In hours, six months of waiting went into action. Gate A2 at Nashville International Airport sits perpendicular to the Batman Building downtown, giving it a view unlike any other. Soon enough, we punched through the clouds toward Denver, and after a quick layover, onto the clear view of Washington’s Mount Rainer east of Seattle. So much desert filled the space below us. Little streams, possibly mighty rivers would feed small towns and the geometry of farming.
After a delay, the rental agency’s lack of available cars netted me a red Mustang. U.S 101 and a red Mustang sounded like a perfect match, although the gas mileage would never compete with a hybrid or even the compact I requested. Fifteen minutes later, I had crossed the West Seattle Bridge and its neighboring shipyards and found my sister’s apartment. Two years passed since we last saw each other, but when you grow up down the hall from someone, the good feelings move quickly. We sat for a minute and ventured out to some views of the skyline and the mountain, which would not show itself again during my stay. I had 36 hours before the coastal drive began, and little time to waste.
We walked along Alki Beach at the peninsula’s north end. Aside from the pines, it could have been ripped from Southern California. Across from the beach sat restaurants, bungalows and condo towers. To sate my seafood craving, we ate chowder and salmon tacos at Duke’s on the waterfront. The sun filled me eyes and the breeze broke the evening heat.
While Jenny baked organic dog treats for her night job, I wandered the businesses of California and Alaska avenues. Easy Street Records drew me in, crossing a few long awaited records off my list (Fairport Convention’s Full House and a $2 copy of the Grand Canyon Suite). Cupcake Royale had huckleberry cakes in their cabinet and I could not deny a regional fruit in season.
With Jenny’s baking finished and some time spent playing with the young cats up for adoption in the store, we departed for the people-only ferry connecting West Seattle to Downtown. The 15-minute ride passed a ship buoy overrun by sea lions, who splashed and dove to the delight of passengers. We docked next to the passenger ferries and took a short walk upward to downtown and the Pike Brewery, crafter of fine ales and good grub. Then we wandered the market, dodged some fish-tossers so Jenny could buy some dahlias. We stopped after some of the Sound overlooks before wandering back to the docks for the return ferry to beat afternoon rush hour.
We hit a Thursday night tasting at the Beer Connection, West Seattle’s neighborhood store. It highlighted the brews of California’s Firestone Walker, which a Grand Cru coworker lauds regularly. The lighter ales were good, the hoppy ones aimed to scorch the palate. We walked out with a six-pack of Pale Ale 31 to match the sixer of Big Sky Scape Goat Pale I bought the night before.
Before I knew it, 4 a.m. Friday arrived, and an hour later the Mustang roared across the West Seattle Bridge, past the columns of Army reservists and National Guardsmen reporting for weekend duty, and fog marring any views of Mt. Rainer or any other peak. Only the Washington Capitol’s stately dome broke up the misty darkness.
Eschewing an MP3 player, I nabbed some cheap CDs in the weeks leading up to the drive, concocting a bizarre mix of the Seattle scene (Screaming Trees), stoner metal (Sleep and Om), sea shanties, Latin-Jewish hybrids (Juan Calle and his Latin Lantzmen), and others that fit parts of the drive.
Just after sunrise, I left the interstate for U.S. 30 at Longview, crossing the first notable metal span of many. Barges and container ships floated in the Columbia while piles of timber lined the shore.
Soon it would all fade into haze. Astoria was invisible beyond a certain height. The Fort George Brewery came highly recommended, but not at my 8 a.m. arrival. Aside from its Oregon ramps and support towers in the Columbia’s mouth, the Astoria-Megler Bridge also hid. Fog would be the bane of my coastal trip, opening and closing without pattern.
After a quick breakfast at the Pig N’ Pancake in the bridge’s view, I trekked uphill to the Astoria Column, barely visible even at its base. Built in the 1920s, its outside depicts the region’s history from Indian times to John Jacob Astor’s fur operation starting in 1811 to modern days. Inside, the column was somewhat drab, with translucent window panels illuminating the spiral staircase. It was easy to look down. Quickly I realized 120 feet up looked higher than it was. I was barely tired at the top, but suffering from a dose of vertigo from frequent downward glances. At the top, I opened the wood door and before I stepped out saw a waist-high metal railing. Fog obscured everything but the wind racing through it. I quickly descended and prepared for the long journey on 101.
At last I turned south on Route 101, ready for the coastline.
The replica was within 100 yards of the original site, and the trees were still young. When the parks service bought the land, it was still farmed. Most evidence of that history had been erased for the more thrilling account of Lewis & Clark. I skipped the other Lews & Clark sites on the trail, but Fort Clatsop aimed a quality lens onto their voyage.
For a stretch, 101 could have cut through any fog-ridden community. Then a loop tied it to Cannon Beach, home to some iconic coast images. I stripped off my shoes and socks to bury them in the sand on every step. From my first step, Haystock Rock was visible just offshore. In the foreground of the famous mount people flew kites and wandered the beach. No sooner did I ask a couple to photograph me than the wind threw a thicket of fog in front of Haystack. In two minutes, fog covered most of the rock. I turned back among the bird tracks and returned to civilization.
Just up (and down) the hill, I stopped again at Arcadia Beach. A set of stairs ran down to the sandy expanse that ended abruptly in a rugged incline that ran up to a tree-covered bluff. Picnickers occupied its bottom. Any of these beaches could have been plucked from Charlton Heston’s fateful ride in Planet of the Apes. I could not avoid their churning waves and albino sands.
Highway 101 would wind inland across some inlets and crossroads, but would soon return to the coast. The traffic became a problem in Tillamook. Even though the giant cheese facility tempted me, crawling past its full parking lot only inspired more driving. Lincoln City was worse, a collection of suburban development populated by rented RVs. Any character was wiped away by the abysmal traffic, which would not carry any further south.
Any disappointment faded by time I reached the beaches north of Newport. Some were shrouded in fog, others basked in brightest sun. Try to discern a pattern. I couldn’t.
The edges of Newport gave away no hints of its magnificent deep-water harbor at the mouth of the Yaquina River. I reached the bay bridge and saw no signs of where to reach the harbor, then a little side road shunted me down to the beautiful harbor. It also led me past my destination, the Rogue Publick House. Rogue has breweries across Oregon now, but I wanted to visit its home turf. I got a treat as the bartender gave everyone a sample of Juniper Ale. Everything I sampled was dark.
I got into conversation with a tuna fisherman, a young Californian covered in tattoos and full of stories. He gave me all sorts of wild advice, from ditching the rental car and hitchhiking south to San Francisco. It sounded good, if only because it didn’t apply to my tightly scripted narrative that ended in Seattle at 2 p.m. Tuesday. I told him I would try to make it to the bar in Eureka where he promised drinks would be on the house if I mentioned his name, but I never sniffed 40 miles of that California town.
As for the pub, the atmosphere was top-notch (no cell phone use at the bar) and the Pier 82 sampler had a lifetime of fresh-off-the-boat seafood fried in a light breading.
Across the bridge, Newport disappeared quickly and the fog overtook the sun again. Any highlights offshore from Ona Beach hid in the haze, but the beach’s plantlife and water features were bountiful. In the mist, trees bent away from the harsh Pacific wind, their shapes set by the speed of the gusts, giving them a bonsai feel.
The gas gauge lurched toward empty on a windswept bluff in Yachats, so I pulled off for some Oregon Full Service. The car I had trailed since One Beach stopped at the same pumps, and sped off quickly while the attendant finished with me. I can be a little paranoid, so I don’t blame them for wondering why the guy behind them made the same stop. It couldn’t have been because my tank was close to empty, but it was.
I grew tired as North Bend neared. At Reedsport, a drawbridge’s rotation cost me 20 minutes. A hitchhiker trekking north from Crescent City jawed with a the pipefitter stopped in front of me. I couldn’t escape their conversation and couldn’t forget that not everyone who takes to the road is lazy or looking to rob an unsuspecting traveler.
Jenny called to check on me as I spotted the Coos Bay span. As I prepared to cross it, the Bay Bridge Motel appeared on the hillside, just feet from the bridge deck. The reservation I made was not a joke and the inn truly sat on a bluff just north of the one-mile bridge. The hotel was small but comfortable. An amiable older woman ran the desk She and her late husband bought it more than 30 years ago. Flanked by inlets and sand dunes on the approach to the Coos Bay Bridge it was the only structure adjacent to the bridge.
I wanted a cold beer, but not from a bar. I had trouble finding either until I drove through both North Bend and Coos Bay. Coos Bay’s natural beauty could only clash with industry. It had the harbor. Freighters rusted down the road from a casino. The neon of the Tioga Hotel towered above everything else. But both towns had a certain charm. As North Bend's neon welcome sign began to glow over 101, I began to fade. The longest driving day was over, although the next few legs would be just as intensive.
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