The bittersweet last full day doing the vacationy stuff is at hand. The goal is not to dwell on this being an end but an incredible gift of a day that will stand out in a singular fashion of having been a great collection of moments in its own right. I try my best when we are out on epic journeys not to see their conclusion, so much as an appreciation of the idea that asked, “What if this were the only day in my entire life to be out here and this had always been my dream to be right here on a day such as this?”

If you read yesterday’s overly long post, you’d know that we stayed at Sunset Bay State Park last night. What I hadn’t shared is that once more, we slept in one of our favorite dwellings ever: the mighty yurt. From there, the nearest breakfast joint is in Charleston, where we stopped at the new-to-us Cape Cafe. Soon after we were out driving around town near the Inside Range of Coos Bay when we snapped this photo. I don’t know about you, but this looks about as perfect as perfect gets.

Cape Arago is home to one of the four lighthouses on the Oregon coast that cannot be visited by the general public. Even seeing this one is a bit off the beaten path, and this is about as close as one gets. Also, this isn’t the original lighthouse that first stood here back in 1866; that one was built further to the left, but erosion threatened it, so it was ultimately moved. Then, the second lighthouse was also in danger of being lost to the encroaching sea, and so finally, in 1935, this current structure was built. Until 2013, there was an old bridge to the island, but without maintenance, it had degraded to the point that it was finally removed. Prior to Europeans/Americans setting up shop here, there’s evidence that the Coos indigenous people had a village out on the island. The other island on the left in the foreground is called Qochyax, pronounced “Quay-KEE-awk,”  which means “women and children” in the Coos language.

Nothing like the call of nature to direct where we head next. Typically, a state park is a safe bet when it doesn’t look like we’ll be hitting a town for a while, and so it was that we pulled into Bullards Beach State Park. Seeing we’re here, we simply must go up over the dune for a walk along the ocean on such a beautiful day.

These are the faces of contented happiness where the chill wind is a welcome reminder that we are still in Oregon. While I’ve wished it before, I’ll wish it again with a plea that we could easily take sound photos so that years from now, we could also listen to the ocean in the background when returning to this blogged memory. We probably walked around here forever until reaching the edge of infinity, where the horizon of time started to fade, so as much as we would have liked to have never left, we decided that we’d leave anyway as infinity is only so big.

Louis Pasteur once said, “Chance favors the prepared mind;” with those sage words, we try to pay attention to all that is around us; otherwise, we risk missing important details. Good thing we saw the sign directing us to try the World Famous Langlois Hot Dog. We weren’t really hungry yet, but we were not going to miss the chance to experience something that has gained the attention of people around our planet. We ordered but one of the dogs in order to split it and verify if the claims rang true with us. One bite of this spectacular wiener, and we ordered another. Hailing from Frankfurt obviously makes Caroline an expert in Frankfurters, and my being married to one also makes me an expert. And while these wieners are a bit short and stubby, they are still greatly satisfying. Where exactly does one find a World Famous Langlois Hot Dog? Why in Langlois, Oregon, at the Langlois Market served by the Langloisese. This probably leaves you wondering just what is a Langlois. It’s a disused French word meaning England.

We are on the verge of straining to stand up against a fierce wind blowing over the bluff here at Cape Blanco. Not only is it piercingly cold, but occasionally, the wind carries tiny drops of rain, though maybe it’s bringing ocean spray from the crashing waves below.

These kinds of scenes ignite a spark of imagination where my mind kicks into wondering about our primordial beginnings. Long before creatures had arrived on primitive lands, prior even to the arrival of plants, our still naked earth would have spent eons with a hostile atmosphere, the only witness to these views. Here and there, the sun would poke through the clouds to illuminate a tiny spot on the ocean while not a soul in the eternity of the universe was ever on hand to see what was at work behind the cloak of evolution. Lands were forming and convulsing while magma ran over the surface to extend the reach of where we humans would one day walk along a shore. After billions of years, we should be so lucky to bask in this symphony that plays the elements with a skill mostly unknown to those who gaze into this abyss.

Cape Blanco Lighthouse is an elusive outpost we are yet to pillage with our senses. Someday, we may arrive during the time of year they welcome visitors, but so far, we are consistently here at the wrong time of year. You may wonder what our shared fascination is with lighthouses. They are one of those intrinsically interwoven icons taken from the tales of the mariner. The lighthouse speaks to the symbiotic relationship between land and sea, man and machine. This beacon worked to help the seafarer navigate the treacherous coastal waters while transporting their cargo of people and treasure, be that food, products from another area, or gold itself. During times of stormy weather, the lighthouse received the full force of the gale, and in the cold dark of night, it was the job of the keeper to maintain the beam that can reach 50 miles (80 km) out to sea. It is that light that allowed the oceangoing traveler to know they were about to be safe once again as they landed on terra firma. The lone sentinel in the night is such a romantic notion that it sits squarely on our bookshelf of dreams.

We drove right by Wild Oaks Grill on the side of the road on the outskirts of Port Orford, but then Caroline told me this place was getting some great reviews, so we pulled a quick U-turn and headed right over. Rob, the owner, greeted us and told us all about the process he uses to smoke everything he makes. He has a knack for doing everything large, including today’s special, “The Chicken Bomb.” This concoction is only for the serious of appetite and could easily sate two, maybe three, people. What is it? It’s a homemade sausage stuffed into a chicken breast filled with cream cheese and then wrapped in bacon before the entire thing goes into the smoker. The mac and cheese that was served with is a spicy mix of jalapenos and habanero and is introduced to the smoker as well. Rob serves up some quality BBQ, but his less-than-ideal location leaves him looking for new digs farther south. We’ll be stopping in on our next visit to Oregon should we find ourselves in his neck of the woods again.

I feel that I’ve shared a photo of this location too many times already, but I cannot find a previous post of it. Maybe I never identified it formally, and so I am being denied finding it. This is Shark Fin Rock at Meyers Creek Beach near Gold Beach. Off in the distance, where the sun is still shining through, and behind these clouds on the left is sunny California, just a mere 35 miles away. Oregon has arranged the cloud cover to scare away the hordes from their southern neighbor who might otherwise recognize that the Oregon Coast is a magnitude more beautiful than theirs and consequently start migrating north.

Then, like a wink to those who are already up north, the sun peeks out to reassure us that its golden light is never far away. This view and the monument reflecting the sun is in honor of Samuel H. Boardman who was the Oregon State Parks Superintendent who oversaw the establishment of the state’s roadside parks. The lands put to the side are an amazing collection of beautiful places that no one landowner is able to monopolize. The views are permanently available to all of us who make the effort to travel this coastal road and the highways that supply access to the parks on the interior.

On our first visit to the coast of Oregon 15 years ago we stayed right here at Harris Beach State Park in the Winchuck yurt. Tonight, we are staying in Chetco, named after the local indigenous people of southern Oregon and the river that runs through Brookings.

All those years ago, these yurts were a lot cheaper to rent per night in the offseason than they are now, but they still represent one of the best bargains for being close to the ocean. Driving up from Arizona, we are able to bring all the bedding we want. Wrapped up and ready to unroll is a sheet atop a Pendleton blanket (made in Oregon, 550 miles away in the northeast corner of the state) and our feather comforter.

With the heater on, the bed made, and Caroline and I set up at the small desk the only thing missing is the patter of raindrops on the canvas roof. We can hear the low rumble of the ocean that’s only a couple hundred feet away as we smile at one another and revel in how perfect these cozy moments are. If today were the only vacation journey of our lives it would have been the most amazing experience anyone has ever had. To see it any other way would mean that we had become jaded and undeserving of seeing the magic all around us.