Good evening, Campers! It’s Silver Cliche’ with you again. Tonight we are safely camped at Beachside State Park just outside of Yachats, Oregon.
My first challenge of the day is that I don’t know how to pronounce “Yachats”. It might be “YACH-ats” or maybe “YA-chats” or perhaps the second “a” is silent and it’s the single syllable word “yachts”. How that word mutes the sound of so many consonants is another mystery. Let’s not get started on that.
Oregon, Oregon... let’s get back to Oregon. Today was a short drive as will be tomorrow. Less than 100 miles from Coos Bay to Yachats. By reputation, Highway 101 which carried us that distance is one of Oregon’s beautiful drives. In reality, half of it is a slow crawl through the woods in heavy Memorial Day traffic and half of it is a spectacular drive. Let’s take those in order.
The drive from Coos Bay to Florence is about 50 miles of 2 lane road. Today is Memorial Day and the throngs of people who escaped Portland and Eugene and God knows where else for the weekend were headed home. We slipped into their crawl. Our Florida plates and northerly compass heading told everyone that we were heading away from home but that bought us nothing. There was occasional evidence of natural beauty but it was distant or fleeting. Much of that drive is through the Oregon Dunes Recreation Area. When we saw dunes at all it was the backside of them. Presumably the beautiful side faced the Pacific which was usually some miles to our west. We occasionally crossed bays, rivers or inlets. One was large enough to have a large U.S. Coast Guard vessel underway within our view. Others had more massive log piles beside forest products factories. Still more had commercial fishing boats at dock. None had that “In your face, Floridian!” beauty we hoped to find. The highlight was when Google maps said “I can save you 2 minutes by getting out of this traffic and onto a parallel road.”. We passed within about 100 feet of one of the many old light houses that dot the Oregon coast. Mrs. C’ got the shot!
We stopped for a bite, stretch, and a little shopping in Florence, Oregon on the Siuslaw River. Don’t ask me exactly how to pronounce that, either. I think it’s like saying “cole-slaw” with a mouth full of coleslaw. It was 64 degrees and mostly overcast but with enough sun coming through to make it feel like 66 degrees and overcast. The Oregonians were eating at outdoor cafe’s and celebrating Memorial Day’s place as the start of summer. We Floridians have a word for a day that’s overcast with a high of 64... winter. We ate our take-out in the Airstream with the furnace on and left. I caught this uninspiring picture of the Coleslaw River Bridge in natural light to memorialize the start of summer in coastal Oregon. The people we met seemed upbeat and cheery. I’m figuring they are all on antidepressants. Also, recreational marijuana is legal and evident here.
We gassed up before leaving town. Have I mentioned that Oregon has a state law prohibiting pumping your own gas? Evidently, they feel this is a task, like performing an appendectomy or installing natural gas lines, that should be performed only by trained professionals. It adds time and unwanted interpersonal interaction to a task that’s tedious enough. Plus, it raises the question of tipping. I didn’t tip the surgeon who removed my appendix. I don’t tip the nozzle jockeys either. I hope I’m not being an ugly Floridian.
Then it happened. We entered a time machine and were two weeks back on the California Coast at Big Sur... only maybe a bit better. The coast between Florence and Yachats is spectacular. The shoreline itself is a variety of forms from broad sandy beaches to weathered sedimentary rock which is deadly steep in some places. That forces the pine forests to contour their approach to the waves from a respectable distance in some areas which offers long views of the surfline from Highway 101 to almost in the waves in others. Driving this stretch is a constant game of “I wonder what’s next” as each turn in the road approaches for almost 30 miles. And there are plenty of turns. Hills, too. Like California 1 at Big Sur, Highway 101 is forced to climb to serious elevations in short distances then drop again in order to find ground that can hold it. I would love to tell you that I checked my altimeter and it showed 600, 700 or 850 feet above sea level at one point but the combination of steep hills, frequent switchbacks, narrow lanes and an 8 1/2 foot wide trailer made that unwise. Even if I thought the odds of surviving an elevation check were worth it, Mrs. C’, Zachary and Romeo were watching me like a hawk for any sign of distraction or impairment. I think Mrs. C’ had her right hand on the door handle and her seatbelt unbuckled st one point but I’m not totally certain about that. The exclamation point on the beauty of this drive was the Heceta Head lighthouse. It’s cluster of brilliant white buildings with red roofs is visible from a high point of Highway 101 as you round a bend and look across an open bay to the cliff side spot that was carved out for them. The final test of trailer-towing acumen is a short, narrow tunnel with a curved roof and two clearance signs... one for the left side of the lane and a lower one for the right. It’s like staring down Clint Eastwood after a few rounds have been exchanged and he asks if you are feeling lucky. “You know you’re not 14’6” on the left... but are you under 11’6” on the right?”. I called his bluff and won... this time. The downside of this drive is that the scenery changes too quickly to photograph from a moving vehicle. There are viewpoints and turnouts, but they are all on the ocean side of the road. That’s great for a Prius or motorcycle skipping along southbound. Pull over... snap, snap... scoot off. Not so good for the USS Airstream needing to cross the centerline... call for tugboats to slip into a tight berth... unship the camera gear from the trailer and reverse the process to resume navigation. So here’s a suggestion if these words are not enough... Google “Highway 101 central Oregon”, go to “images” and you’ll see what professional photographers have done to earn a living on this amazing stretch of coast.
I piloted the Airstream into Beachside State Park at about 5:30. A quick walk-around didn’t identify any new scratches or body damage. Mrs. C’ did yeoman’s work making sure I didn’t knock anything over while backing the beast into her resting place for the night. Our spot is on a rise directly above the beach which is about 200 yards wide from the dunes to the surf. Here’s a pic of us settled in taken from the beach below:
Ok... I lied... that’s not us. It happens that the very best spot in the campground is occupied by a 25’ front bedroom Airstream... same as us. That’s a pic of him. Our spot isn’t too shabby... we are immediately next to him. You can actually see the white roof fan and silver front end of out Airstream in that photo just to the left of our neighbor.
As the sun set I walked the dogs on the beach and captured this about 100 yards from our trailer:
Oh... and that part about sirens? Well, offshore from this part of the Pacific Coast of Northern California, Oregon and Washington is a flaw in the earth’s crust known as the Cascadia Fault. You know, like the San Andreas Fault... but underwater. The geologic records make it evident that every 300 years, give or take, this beast burps and drives a massive tsunami on shore. Native American lore supports this as a recurring theme of destruction. It’s been about 400 years since the last burp, so the people of Yachats and other unpronounceable towns up and down the coast have prepared themselves with alarms and evacuation routes. I’m not saying we are concerned about that. I’m just saying the truck is still fully hitched to the trailer and I’m sleeping with my pants and shoes on.
Tomorrow is another short drive then we settle in place for our last two nights in Oregon. After that we reach our farthest point from home... Cape Disappointment, Washington. I hope you’ll join us! You won’t be disappointed. (I’m sorry... I feel cheap and dirty for having written that. Proud, too, of course... but in a cheap and dirty way.)
Later...
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