NEW ORLEANS' TIMES-PICAYUNE "TRAVEL SECTION" July 2002

  NORTHERN OREGON COAST 

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      Red, blue and white lights reflect in my granddaughter, Sydney’s, eyes, bouncing off the restaurant walls and sparkling in our water glasses.  It’s July 4^th; the air is pungent with the odor of sulfur from a fireworks display taking place on the beach below; diners and other spectators cheer each exploding rocket.  Sydney is the 14 month old daughter of my son, Mark Damian, and his wife Maria; she tries to clap her small hands, laughing at the dazzling, brilliant lights and explosions.                                                                                                    Damian and Maria live in Seattle and are guiding my wife, Stella, and I southward, down the Oregon Coast.  I have long heard of its breathtaking views and beautiful beaches; now, I will see it.  After crossing the beautiful Columbia River, we reach our first destination, the town of Seaside, Oregon’s first seashore resort.  Checking into the Shilo Motel located directly on the beach; we arrange dinner reservations in the motel dining room with its splendid view of the ocean and this evening’s Independence Day festivities.                                             As I finish my scrumptious, smoked-baked oysters, a machine-gun-like burst of fire  crackers erupts, followed by an enormous explosion from a multi-colored rocket.  The  entertainment has ended – July 4^th properly celebrated. The next morning, I discover that the beach at Seaside is wider and longer that I realized, stretching as far as I can see, left to right.  In the 1920’s a paved a paved promenade, known as the “Prom”, was constructed along the upper-edge of the beach, which allowed walkers, joggers, skaters or bikers to enjoy the ocean views.  Volleyball nets have attracted tanned, jumping players, as well as spectators cheering the action. The explorers, Lewis and Clark, camped near Seaside in 1806; a bronze statue commemorates the event near the beach.  At the south end of the “Prom” is a salt cairn where members of the expedition made salt from the Pacific Ocean water, prior to their return journey east.  Today’s weather is cool and delightful; I can’t believe its July!  If I were home in Folsom, Louisiana, I would probably be sweating over a hot barbecue grill.  A clear, cobalt blue sky with an occasional puffy cloud produces crystal-like sparkles on the Pacific; steady breezes push breaking waves deep onto the beach.                                                                   North on the promenade is the Seaside Aquarium, a family attraction for over 60  years.  Here, it’s possible to feed seals and see large jellyfish.  Stella and I, enjoying our first trip with a small child in many years, are delighted Seaside has so much to offer families.                          Walking down Broadway Street – passing dozens of shops and restaurants; we enter Carousel Mall with its large, beautiful carousel; this naturally beckons to Sydney.  She and her “Papa” take several turns on a big, white bear, as organ music sets the mood.  This day is off to a good start!

 ECOLA STATE PARK

     Following Highway 101, which runs the full length of the Oregon Coast, Damian turns into the 1,300 acre Ecola State Park, 8 miles south of Seaside.  In 1806 Captain William Clark named a creek in the area, Ecola Creek, using the Chinook Indian word “ecoli” for whale.       “Over this way, dad”, Damian stands, smiling and waving excitedly, several yards distant, up one of the paths leading from the parking lot.  With senior-citizen knees at full throttle, jacket zipped to my “Adam’s Apple”, I hasten to his side.  Looking south, as far as I can see, cliffs of varied earth-tones face the Pacific Ocean.  The most distant cliff is merely a grey silhouette against the blue sky.  About 250 feet below, a delightful grey-tan, sandy beach follows the cliffs, waves barely audible from our height.  The entire 3 ½ miles of beach within the park is walk able.  Buttes, including the famous Haystack Rock, jut upwards from the ocean floor at intervals along the coastline.  To our right, but much closer, is Seal Rock with its hundreds of birds flitting about its brown-black surface.  Far out to see, the retired Tillamook Lighthouse, built in 1881 at a terrible Coast, its nickname “Terrible Tillie”, sits atop a protruding rock, like a New Year’s Eve, Cone hat.  Trees, twisted by the wind, stand like Giacometti sculpture atop the cliffs.                                                                                                                           Numerous people climb to the various view points, many with a large dog in tow, the animals straining to get off the paths and into the grass and wild flowers.  At one observation deck a large black “lab” befriends Sydney, who squirms and laughs, as it tries to lick her hands.  “It won’t bite”, the jacket-clad couple reassures, as Stella gently moves Sydney aside.  It seems nature lovers, man and beast, are all peaceable.                                                One-half hour later, at a picnic table, munching on sandwiches, we watch people in kayaks fight waves out to see; then turn to ride the crests back, skidding to a stop on the smooth sand.  Couples slop in foam from the crashing waves, their dogs daintily picking their way through bikini-clad sun bathers.  An elderly couple, perhaps a World War II veteran and wife, with baseball caps pulled firmly on their heads, set-up two chairs near the cliff’s edge.  Placing a cooler between them, they ease into the chairs facing the Pacific; a sense of relief and relaxation appears to overcome them.

 CANNON BEACH

      Just 1 mile south of Ecola Park is the town of Cannon Beach, named from an actual cannon that mysteriously washed ashore in 1846 from the wreck of a schooner.  The town and its 7 miles of beautiful beach is dominated by the huge Haystack Rock, its image on every postcard, magazine cover or advertisement about the area.  From a distance, its size is deceptive; but, as Stella and I admire it from the water’s edge, its presence is imposing.  At 235 feet, this giant, described as the third largest monolith in the world, dwarfs all other “needle” rocks jutting from the ocean floor.  At low tide one can reach its base and see tide pools or observe many species of nesting birds, including the Bald Eagle.                                   The wide beach, a haven for kite fliers, is littered with bathing-suit clad, sun worshipers, clutching strings attached to colorful kites of all shapes and sizes.  Each kite has creative designs and extra-long, flapping tails.  Motels, hotels and summer homes, with views of haystack Rock, line the beach.  Tussled-hair diners enjoy lunch, as greedy sea gulls hover, waiting for scraps.  Each June, the sandcastle contest is held on this beach, attracting contestants and tourists from around the country.                                                                      In town, wooden-shingled buildings with white trim and hanging flower baskets, remind me of Cape Cod.  An upscale tourist town, numerous quaint shops, galleries and restaurants line both sides of bustling Hemlock Street, the main thoroughfare.  Cars share the street with bicycles and Stella, who races back and forth, white shirt flapping behind her – checking menus and room tariffs.  The aroma of fried seafood permeates the air.                                      Deciding to try some of the local Tillamook ice cream, we stare in awe as Sydney proves it’s possible to smear one’s entire lower face, nose and both hands, with only one scoop – fortunately, vanilla.  “Do you mind if I take a picture of the baby”, asks one passerby.  “Of course not”, we respond.  Sydney is already becoming a tourist attraction.                                   South of Cannon Beach, our drive is a constant visual thrill, as it runs parallel to the coast and the Oregon Trail.  Hemlock and Hollyhock flank both sides of the highway;  scenic overlooks appear in rapid succession.  Blackberry bushes and wild flowers, a myriad of color, surround us at each stop.  Red cliffs tower above the glistening Pacific – Haystack Rock eventually a mere speck on the horizon.  The scent of fresh wildness is everywhere.  Droves of helmeted cyclists in skin-tight suits peddle north and south on the  highway’s edge.  Thinking about my soon-to-be replaced knees, I can only watch in wonderment at the ease with which they climb.  However, since my concept of “camping out” is a hotel room without remote control, I don’t let this depress me.                                                                                 Rockworth Point offers a spectacular view, epitomizing the majesty and magic of the Oregon Coast.  As Stella, Sydney and I admire this beauty, Damian and Maria descend a path, disappearing  into 10 foot-high grass, emerging 5 minutes later as tiny figures atop a seaside cliff.                                                                                                                              “How did they get out there?” asks a group of four middle-agers in a distant British accent.  I pointed to the path and after a brisk “Thank you”, they plunged into the tall grass, cameras and purses flopping from their shoulders, eventually joining our “daring young duo”.                   After crossing the Nehalem River, near the tiny village of Wheeler (population 350), the road drops to sea level on the south shore of Nehalem Bay.  Damian spots a small herd of seals frolicking on the beach across a narrow inlet, 2 passing horseback riders doing little to distract them.  A wooden pier, worn grey by the elements, extends 200 feet into the bay.  From it, amid rock jetties, fishermen cast lines, searching for the catch of the day.  One rusting, wooden building, reminiscent of West-End restaurants on Lake Pontchartrain, sports a shingle “Live Crabs”.  A handful of buildings with covered porches face the highway, very much like old western, cowboy towns.  Shining rails from a single railroad track, close to the water’s edge, indicate frequent use.  With the sun still high, we depart for Tillamook Valley, home of Tillamook cheese, ice cream and, of course, milk.

TILLAMOOK

      First settled in 1851, the flat Tillamook Valley runs from the mountains to the ocean, providing excellent grazing for hundreds of cows, their black and white spots like tiny alien abstracts amidst the lush landscape.  It was the grassland and its seven streams that attracted the early pioneers.  Famous for its cheddar cheese, named after a town in England, the Tillamook Cheese Factory lies inland, where it’s possible to see this orange/yellow cheese being made and packaged.  White-hooded, gloved workers guide chunks of cheese on conveyor belts into cellophane wrappers and boxes.                                                                 One mile south Stella spots the less famous Blue Heron French Cheese Company, where a broad selection of cheese and Oregon wine is available with complimentary tasting.  We purchase 2 delicious bries and an Oregon Chardonnay from a white-capped woman who’s speech pattern reveals her French origin.  My attempt to speak to her in her native language is disappointing, as my French has grown “rusty” since my last trip to Paris.

 MUNSON FALLS

      Sydney has fallen asleep in her car seat between Maria and Stella, but is startled awake as Damian turns onto a gravel road.  At its end is Munson Falls, at 319 feet it is the highest waterfall on the Oregon Coast.  Giant Hemlock, Spruce and Cypress trees, some with trunks the circumference of a water tower, soar to incredible heights.  Damian informs us, “We are passing through one of the few remaining rain forests on the North American continent”.  The terrain has become green and greener, dense with vegetation;  only thin shafts of sunlight penetrate this jungle.                                                                                                                 From the small parking lot, after a trek of about 200 yards up a narrow-paved path, we stand at the bottom of the falls.  High above, water gushes over the cliff, sounding like a hurricane as it cascades down, bouncing off jutting boulders in white streams.  Skipping across rocks, water streaming past their feet, Damian and Maria slip behind the falls to get a unique view from its rear.  I’m reminded of the Deerslayer and “Last of the Mohicans”, hiding from British soldiers.  Munson Creek, at the foot of the falls, flows downhill – cold and clear, rushing over rocks worn smooth.  The remoteness of this place is like a time warp; this is as close to the Amazon as I will ever get!

 KIWANDA

      Our last destination of the day is Kiwanda Point; it’s almost 9 P.M.  The sun still lingers above the horizon, as Maria and I walk to the water’s edge.  She takes her shoes off and lets the water lap around her ankles; at least one of us has gotten their feet wet in the Pacific this trip.  The world is becoming pink and lavender, the Pacific a deep indigo. Ocean-carved, sandstone cliffs rise to our right and left; an enormous sand dune beckons to be climbed, but not by us – it’s been a long day.  Only Sydney continues to exude energy, dashing about the beach, chasing sandpipers and looking for shells.  Tracks from a four-wheel drive vehicle have made patterns in the sand, which has become reddish-brown.  The wind is dying with the sun; bathers now wear jackets as the temperature drops.  A pool of trapped water reflects the sky, looking like am opening into another world.                                                                         As we trudge towards our car, I notice an oceanfront restaurant, the Pelican Pub and Brew; the delicious aroma of cooking seafood tantalizes my nostrils.  Suddenly, I realize there is a large void in my body – my stomach.  I wonder if we could get a bowl of gumbo or some Shrimp Creole...perhaps not...This is the great Northwest!  Oh well, guess I’ll just have to settle for fresh Pacific salmon, clams, local oysters and Alaskan king crab.  That should ease the pain.

 Rolland Golden - June 24, 2002 (C)