Southern Oregon Coast

I passed through Crescent City on my way to the Oregon border.  Crescent City’s claim to fame, or at least their most self-publicized quirk, is a soft spot for tsunamis.  On the hill overlooking the city, a plaque describes the mechanism of tsunami formation and points out how the structures below are in an ideal position to be squashed. Despite the risk, I stopped in Crescent City to do some fishing before I left California and my fishing license became moot.  My fishing license might as well have been void for all the fish I caught because as far as I know it’s not illegal to catch rocks without a license.

Driving North on the 101, the dividing line between California and Oregon is more a whisper than a shout.  Where “Welcome to Vegas” signs make sure visitors know where they are, the Oregon border is marked simply by a street named State Line Dr and before you know it, the speed limit signs have changed style and you’re in Oregon.  The coastline doesn’t change- forested hills still separate lagoon after lagoon, but it seemed as if there are now more sleepy little beach towns.  Add to that the sun and the white sands and it was as if I were driving through Pismo Beach in California.  

I reached Port Orford and the Cape Blanco state park highway exit late in the afternoon.  The park lies on a rocky mountain connected to the mainland by low-lying meadows.  As I passed by, sheep were grazing contentedly beneath tsunami warning signs and I pictured them bobbing away in the tide of an errant wave like cotton balls circling a bathtub.  Between tall pines, I passed campsites carved out of dense shrubbery.  Towering hedges hemmed in each parking stall with its associated electrical box and water spigot. After finding a space on the ocean side where the undergrowth thinned and a glimmer of ocean could be seen through the trees, I headed out to explore the park.  

A short walk down the beach trail put me on one of the longest and most pristine beaches I have ever seen.  White sand stretched as far as I could see and golden cliffs seemed to end abruptly in stacks of driftwood. I took off my shoes and walked down the beach, my toes leaving prints behind me that blended into the sand. Small waves spread long mirrors across the fine sand and flat stones were scattered along the high water mark.  Each rock I skipped seemed to bounce along the water and into the sky, reflected in the wet sand.  At the end of the beach I sat on the thumb of a giant tree trunk reaching out of the sand like the bleached knucklebones of a giant.  The sun was warm on my back and a slight breeze played with the ends of my shoelaces.  Today was a good day.