Happy Campers– Reflections from the Oregon Coast

We drove on.  

I looked out gratefully at the last bits of Oregon coast, reflecting on the amazement that defines it.  I thought back to that magical day where we pulled in to our first overnight spot in Oregon on the beach.  Below hovering cliffs, we had emerged onto the cold, firm sand into sepia-toned mist hovering all around us along the shore, disguising an entire beach–left to right.  All that was revealed was the distant silvery, sparkling display of sea that breathed in slow repetitions before us.  Was it really real was all we could fathom.  We continued to gawk, how is this aloud?  A sight so spectacular, that mysterious and raw, and no one was controlling it.  Not a single house along either stretch, no fee to enter, no signs of prohibited camping.  That tall, thin man that nimbled by us . . . oh what were his words?  “The posture of heaven is just exquisite today.”  I couldn’t have agreed more.    

                                          

We took a green breathe then explored in timeless abandon.  Meandering on, me dancing forth, frolicking, flicking the pooled water with pointed toes.  Giggles spewed forth devilishly, as if a childhood sweetness had taken over, while we were living out our dreamland.                                                                               

I remembered the sea stacks, boulders out in the water that were especially mysterious and added the right accentuation of something “exotic” that had its own mysterious story of coming to be.  How many centuries had forged its residence beyond the scope of its existence?  The bordering line that traced its shape had been left with the personality of a gothic lair that existed in epic poems or fairytales.  Where was Circe?  Where was the magical, mythical witch that loomed over this domain hiding?  The water’s luminosity glimmered subdued, silvery-gold tones, dancing manically with its homage to sun.                                                                                                       

Two days we perched at this beach.  Enjoying a bit of stillness, some time to ourselves, jogs, freezing cold water therapy dives, and cooking up produce goodness from the local, organic co-op.  From our van nest in the modest asphalt parking lot we would watch the show in front of us as many a sporadic, daring local attempted the treacherous, narrow, uneven, supremely rocky, hellish path down to the beach.  If they successfully descended, they were quickly met with the runway strip of soft, deeeep sand. We couldn’t help our chortles as tires spun desperately, sinking into the quicksand of the beach’s sandy snare, and into their pits of shame.  Whiskey Run Beach had collected her dues the only way she knew how. 

Visually speaking Oregon’s entire rugged coast actually blew away California’s– which was quite a feat.  Foggy coastal mornings made for a dreamy coastline, unexpected and exalted.  Beach sunsets left afterglow visions forever burned in our minds.  Pacific City, Canon Beach, Oceanside…       

And then there was the welcome (excessive) amounts of fresh oysters… Dungeness crabs, plethora of local brews, farmers markets sporting freshly milled breads, local seaweed and the likes, and the never-ending punnet we filled with sumptuous, abundant wild blackberries we’d picked along roadsides.  These were the days in the life of us happy campers.