Day Nineteen: Gold Beach, Oregon, to Santa Rosa, California

Friday 11 October

view from motel room

The Gold Beach Resort is my favorite cheap motel of the trip.  Not only is my washcloth origami’d into the shape of a swan, the view from my room is of sand and beach grass and, if I crane my neck just a tiny bit, ocean.  So after laps in the indoor pool, on with the warm outer layer and the hiking boots, and off to the beach.  A little snake rushes away as I tread down the path, and I think how nice to be in chilly Oregon where the snakes cause little alarm.

Amazing quantities of driftwood, actually.

After a brisk walk with lots of driftwood and a few pieces of sea glass, I arrive at a little rivulet carving through the sand.  It’s wider and deeper than it looked from a distance, and I choose not to wade through it to get to the mammoth rocks at the edge of the waves on the other side.  These rocks are so big, they get names:  Kissing Rock is before me; later I’ll see House Rock, Rainbow Rock and a few others.  For the moment, I turn back motel-wards, enjoying the crashing of the waves and the “grating roar of pebbles that waves suck back, and fling, at their return, up the high strand, begin, and cease, and then again begin.”

Start back here...

Of course I cannot be on this beautiful, wild beach by this massive, wild ocean, in a swimsuit, and not go in the water.  None of the other dozen or two beach-combers is going in, but they’re probably locals who have to get to work or something.  So off with the outer layer, way up by the beach grass, and then jog west, working up to a pretty full-tilt run so I’m well into the waves before I notice the cold.

gain speed...

It is not the cold, though, that’s a concern this morning in Gold Beach, Oregon.  The water’s chilly, sure, but not Rexhame-Beach-outside-Boston-at-Thanksgiving cold yet.  It’s not the waves, either; they reach almost to my shoulders and are powerful, but they’re not mean.  My concerns are dual:  1) the pebbly – one might reasonably call it rocky – ocean floor; and 2) the ferociously powerful outward tide.  Yipes!  The incoming waves knock me around a bit, and that’s fine, but the outgoing current is trying to ship me to Sapporo, in northern Japan, or somewhere thereabouts.  This is not a swimming beach, today.  But I am delighted to get in a couple rounds with the rocks and the tide, and as delighted to emerge intact.

and don't slow down -- the ocean will do that for you.

Sodden and triumphant, hiking boots in hand, I head back to the motel, and come up in back of the wrong one.  Fortunately, mine is just next door, and I find a pass through so do not need to parade even a short distance down route 101 in my bathing suit.  With a warm shower running, I am reminded why my parents made their youngsters strip off swimsuits in the back yard and get hosed off before entering the house.  In recent years, most of my swimming’s been in pools, and undressing in the shower makes sense.  At the Gold Beach Resort, at least today, removing the Speedo also releases about a quarter pound of gravel, maybe more, into the bathtub!  Emergency shower shut off, gather gravel into the spare hand towel, and a lot of swimsuit waving on the balcony before I’m eventually warmed through, cleaned up and ready to go.  Leave three dollars for the maid instead of the usual two.

Driving out of Gold Beach, a local radio station plays “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,” a song my sisters and I used to sing as it played on one of my very first record albums, Super Hits of 1972, or something like that.  The refrain is, “Me and you and a dog named Boo, travelin’ and livin’ off the land/Me and you and a dog named Boo; how I love bein’ a free man.”  It’s not a song I admire any more, but it’s fun to sing on a sunny day, driving along a coast.

Of course, I’ve now gotten to a point that I’m frequently hearing Willie Nelson in my head, singing, “On the road again...”  I am still enjoying it, though I drive myself in a Honda while Willie gets driven in a large bus, with video players and beds and friends.  It is amusing to notice things like, as I get closer to California, the warning signs – single words on yellow diamonds yesterday – become more loquacious:  SUNKEN GRADE, ROUGH ROAD, WIND GUST.

And the bicyclists are starting to occur far more frequently, but whether that’s location or weather (it’s dry and sunny today, compared to yesterday’s cool rain), I don’t know.  I do know it’s hilly enough here that at least a few of them are probably wishing for a sag wagon.  They tend to travel with tremendous packs on their backs, and sometimes straddling their rear wheels, and one man has things lashed to his handlebars as well.  The recumbent bikes look much more comfortable than the uprights, although the high-recumbents look terrifying to me.

When the road narrows for a bridge, the cyclists have the opportunity to ride over a sensor, marked with signs, to start lights flashing to warn approaching cars that there’s a bike on the bridge.  I did not see the lights flash during my drive, but then I don’t think I crossed any bridge with a cyclists on it before me.  So the state has the cyclists’ safety in mind, but can’t do anything about the chill and the fog descending as I approach Brookings, Oregon.  By the time I reach the Boardman State Park, I can’t see the ocean anymore.  As much as I appreciate being offered scenic viewpoints with safe parking areas, they’re not very tempting in these conditions.

Over the highest bridge in Oregon – the Thomas Creek Bridge, at 345 feet – and shortly after I’m in California.  Almost the first thing I see is a warning sign:  ELK CROSSING.  That’s right, not just ELK, but elk that are crossing the road.  So watch out.  A few miles farther along:  ELK CROSSING/Next Two Miles.  Whoa!  They’re chatty here in California!

The fog has lifted, or maybe it never landed this little bit farther south.  There are a lot of classic cars cruising the highway.  I’m no good at identifying cars, but it’s fun to pass them, especially three in a convoy.  The middle one is a deep-coral Impala; the other two have flames painted on their front fenders and hoods.  The Honda zooms past, un-intimidated.  The surf here looks much less rough than Oregon was.  Hmmm.  I’m actually glad I stopped in Gold Beach, instead of pressing on to Crescent City, California, as targeted.

It would be interesting, though, to spend the night in a redwood forest.  The road has gone very twisty and moved inland, through the redwoods.  They are so straight, so symmetrical, they have a mystical quality compared to nature’s usual bends and twists and sprawls.  I’ve had to stop for road work – we’re down to one lane somewhere far ahead, with north- and south-bound traffic taking turns using it – and I turn off the engine given the long delay.  Even with a car idling in front of me, another behind me, and at least a half-dozen more in each direction, I am very aware of the deep silence of these woods.  Once I’m underway again, I switch on the radio and find a clarinet concerto.  It seems a perfect fit with this formal and serious landscape.

More animals start to show up – cows and horses, and one herd of sheep.  There’s not a huge lot of commercial activity now, still inland, but I take an exit in Arcata and find the Fiesta Grill -n- Cantina.  (They use jalapenos for those hyphens around the n.)  After lunch, I’m at the counter paying when I hear a loud thunk from the roof, and the restaurant shudders, very briefly.  “Was that an earthquake?” I ask the hostess.  “I didn’t notice anything,” she answered, “but I always miss them.  I was talking to my boyfriend about who’s picking up our daughter from daycare.”  She goes back into the kitchen and comes back to report that yes, there was an earthquake – the cooking staff noticed it.  I’m glad it was a very mild one, as I would not choose a good-but-not-great chile relleno as my last meal.

Whether it’s the time, or the location, or the minor tremor, the morning’s clouds have vanished and the world is blue skies and sunshine again.  Sunshine is important to Eureka, California, or at least the small stretch of it on highway 101, because otherwise it’s just used car dealers, tire shops, family-owned restaurants of many ethnicities and uninspired aesthetics, car stereo shops, auto parts stores, cheap motels, Walgreens and Target.  Cheering news on the outskirts of town, at the mall:  It’s Pie Month at Marie Callendar’s!

Elk, hanging out.

It’s also mating season for elk, as I learn from the special AM radio station publicized on roadway signs.  The recorded message warns that herds have been spotted nearby.  I pull into a park with viewing spots (Stay in the car!  Rutting elk are unpredictable!), but no one’s around – the employees because it’s a national park, and the elk most likely for other reasons.  They are hanging out down the road a piece, on private property where someone’s offering horseback riding and elk tours.  The elk here look tame (I stay in the car), as if they’ve been induced to make this ranch or farm or whatever their home.  The inducement is clearly not fences, nor electric collars, and there’s no one handy to ask, so this elk resort remains a mystery for me.

Little man, I guess.

Big man, throwing his weight around.

And then, just a bit farther south, the transportation department offers a choice of remaining on 101 or detouring off onto the Avenue of the Giants.  The avenue winds along for 32 miles, bumping against the highway every five miles or so.  I choose to drive the full length, which includes numerous private commercial enterprises along the lines of drive-through redwoods, one-log houses and a whole lot of gift shops.  Ignoring the exclamation-point-laden signs, I switch off the music and marvel.  The sun can’t get in through these trees; the noise of the highway can’t penetrate; I can’t even see how tall they are from the road.  But I am very, very aware of their size and their age.  They are a grounding force, like the prairies of South Dakota; they root the area in history far more ancient than anything we humans have recorded.

I am pleased to note that the Residents of Massachusetts have a grove named for them, in acknowledgement of generous contributions to upkeep of the avenue.

Apparently I was too awestruck to photograph redwoods.
Here is a boat on land instead.

Emerging from the trees, I realize the sun I couldn’t see in there has in fact been setting.  So I’m driving in the dark again, but tonight no ocean views.  The moon is lighting fields and small towns, but it can’t compete with the gigantically gaudy red neon sign welcoming travelers to Willitts.  Willits is in Mendocino County, and Mendocino County smells like musty grapes.  I feel like I’m traveling through the stoneware crock in which my sister made tutti-frutti as a teenager.  Mendocino is wine country, and wine country is expensive country.  I travel all the way to Santa Rosa before finding a cluster of the blue-collar motels I’ve come to love.