A mild case of scenery burnout got into my veins this day. A few spots on the coast, marshlands, and twisting roads were at least as amazing as usual, likely even better. However, we had been doing this for quite a while now and had seen so much. Possibly too much to properly assimilate, and my brain was giving off a physical signal for a respite. Things that happened a few days ago seemed distant, and things from weeks ago seemed abnormally near. There had been so much to think about on this trip that the mental pileup was growing jumbled.
I had told Dad about my interest in slowing the pace a bit and absorbing more, and he proposed an understanding, concerned way of doing that within the constraints of our planned time. Mt Rainier and Glacier were deleted from our itinerary to allow more time on the Oregon coast for sitting on driftwood and skipping smoothed rocks across waves. I thanked him for that, and hoped he was enjoying the non-tour-bus method as well.
I believed my disease had come from a need to relax and do some normal, relatively boring things. I only needed that for a little while, but it let my mind regain momentum and sort out. A lesson: there were virtues to reading a newspaper and seeing a movie on the VCR. I had never thought to the contrary, and I did not consider either to be brainless pastimes, but the therapeutic effects of occasional normalcy and repetition had become apparent. I could certainly only handle doses of that relaxation and ritual for a finite amount of time, but the benefits of balance were needed.
If I were alone and had unlimited time for the trip, then a few days of new theater movies, getting updated on world news, and reading a novel would have been nice. Refreshed, I could then continue on brightly. Although this continued to be an amazing trip, I was feeling ready to begin reorienting the trek’s direction homeward. The future would return me to many of these locations and the many we may have missed or passed around. The experiences were already broadening my sight considerably.
A cool, dotted-cloud day greeted us and our poopysuits. Occasional drizzle, but nothing to soak in. The path from Aberdeen took us for a looped excursion away from 101 onto 105, which ended back around on 101.
Westport was a busy little fishing town that had tourist overtones. Fishing charters, fishing poles, fishing tackle, and supposedly fish all filled the area. I had noticed a human obsession with fishing ever since first crossing into Canada actually. The attraction alluded me, but it apparently grabbed many others. The town’s Pacific beach pounded away, gray overcast. It lacked the form and beauty of Third Beach, but was engrossing in its broad open stretches and linear simplicity.
Riding south, the scenery became less momentous, though the gargantuan Christmas tree farms and the wet-saturated farmland was visually intriguing. Marshy inlets, with their covering grasses and wading herons, were unique wildlife ecosystems. But I had expected the road to twist directly beside the coast, instead of being a good ways inland. Between the visual bangs, I felt as though I was wandering with no specific goal for a destination, looking for something as it came upon me. That would not normally have bothered me at all, but my condition fed upon it.
I was reinvigorated by spending time on the beach of beautiful Ecola State Park. A roller coaster ride road heaved and sunk us down away from the highway to a stretch of rock-strewn beach. Many of the wonderful aspects of Third Beach were there, but it seemed a completely new experience.
The lighting was grayer, and the colors more muted. Tide-dependent sea life clung all over the wave-crashed boulders. Sea stars, barnacles, anemones, gulls, cormorants, anchored plants, snails, clams. Some visiting people were thrown in as an afterthought. Wind rushed hard, carrying a tangible wave spray mist. The beach was half sand from the waves, and half rounded smooth stones cascading up to the landward slopes behind. I would have loved a wind-protected porch right there.
After letting Dad know I had experienced what I needed from the coast for this trip, we discussed possible plans and changed them several times. Eventual outcome: call in a reservation for a room and dinner at the Timberline Lodge by Mount Hood, and plow through any traffic towards Portland.
Too much traffic. Nothing much by east coast standards, but a flood by this trip’s standards. We needed to get accustomed to it; we were heading east.
Dad did not want to push for a long distance, so we stopped at the Lamplighter Motel outside of Portland, off of 26. We piled our musty, festering laundry into the appropriate Laundromat machines. I watched some racing shows on TV while Dad watched the clothes. I came to relieve him of his watch, but he stayed while I picked out the evening’s canned dinner delights from a supermarket.