The Oregon Coast: From Yachats to Cape Blanco

Tonight my tent sits in Cape Blanco State Park, near Port Orford, OR, on the southern coast, about 25 miles from Bandon. This is one of the loveliest parks I’ve camped in: deep forest on a cliff at the edge of the beach. After dinner, I took a short walk to the trail that winds through the forest, a coastal trail that pauses to lend generous ocean views now and again, then ultimately leads to the Cape Blanco Lighthouse. As I approached the light at nearly dusk, a deer grazed in the bushes about 20 feet before me. We both looked out over miles and miles of water, broken only by a few large black rocks and a single white light. To the right was the lighthouse, the state’s oldest (1870), highest, and westernmost, circling its yellow beam around the cape. Back in 1903, it also housed the only known female keeper. Her name, of course, was Mabel.

The campsite I’ve chosen is filled with ferns and tall trees, providing a canopy against the rain that I’m sure is on its way. Yesterday was one of the gloomiest, stormiest days I’ve seen since Margot and I visited Moonstone Beach (near Hearst Castle) on the day of the tornado watch on the Central Coast in early June. Last night I passed a truly sublime night at the Yachats Inn, with French doors just 50 feet away from the crashing ocean waves.

Getting there was a bit strange… That morning, the Sylvia Beach exploded and went boom, as one of my dorm-mates, a self-described mendicant monastic, concluded at 6:30 a.m. that our other dorm-mate was some sort of fugitive and decided to confront her as she lay dead asleep. A fistfight nearly ensued, the mendicant walked out (as is their nature, I suppose), and I was left with the angry “fugitive,” who decided it was time to vent. My role was to stay in my bunk and wish that this was not happening in my sanctuary at my beautiful hotel. The drama went on and on and on, including an ugly confrontation at the breakfast table, when half the patrons left (even we literary types hate Albee first thing in the morning)…and I decided that no rest would be had unless I found myself other quarters. After having been seated at dinner the previous night with a paranoid schizophrenic who claimed to be monitored via electronic chip over clam chowder, I knew my limit was nearing.

I quickly exited Newport and headed for Yachats, a bit further south. The town itself is of the “sneeze and you miss it” variety, but the fog banks were absolutely sublime—some of the prettiest gloom you’ve ever seen, the kind that makes a photographer fall to her knees with gratitude. During early evening, I drove up to Cape Perpetua—truly an amazing place, and OR’s highest (803 ft.) paved road this close to the shoreline. On a foggy evening, it’s like the drive up a mountain in a gothic horror film. I made a stop at Devil’s Churn, where I walked the Trail of the Restless Waters, taking me from a high overlook with ocean peeking through the trees, down a switchback to the water’s edge. It’s a rocky, drama--speaking of Albee--as the sea water gets pushed over the rocks and explodes into spray. Sometimes in Oregon I feel like I’m in another country halfway across the world, and this was one of those moments.

Later, I made my way back to the motel, then took a walk into town, to the Yachats Village Market, enjoying the smell of firewood burning in the damp air and the puffs of fog hanging in the pines on the mountains all around. When I got returned, I curled up in my room, with its wood ceiling and paneling, while the ocean waves pounded into shore just outside my screen door. I lay in bed and let them loll me to sleep.

Views from the Sylvia Beach Hotel, Newport, OR

Yaquina Bay Bridge, last night at dusk, engulfed in some truly spectacular fog

Perfect kite weather at Nye Beach, just outside the hotel's back door. 

The neighborhood surrounding the hotel

Three flights up, a very literary fireplace nestled in the library overlooking the Pacific

On a dark and stormy August morning...the

Edgar Allan Poe Room--not for the faint of heart (note le guillotine)

The Belle of Amherst, always a bit more sedate

If you're looking for that obscure autographed photo of Paul Valery, George Orwell, or Carson McCullers, it's most likely at The Sylvia, the best literary boardinghouse you can find

Back to the Beach

Today, I am back on the central Oregon coast, to revisit the Sylvia Beach Hotel, where Margot and I stayed several weeks ago, then to make my way south by camping on the coast. The weather here is cold and stormy, and reminds me a bit of the old saying, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,” which Snopes.com assures me Mark Twain never uttered. (Still, I like to imagine him, pipe in hand, shivering on the Golden Gate Bridge.)

A few little things have happened since my last entry.

One is a PO box and an accompanying physical address in Oregon.

A week ago, I found a wonderful home to sublet just north of Ashland. This area has so inspired me that I have decided to pause in my travels and rest here for a while, perhaps even permanently. I have very much fallen for Oregon, and the Ashland area is particularly wonderful. It reminds me a bit of Santa Fe back in the early ’90s, when it still felt like a small-town community, everyone knew each other, and a certain congeniality still existed.

Chuck Palahniuk has written a fun little volume called Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, OR, about his hometown that pretty much sums up how eccentric folks up this way can be. And Ashland has lots of wild, radical hippie energy, mixed with “rugged individualists,” hardcore Fundamentalists (don’t spin that radio dial too fast), Pacific Crest Trail thru-hikers, pagans, musicians of absolutely every stripe, people who don’t mind living in isolated cabins for 6 months at a clip, brazen jaywalking deer, environmentalists, rednecks, militia, women walking down the street holding hands and singing, religious cult members, mountain-climbers, punked-out students, shrieking thespians…all of whom seem to turn up at its awesome co-op at once, quaffing kombucha and tossing organic Rainier cherries into their backpacks. It’s people-watching at its finest, and if you stop for a few minutes and eat your lunch outside on the ledge, the gestalt of the place reveals itself, somewhere between the doddering toddlers in tie-dyed onesies and the bearded hippies standing in for Dumbledore.

People seem very happy here, and the week I’ve just spent (several nights of yurt camping and others in the dorm at the Ashland Hostel) has been extremely pleasant. It feels much like a spiritual/creative/musical playground, with so many things happening at one time that it can be hard to choose. On Friday, I stumbled onto the First Friday Artwalk, near the railyard, where several galleries have shows and musicians give impromptu concerts on the streets. Terribly cool. Another night, I sat next to the creek in 99-acre Lithia Park, had a sandwich, and enjoyed a young band jamming on some blues and prog rock tunes.

I feel like I’ve discovered the place I thought Santa Fe would always be. It’s rough around the edges, sincere, friendly, deep, playful, spirited, and kind. I’m ready for this.

Straddling Oregon and Washington: Encabined in Mt. Hood

July 23, 2008



I’m sitting here at my picka-nicka table in Gifford Pinchot National Forest, Mt. Adams Ranger District, Washington State, where they really still do have Smokey the Bear signage as you drive in. I’ve rented an historical cabin, originally constructed by the CCC in 1937 as a guard station in the woods of the Government Mineral Springs. This was once a popular hot springs destination for tourists and even sported a large hotel—hard to believe this far out in the wilderness, on the road to Mt. St. Helens. This afternoon I drove out of Portland, across I-84 East, until I hit Cascade Locks, the last town on the Columbia River before you reach WA state. I stopped there for a malt and hamburger at a very old school Tastee Freez-type stand, in the most glorious forested mountainous, watery setting you can imagine. Took my place in line besides the deep woodsmen wearing camo, the kids who looked like they were fishing, the Californians wearing Hollister, and a grandmother in large Audrey Hepburn shades who spent a long time talking with me about ’71 Camaros. Too much fun. I walked along the Columbia Gorge for a bit, then headed up to the mouth of the Wind River, where I discovered one really, truly couldn’t talk on a cell phone in that ambient, then took a too-short drive over the Bridge of the Gods, aptly named, which spans the Wind River and lots of lovely forest land. My original goal was to stay near Mt. Hood, though I overshot it a bit…may end of at Mt. St. Helens in the morning, which I hear is even prettier.

The cabin was remodeled 7 years ago but still has no running water or electricity. However, it’s quite attractive, and large, with a great rock fireplace in the living room and kerosene (now propane) lanterns throughout. The renovators tried to retain as much of the original concept as possible, including the flour bins. It slightly resembles my circa 1927 casita in Santa Fe's South Capitol neighborhood.

After I arrived, I spent a long time perusing the extensive oral history documentation of the very first guard who lived here with his family from 1937-1942. This brought the whole place to life, especially his grown children’s remembrances of what it was like to grow up in this gorgeous forest with bubbling streams laced through it. After dinner, I took a long walk on the Soda Dam trail, where people have summer cottages (mostly unused) in the very depths of the forest—truly Hansel and Gretel territory. (Of course, I’m thinking, “Moldiest homes on earth!”) This is a rather remote area, and in winter, is accessible only by skiing or snowshoeing in. I sipped the medicinal waters, which have an indescribable taste of sulpher, salt, rotten eggs, and several other foul, unappetizing flavors. Not sure the cure was worth the cost, I moved on.

Newport

Margot arrived very late Friday night, and we drove down to Newport on Saturday. That night, we stayed at one of the most fabulous hotels I’ve ever been to, the Sylvia Beach, which sits right on the (chilly) waters of the central Oregon coast. The hotel has a literary theme, and each of its rooms is decorated in honor of a particular writer. We stayed in the Gertrude Stein on Saturday and the Alice Walker on Sunday. They were not the comeliest rooms in the place, but both had ocean views better than we’d ever experienced—we could even see a nearby lighthouse. On the third floor is the coup de grace, a library in which you can pick a book, settle in an easy chair and hunker down with a cup of tea while staring straight ahead into the ocean. Which is precisely what I did on Sunday afternoon, settling in with a book of short stories by one of my writing teachers, Pam Houston, and feeling incredibly lucky to have been given the name of this hotel by my new friend Susan in SLO. The hotel has a wildly sweet vibe, too. Lots of artists staying there, great women working the desk, and 2 cute cats, Dickens and Keats. Newport and the Nye Beach area are classic seaside towns, and Sat. night we ate at Mo’s, a classic harborside joint downtown.

On Sunday, however, we had an absolutely amazing! meal at the Sylvia Beach’s restaurant, Tables of Content. You’re seated at a table with 7 other interesting people and fed a wonderful 8-course meal…which would be plenty, in and of itself. But what makes it truly engaging is a game the hostess plays called “Two Truths and a Lie.” Each person must state 3 facts about themselves, one of which is false. The other diners then ask the person questions to try and figure out the lie. Those who manage to fool everyone receive a standing ovation. This serves as a great way to get to know your neighbors, and our table was not only raucously loud, but also lasted the longest, starting at 7 and not quitting till after 11 pm. This was much assisted by our new friends Bob and Maggie, 2 Canadians from Edmonton who helped keep the conversation fascinating the whole night long. Breakfasts, included in the room rate, are also top-notch, and offer another opportunity to get to know your fellow occupants. Then there’s the popular post-breakfast crawl, which the maids must love, whereby you check out all the open rooms to see just what they’ve got in, say, the Tolkien…the Virginia Woolf…or…sigh…Colette…



When Monday morning rolled around, Margot and I could hardly tear ourselves away, until we both got a good case of the sniffles, and I suggested that it might just be time to book another vacation…during Christmas week. I can't remember ever looking forward to Christmas--until today!