Part 3 of the 2008 Oregon Adventure

Wednesday September 10, 2008

I’m up just after 0600 to a brilliant and clear sky. I shower, and head for an unremarkable breakfast of two eggs poached medium, sausage links, greasy hash browns, and tea. It's such an unremarkable meal I immediately forget the name of the place.

This is Spruce Goose Day, the day I head back over the mountains to McMinnville, in the heart of the Willamette Valley. Waiting there is the Evergreen Aviation and Space Museum.

I check out of the hotel and have a quick conversation about the beautiful crisp morning weather with the desk clerk. She says it's a bit cold for her as she's from the Deep South. I ask how she wound up in Oregon, and she says she stopped on her way back from a year in Alaska. “Home soon!” she says.

It's just after 0800 as I once again gas up the car at the Shell station, resisting the ingrained habit to fill it up myself. I check the tire air and head east on HWY 26. Valdy is singing about how frustrated and disappointing it is to be a “Dirty Old Man”. Hwy 26 switches from 2 to 3, and occasionally to 4 lanes as we head over the mountains. It's a beautiful driving road but not overly scenic. Just past the summit I find a pull out and stop to take some pictures. The view is only there because of a very recent clear cut. Logging is big here.

I turn south onto Hwy 47 just past the hamlet of Manning. The Willamette Valley is broad, rolling hills, and full of wineries. Signs abound at every crossroad, directing you to yet another winery. This takes me a bit by surprise. With so many wineries it must be a major industry, but I had only thought that it was a small, almost boutique, industry. Someone needs to get the word out.

I don't stop at the wineries. It had been a passing thought in the original planning, but I have always thought wine tastings should be a couple thing, along with Bed and Breakfasts, and long walks on the beach. Maybe I'll come back some time to enjoy the wineries. Soon, when I retire from the daily madness, I'll have all the time in the world.

Nav directs me to the Museum but I miss the turns. I come back to it through a few side streets until I can re-join Hwy 18. I reach the Museum at 1030.

The Museum is almost new and looks it. It consists of three spacious, modern buildings, The Aviation Museum, the Space Museum, and the IMAX Theatre. The admission price is a bit of a shock at $30 for both museums and the IMAX movie. It's more than I’ve paid at other places of similar size, but I really want to see the Spruce Goose. And see it I do!

It dominates the Aviation Museum. And dominate is not the word that does it justice. Its original aircraft designation was the Hercules HK-1. And its Herculean proportions are the truth of its name.

Parked under the left wing, dwarflike in comparison, is a Douglas DC 3 which was a dominant airplane in air travel when the HK1 was conceived and built.

 Made entirely out of wood I am struck by its smooth, rounded, seemingly Art Deco lines. With the knowledge that this thing actually once flew, albeit very briefly, it has an artful brilliance of design, but it's actual story is one of excess, and ego. 

The overall dimensions of length and width are within a couple of feet of a Boeing 747. I was hoping to see the cockpit but am disappointed to learn that to visit the cockpit and get your picture taken cost's a whack of money over and above the price of the admission. It's impossible to stand under this plane and not feel tiny.

The eight Pratt and Whitney Wasp Major radial engines look quite incongruous. The plane seems as if it should have some other means of propulsion, be it jet engines, antigrav lifts, or rockets. Something a lot sexier than four bladed propellers.

I am quite taken with the museum collection. Buried in behind a SeaBee and a P-51 Mustang I spy a DeHavilland Vampire, one of the very first jet fighters. I am trying to get a clear shot when a Docent asks “Which plane are you trying to get?” I tell him and he lets me past the chain barrier to get a better look.

The Docents are a gold mine of fact and trivia and are happy to impart details to anyone who will ask.

The Evergreen collection is large and varied. Everything from a replica Wright Flyer to the Beech Starship 1 2000A. World War 2 displays vary from a Spitfire, Messerschmitt  bF 109, Boeing B-17, North American B-25, Curtiss P-40, a Jeep, an original Link Trainer including control set, and a Grumman F6F Hellcat. This huge space holds a lot of aircraft.

I leave the Aviation Museum at 1215 and walk across the parking lot to the Space Museum. It's not as heavily populated with exhibits. I am a bit disappointed. A lot of the displays are replicas not originals. The Apollo capsule hanging from the Sea King is a reproduction, the Sea King is real.

The Lunar Lander and Lunar Rover are replicas as well. The Museum Of Flight in Seattle has former training units.

 The Titan missiles are real.

The SR-71 is also real. The Blackbird was, and still is the greatest achievement in high speed atmospheric aviation. First flown in the early 1960's and retired from Air Force/CIA service in 1990, it was the front line reconnaissance aircraft. It was literally faster than a speeding bullet. On its final flight prior to retirement from active military service, it flew from Los Angeles to Washington DC in 68 minutes 18 seconds. NASA still maintains a couple of SR-71's at their Dryden Research facility for high altitude and high speed research.

 Hanging from the ceiling is a North American X-15, America's first sub-orbital rocket plane. So many records, and so much wonderful science was done by the X-15 program it's hard to tell the story quickly. So I won't. For more information go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_American_X-15

I leave the Space Museum just in time to make my IMAX movie. It's a 3D presentation on activities aboard the ISS (International Space Station). This will be my first IMAX 3D experience. And I suggest you try it, especially with the Space Station movie. Not only do you get the 3D effect but the weightless 3D is delightfully disorienting. I have to remove the special glasses and close my eyes several times to reset my equilibrium. I am grateful for two things. First that I glad I didn't choose astronaut on my career form since I couldn't pass the first test of weightlessness. Second, that I didn’t have lunch.

After the movie I wander through the plane displays outside. A McDonnell Douglas F-15, Bell UH-1 Huey and AH-1 Cobra Helicopters, and a Convair F-102 Delta Dagger, a plane often overlooked for its contribution to the development of “integrated weapon systems”.

By now it's 1430 and I'm done. The sun is hot as I wander around outside and I'm thinking it's time to go downtown and check out McMinnville proper.

Nav guides me on the most direct route, a bunch of side streets where I have to cross main roads. I think the woman in the machine has it in for me! Eventually I park the car on tree lined 2^nd Avenue. There are galleries and book shops here. I find some galleries but they seem to concentrate on new age and recycled hippie art. In a framing shop I find some prints of the Spruce Goose and a Pan American Clipper. And they cost a LOT less than the same thing I saw in the Museum Gift Shop.

 I spend a quiet hour wandering the street. It's a cute place but I don't see a lot of substance in the shops. I've seen towns like this before, but this is a quiet afternoon of distraction and I'm glad I came.

I have Nav plot me a course to the McMinnville Comfort Inn And Suites where I have a reservation. I wind up back out by the Museum. I check in and consult the hotel guide as to what's in the neighborhood for dinner, and I find not much. I'm a ways out of town and I'm not having Burger King for dinner.

I consult Nav to see what's in her database. I also want to fill up the car. I drive back into McMinnville and stop at a Union 76. While a young lad fills up the car I lay in some provisions, beer and peanuts. I'm not sure what I'm heading into tomorrow, so having something on hand is a precaution.

Dinner is a burger at an overpriced pub. The burger is very good but the German potato salad is more like potato's awash in white vinegar.

I have a couple of Pilsners brewed on the premises. Not bad, but they not up to the taste of Mirror Pond, Rip Curl, or Droptop Amber's.

Back at the hotel I am just in time to catch the news on the local NBC affiliate. It looks a lot like news on the Seattle NBC affiliate. When I get home I'll check to see if they are a BELO owned station. The news is the same as at home. But with a flashier graphics presentation and a strong live presence from multiple locations.

I'm asleep by 8. The TV has bored me into it.

Tuesday September 9, 2008

Here's part two of the 2008 Oregon Adventure.

Tuesday September 9

I awake slowly. Good thing. Means I'm starting to relax, or so I tell myself. I'm really easy to lie to these days, and relaxation is bit of a foreign concept.
I peek out the curtains, it's very heavy fog. It's the Pacific Coast, it'll burn off soon. Like I said, I'm easy to lie to.
I go to the Pig N' Pancake for breakfast. They get the eggs right, poached medium, but the sausage patties are pretty close to hockey pucks.
Personal memo: Stick to the sausage links. They may be more filler than meat but at least you can swallow them.
I walk back through the fog to the hotel to pick up the Buick. Today's plan is to head south to Cannon Beach, Tillamook for the Aviation Museum, the Three Capes Loop Scenic Drive, and then back North to Seaside for dinner.
I stop at a Shell station for gas, get out and almost start pumping when I am approached by a burly guy in a reflector vest asking if I need help. He takes over the pumping duties after he explains that Self Serve Gas isn't allowed in Oregon, or New Jersey.
My Fodor's Guide Book on Oregon has failed to mention this Gas situation. I think this is an important thing to know. Along with the no Sales Tax.
I roll into Cannon Beach a short time later, it's only about ten miles south of Seaside. Fog is so thick I can only see a couple of blocks so I give Cannon Beach a pass. Figure I'll come back when the fog lifts. Next stop Tillamook, or so I thought.
I stop on a cliff top just north of Arch Cape at Oswald West State Park. To me it's little more than a viewpoint pull out, but the view is moodily scenic.

On Nehalum Bay, at the hamlet of Wheeler, I stop to watch some fisherman on the flats. The gray overcast, and cool sea air remind me another fall is coming. The salmon will spawn, the leaves will color and make random patterns of red and orange patterns on the ground. Darkness will come early, and I'll need to light the fireplace on the rainy Sunday afternoons while I read on the couch.

Another year gone, and another approaching. Mr Shuffle has Marc Jordan sing ”Seems I've been in school for so many years, September marks my life out of ten, the memories were good when my heart was made of wood and I didn't realize back then, that I'd be traveling down this highway, 'cause it's the only thing going my way...”. Mr Shuffle plays his game! The miles and the music wear on. The sky is still thick and gray but the fog is lifting.

One of my primary reasons for this trip is to visit the Tillamook Air Museum. Housed in an old Navy Blimp Hangar, it’s billed as the largest wooden structure in the world. It's very impressive. It's huge, really, really huge. It's also very dark, so dark I could not see the other end of the thing despite it being well lit.

Being a plane buff, even though I dislike flying, Tillamook offers some displays that I have never seen. A genuine F4U Corsair, a PBY Catalina, an SBD Dauntless, and two very rare planes. A Martin Mauler, one of only two left on display in the United States, and the one of a kind Boeing 377 StratoCruiser or Mini-Guppy.

It's also an opportunity to get up close to an F-14 Tomcat, a P-38 Lightning, the A-26 Douglas Invader, and a P2V-7 Neptune the first production turbo prop airplane. Over 30 planes housed in the massive structure. There is plenty of room to expand.

The most surprising display I find is the tiny Scorpion Helicopter tucked away off to one side, almost as an afterthought. As a teenager I had dreamed of owning one of these kit built machines. It was billed as a commuter helicopter. I had never even seen one until now. It looked a bit flimsy. Back when I weighed a lot less, it would not have concerned me what it's payload would be. Now I top out at 210 and I try to tread lightly around the china shop. The Scorpion was only a thin fiberglass shell with a small engine.

A DC-3 in Evergreen livery was parked just inside the hangar door.

I take a lot of pictures. My left forearm is acting up again. I think the weight of the camera and the vertical angles I use are taking their toll.

The gift shop has a lot of good quality merchandise at reasonable prices. I buy a fleece jacket for $20 and couple of logo'd T-Shirts. There is also a small aviation themed café.
Back in the Buick I take a turn to see what the “Cemetery” sign is about. I thought it might be related to the Museum but it's not. It's also in an interesting place way out in the middle of a field. I'm sure there's a story but I see no information other than it's a Catholic Cemetery and appears to have been here a long time. Someone is tending to the grass so I don't venture in.

Back on HWY 101, it's almost 11 and I am looking for a Venti Awake. I passed a Starbucks at the north end of town. Fortunately I notice the route I'll be taking to access the Three Capes Loop. In town I see one of the new 2009 Dodge Challengers. Looks stylishly sweet, but I’m not fond of the bright orange paint job.

For the next few hours I will be driving south on a scenic and curvy two lane road. It's not a numbered Highway. The posted limit is much higher than people are driving. I have a Pickup loaded with a Camper in front of me and it's swaying a bit on the curves. The road is narrow, trees overhang the road, and there are some reverse angle corners. The Buick is handling well.

Ahead of the pickup is a turquoise '57 Nomad towing a BOLO trailer. I am impressed with its condition. Straight out of the showroom condition is rare for a 51 year old.

I stop at Cape Meares State Scenic Viewpoint. There are houses almost right on the beach, but what I really notice is the trees to the south. All the branches are pointing east. Not a tree expert but I am guessing the winds here are strong and constant to be able to do that! Again the beach is broad and hard packed.

I walk down to the water's edge. The fog has mostly burned off but there is still thick cloud. The Pacific Ocean looks gray, cold and just a little menacing even though the air is warm. I'm not comfortable here. I look at the houses for a few moments. Storm surges associated with climate change will, I think, be damaging this place. Unable to place reasons for my anxiety I leave after about ten minutes.

I feel better as I get back on the road and drive to the Cape Meares lighthouse. I take advantage of the cliff top and the surrounding park space to take a stroll. The lighthouse itself is quite squat and small, not one of the classic towering structures. It doesn't have to be, it sits on top of one humongous, sheer, cliff. Wandering the park is not for the elderly or infirm. While the paths are paved there is an incline from the parking lot down to the lighthouse and then up on a walkway to some viewpoints. I get slightly winded walking up the path to the Octopus Tree.

I continue the drive south. Kathy Mattea is "Walking Away A Winner", and King Kobra kicks it up with "Never Say Die". The curves in the road are fun and there isn't much traffic so I give the Buick her head and revel in the quickness of the turns. She's not the handler my '82 T/A was, but she's civilized about it and responds well. Diane Schuur checks in for the first time this trip. She's telling me about her "New York State Of Mind". Her range and style always thrill.

Outside of Netarts the smell of the sea is very strong. I flashback to childhood, and summer vacations in the Gulf Islands, the cabin next to the waters of Pilot Bay. The smell of the sea is the smell of home, and family.
I park the Buick and get out to soak it up.

I tear myself away with reluctance and get back in the car, put it in Drive, and Kenney Chesney starts in with “Demons”. Mr Shuffle is feeling cruel.
Miles on I pass a break in a roadside dune embankment and pull over. I walk back and am impressed with a stretch of beach almost hidden from the road. Signs say this is Tierra Del Mar and warn that driving on the beach is forbidden from November to March. Driving on some sections of the beach is allowed here. I walk back to the car and park it on the beach. This is a great stretch, another of those places to contemplate Life, Love, and the State of the Economy. I take some pictures. Aside from an elderly couple who never get out of their car and a young family playing at the waters edge, I have the beach to myself.

Someone with far less discipline than I could have got lost in the scenes and have stayed for hours.

I take some pictures of the beach, a mother and child, and the lightening sky.  None of them will bring in any money but I enjoy the process.
I move further south, to Pacific City. Finally the sun makes a full appearance. There are rock formations, surfers, beachside restaurants, and a small town. I wander out on the golden beach to take some pictures of the rocks and the surfers. I see a red Chevy Blazer driving on the beach. I would drive the Buick on the beach except for two things, it's leased, and the tires aren't any great heck except on dry pavement.

One rock formation is a silent, stolid sentinel. Impassive. Solid. Alone.

Pacific City marks the end of the 3 Capes Loop Scenic Drive.
I turn north again on Hwy 101, David Benoit is playing "The Key To You", and doing it wonderfully.
I am trying to see Mt Hebo. It is supposed to be around here and it's supposed to be 3100 feet high. You can't hide a mountain that big from plain site, but they have managed to. My interest in Mt Hebo is low key. A good friend was here horseback riding with her mother the previous week. I want a picture of ”Mt Hebo” just to show her I was there.
The town of Hebo is a gas station at the crossroads of Hwy 101 and Hwy 22. I find a State Park sign that says “Mt Hebo” and the symbols show horses, camping, fishing.
On a flash of whimsy I turn up the mountain road that Nav says is there. I try to zoom her out a bit to get an idea of how far it goes but that's inconclusive. “Journey, not destination...”
After about a mile the road narrows. It's still paved but now its about a car and a half wide. Some optimist has painted a double yellow line down the middle of it. The tree cover is confusing Nav. Sometimes I'm on Mt Hebo Road, sometimes on HWY 22.
I feel a low level unease. The “lizard brain” is seeing something that disturbs it, but not able to sort out what. A couple of miles further on I see a Viewpoint information sign. What is written there dispels the unease. In the early part of the century (for those of a certain age that would be the 1900's) a major fire destroyed almost all the timber. The trees were replanted by hand and those are the ones that stand today. They stand in evenly spaced rows. Gaia does not grow her forests in evenly spaced rows. She revels in chaotic randomness. That's what bothered me. Having grown up in a naturally forested area that organization struck my “lizard” brain as being wrong.

I stop a mile or so further up at a rough pullout to take some pictures of the forest and the road. The sun is out full now and the colors, shadows, and shapes intrigue my sight. I spend a few minutes cursing. I compose and set exposure and then the sun will hide behind a cloud.

I drive on wondering when this road ends. It's been a while since I left the highway. I see a young fellow sweeping the road. Incongruity and serendipity again. What are the odds of finding someone sweeping a mountain road just when you need one? I ask him if there is a summit or if the road just curves around the mountain and then back down? “Summit's about a mile ahead” he says.

I drive on. The pavement runs out as I round the final curve, a quick view of a lone hawk catching the afternoon updrafts, and I come out onto an almost flat summit.

I start to laugh, then belly laugh, and then to tears of, well, I can't quite describe why or what. The scene before me is straight out of my childhood. Straight out of those interminable car trips. The ones where we would be all over the South Coast and Interior. The ones where my brothers and I would “fight over the middle seat”, “...don't cross this line”, “...mom he touched me”, and “...are we there yet”. On those trips my dad would sometimes take us up mountainsides on little better than goat trails to look at tv and radio transmitters he had either worked on or knew about. A moment of whimsy to turn onto the mountain road has brought me face to face with my recently deceased father, and his work, his passion. Across the top right of the mountain were transmitter sheds, microwave dishes, flat panels, dipoles, and almost every other type of antenna you can imagine. I heard my father's voice silently naming them all. I have long forgotten the details of the radiation characteristics of these antennas, but I remember he could speak with such authority about them. Maybe that's why the tears. I really miss him.

It was a microsecond of absolute crystal clarity. Personal, professional, emotional, intellectual clarity. And something in that microsecond changed me. And don't ask how or why. I just knew. As I know now that things can't be the same as they were. I wasn't sure then, and I'm not sure now exactly what those things are, or will be, but I know they can't be the same.

When you get to the Oregon coast make Mt Hebo's summit a “must” stop, but only if it's a clear day. Today there is still fog and coastal cloud visible below, and mountain peaks everywhere above.

Out of habit I lock the car and walk to my left, to a large knoll that is almost flat. It looks like something used to be here, a large something. The rocks are more like gravel, and there is a short, roughed in, road from the Transmitter sites. I spy a piece of re-bar sticking out of the ground and some short concrete posts.

The view, well just look at the pictures. It's beyond my limits to try and describe what I see.

I can try to capture in images what I see but it's impossible to capture the whole experience. The air clean, without odour, sun warm, breeze breathlike, almost a caress, and it’s almost totally silent. I am by myself but without a feeling of aloneness. For once, for this one all too brief moment, I know I am who and where I am supposed to be.

I depart the summit 30 minutes later without regret. I have to move on, it's 1545, and I'm hoping the new message and the lessons travel well.

On the way down I run into the road worker again. I stop and thank him and he begins to tell me the story of the mountaintop. During the Cold War the summit was an Air Force Base with a huge radar installation. He asked if I had walked out to the knoll to look at the view. That's where the big radar dish was. He says the weather at the summit can be vicious and the Air Force eventually had to enclose the dish in a big radome. You've seen these type of covers at airports, they look like large golf balls. One Columbus Day, during a huge storm, the radome blew off the dish and was carried out over the mountain edge, and landed in a farmer’s field a few miles north in the town of Beaver. The farmer used it to re-roof the barn. Or so the story goes...
Kathy Mattea sings about "Who's Gonna Know", Frank Sinatra loves "Autumn In New York", and Randy Crawford compares love to "A Cigarette In The Rain". I take my time on the descent.
Once again northbound on HWY 101, with the afternoon sun to my left, I can enjoy the views of the coast. I look for the barn as I pass through Beaver, but don't see one that looks like it's been roofed with radome bits. The story has put me in a good humour. Further north I pass the Air Museum and on through Tillamook to stop for a Venti Awake.

Pulling out of the Starbucks Mr Shuffle gives me Toby Keith and "An American Soldier". Pride and Patriotism writ large, and not out of place here. It's a song about a guy who works very hard at a tough job, one that you can't call in sick to, and where everyone expects the best of you all the time. I can relate, but change is now a personal shadow. The work is not as important as it once was. Part of this vacation had been to give me time to examine the changes in my work of the past year. I have determined to change my own work focus. All the effort hasn't been worth it after all. Really, it’s been a waste.

Driving north I spy a tree growing out of a rock, out in the channel. It's one of the eastward focused ones. It grows alone, against some rather spectacular odds. To me it's sculpture, and it's a gift.

I arrive back in Seaside just after 1730. I park the Buick and take the camera gear up to the room. I send a quick e-mail to my brothers about a route change for the next day while I contemplate someplace for dinner. At the other side of the parking lot is Dodger's, a seafood place that's once again recommended by the desk clerk. Steak, baked potato, sautéed scallops (in garlic butter) and a salad with a great 1000 Island, and a couple of local Rip Curl Ales.

Back at the hotel I curl up on the bed with Attack Poodles, a couple of Mirror Pond Ales and a jazz music station on the TV. Sleep comes easy, and for once, dreamless.

September 8, 2008

I pulled out at 0615 to a mostly clear sky with the sun just starting to rise over Mt Baker. Mr. Shuffle, my 80gb i-Pod Classic was sending us off with Nanci Griffith letting me know how much she missed “The Banks Of Lake Pontchartrain”. After a few turns the voice in my new Garmin GPS got truly annoying with “recalculating” when I wouldn't go her way. I think I know how to get out of my driveway and down to the border. In short order I pulled over and found out how to turn her voice off.  Somehow there is a metaphor in there about some relationships, but I shoved that thought back into the dark, where it belongs.

After an hour’s drive, and a fifteen minute wait at the border, I made it to the Border Agent. As I outlined where I was headed she was almost incredulous that I was heading on this adventure by myself. I didn't blame her. But being alone is something I'm comfortable with, especially after so many years practice. You don't really get used to it, but you do come to terms with it. You have to.

I was safely across the frontier with Eddie Rabbitt telling me about his Repetitive Regrets and for the next 6 hours it would be all Interstate southbound!

Two hours later I was on the outer edge of Seattle. By now I could switch off Mr Shuffle. I was close enough to get one of my favourite radio stations without interference. KWJZ is a smooth jazz station that plays some of the genre's best music. It was a helpful and soothing background to navigate through the maze of Seattle freeway exits I didn’t need. Once I found the Express lanes south I was in great shape. A wonderfully smart person realized that some people didn't want to get off the freeway and only wanted to pass through, so they dedicated two lanes in each direction for through traffic.

Driving on American freeways is a guilty pleasure. I admire their ability to merge, not tailgate, and demonstrate courtesy. It is a civilized experience. Every exit is telegraphed by big signs miles ahead of the exits. The speed limits are geared to the road and the roads are engineered and maintained for that limit. I was enjoying being in the presence of these people.

The KWJZ signal was fading as I pressed on, and by the state capital of Olympia I had to give up. Now I had to find a clear frequency for Mr Shuffle's FM modulator unit. Large population centre's pose a big challenge as almost all frequencies are used. I would have to change frequency several times over the next hundred miles to get my music fix.

I stopped for tea just south of Olympia. A quick Venti Awake to go from Starbucks, a pit stop, and some car side stretches to get the kinks out. I'm not getting the same number of miles to the stretch as I used to.

And so it went, miles and music, music and miles. Tumwater, Napavine, Mary's Corner, Chehalis.

I left the I-5 at Kelso, Washington. This is where I need to cross the Columbia River to join up with Oregon HWY 30 so I can turn west, to the coast. Mr Shuffle gave me a shot of Chris Botti’s Light The Sky as I began the climb up and over the Lewis and Clark Bridge. I smiled. Originally from Portland Oregon, Chris Botti has helped to revive Jazz as a popular music genre. This was only the first of many such music tracks/tricks Mr Shuffle would play on me as these days, and miles, progressed.

I drove into Astoria around 2. I have never been to Astoria, at least not that I remember. But driving into town I was faced with a rather bizarre vision. I was looking at the road, with a bridge in the distance and town buildings to either side. It was very familiar. I looked to my other right and a saw a school a couple of blocks up the hill. It too was familiar. Not just a little spooked, I turned left to try and find the school and see what was causing this. I found the school and as I drove by I thought I had it but I had to turn around to truly understand what was so bizarrely familiar about this. The school, the street, the view of the bridge. BANG!!!!! Kindergarten COP!! It was the school, and the street from the 1990 Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. Hadn't seen the movie in years but that one shot stuck in my mind. Sometimes I am surprised by the amount of trivial “stuff” I store in what passes for my mind, but this was a real cake taker!! I took a couple of quick pictures and then booked on out of there. A middle aged man taking pictures of an elementary school in the middle of the day could easily be misconstrued by an anxious parent or teacher.

I spent an hour at the Columbia River Maritime Museum. This would help me understand much of the history and development of the Oregon Coast and the Columbia River. The CRMM has some fascinating displays of early exploration and discovery. It's a bit thin on the Hudson's Bay and Northwest Company contribution. It has a heavy focus on Lewis & Clark, shipwrecks, fishing, and Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer activities. It also has a Coast Guard Light Ship you can go aboard (included in admission) and a Light Buoy.

It was here I learned of the 4 masted, but steel hulled, Peter Iredale and how in 1906 it came to run aground a few miles up the coast. The wreck still sits, rusting in the sand, at Fort Stevens State Park.

This shipwreck development smacked of adventure so I get back in the Buick and check with Nav, silently, on the best route to Fort Stevens and the shipwreck. She is being petulant and takes her time, an extra ten seconds or so, as she asks which Fort Stevens I want. Seems there are a couple of different parts to the park.

Driving through downtown Astoria is not hard, but is challenging. HWY 30 runs right through town and there are a lot of short blocks making the right lane choice more of a guess than fact. The various exits are well signed but guess wrong on the lane and you're on a new adventure in a new direction.

My sense of direction suffered a lapse. I was headed west but thought that was wrong, but I kept going trusting Nav to be right. I reminded myself about “journey, not destination”. I wasn't in any real hurry but my workday mind is all about deadlines. Real vacations involving real relaxations are a foreign concept for me. If I was to get anything of real value from this “vacation thing” I had to find a way to turn the work brain off. It was something I would struggle with all week.

I found Fort Stevens State Park but only because Nav was right in her directions. After that it was all about reading the Park signs directing me to the shipwreck. It's actually on the signs as “SHIPWRECK” with arrows and everything. After two wrong turns I made it. In Oregon when you see a sign directing you to something with an arrow it means turn here, NOW, not at the next driveway. I was beginning to understand what humble and humility are. These are not traits that are big in my workday world.

My first view of the Oregon Coast was a “jaw dropper, walk stopper”. I have not seen anything like this, ever. Click on the pictures and get an idea, then get on a plane and go see it for yourself.

There is nothing that can prepare you for all the elements. Hard packed, fine grain sand. Broad beach, with dunes and seagrass. Wind, constant, not cold but just right. Birds just floating. Para Sails. The sounds of people are lost on the wind. Life, Love, and the state of the Economy could all be contemplated here without interruption or intrusion. The beach was not by any means crowded, but even if it were it would be easy to be alone here with nothing but your thoughts. Sharp, sparkling reflections off the blue/gray water. Real waves. And quiet, primal sounds of wind and surf.

Off to the right is the shipwreck. The rusted hulk of the bow all that's left after a century of the sea, sand, wind, and tourists climbing all over her. Later I will learn from a local that you can see more of the wreck now than you could 20 years ago. Beach erosion caused by climate change.

After a half hour of soaking this up and taking pictures to preserve my often defective memory, I see it's 1530 and I should be on my way to my overnight stop of Seaside. I would love to stay longer but the day is wearing on and I'm getting tired. I have been awake since 3 a.m.

Nav guides me south on Hwy 101 to my hotel. I am staying in Seaside for two nights at the Comfort Inn and Suites, and will use it as my base.

I check into the hotel and go for a brief walk through Seaside. It's clear the town is in transition. Whatever it used to be I get the impression they are trying to become more family friendly. I see a sign that will forever endear Seaside to my heart. A sign that declares downtown Seaside as a “Drug Free Zone”.

I buy a book at Tenth Muse Books, "Attack Poodles and Other Media Mutants". It's a look at the proliferation of talking heads/experts we see too many of on News Channels and the “Grand Dame” newscasts. I love it when books skewer TV News.

I walk the couple of blocks to the beach. The beach at Seaside has tall rock formations to the south and a broad boardwalk that runs along a sandy beach the length of the town. The boardwalk is liberally sprinkled with benches so I plant myself on one for a while and just stare at the cloudless sky, and the almost setting sun. For once I have no thoughts, ideas, or pressures. I feel an empty mind. I'm not sure I like it.

I stroll the the back roads on my return to the hotel. On the way I pick up a six pack of an Oregon beer, Mirror Pond Pale Ale brewed down the road in Bend, and some peanuts.

On the recommendation of the desk clerk dinner is at a place called Girtle's, a block or so from the hotel.

Steak and Sautéed Prawns with Baked Potato. The steak is good, the prawns fabulous. They are sautéed in Sherry with red onion, garlic, and mushrooms. Something to try at home sometime. A couple of local Droptop Amber Ales and I'm done.

I slow walk back to the hotel, settle in with a couple of Mirror Pond Pale Ales and few chapters of Attack Poodles, and have great night’s sleep.