe of this most perfect stretch of land and sea we’ve visited on so many occasions.
And let’s not forget that it’s fall at this time of year with the ensuant colors that arrive with this season.
Who cares where beauty is found as long as it is found and can be appreciated?
Grabbing desperately for those reminders that will tell us we were in Oregon.
I believe this is scientifically known as a “Cuddle of Shrooms.”