Northwest Coast with Carli & Tom

Superstition? Nonsense. Our trip began on Friday the Thirteenth of October.

Friday, 13 October

The luggage for three people, a multitude of black bags of assorted sizes and shapes, challenged Tom, our indefatigable driver. After a few moments of trial and error, he jig-sawed them into the trunk of his car, establishing a permanent packing pattern for the tour.

The first day, one of our longest drives, took us to Ashland, Oregon, for the Shakespeare Festival.

Carli filled the cubbyhole in the console of the car with musical tapes to play during our trip. She thought of Old Mom when she included Benny Goodman and Harry James, as well as Greatest Hits by Richard Rogers and Cole Porter. I loved them, but enjoyed equally her eclectic mix of instrumentals and vocals.

 

As Carli had warned, the scenery as far as Redding was fairly ordinary. I thought the Central Valley was quite lovely. It stretched for miles with small, rounded hills so softly gold that the moss-green vegetation seemed almost another tone of the same color. We climbed out of the valley through rolling, rumpled hills. Carli said that the great treeless swathes on some mountainsides probably were caused by arid conditions, rather than by over-logging.

Almost immediately after leaving Redding, we were in densely wooded high hills, the chiseled points of tall pines stretching up toward a pale blue sky. We passed a winding lake, at least fifteen feet lower than usual, waiting for fall rains and next spring’s snow melt to fill it to normal level. Carli pointed out two snow-capped volcanoes on the right. Mount Shastina and taller Mount Shasta, slightly behind it, appeared to rise directly from the floor of the adjacent valley to more than 12,000 and 14,000 feet respectively.

We continued through forested mountains until we reached Ashland, a lovely small town of winding streets and old Victorian houses, lovingly restored. Ashland is considered the cultural center of Oregon. Its annual Shakespeare Festival, lasting from February to October attracts more than a quarter of a million people from all over the U.S. and beyond annually.

 

We were greeted warmly at the Chanticleer Inn, the delightful bed-and-breakfast where Carli and Tom stay on their regular visits. Carli had booked for me the pleasant room in which they usually stay. It opened onto a lovely terrace whose rock wall was lush with vines and autumn flowers. Both mornings of our stay, I bundled up in a heavy red coat and settled with my book in one of the white wrought-iron chairs on the terrace to enjoy the flowers as I waited for Carli and Tom to join me for breakfast. Thirty minutes of crisp Oregon air was about all I could stand before fleeing to the warmth of my room.

An autocratic cat wandered in and out perpetually. Eventually I realized that it was a matter of multiple cats, five in all by accurate count.

Breakfast in the sunny dining room was lavish but, according to Carli, somewhat more fat-free than she felt necessary. We settled on our accustomed travel program of large breakfasts, no lunch, and a fine dinner. Most days we stopped for a cappuccino (Tom), cafe latte (Kate) and tea (Carli) at a convenient middlish hour. Quite often a cookie appeared as an unintentional grace note for which no one took caloric responsibility.

 

Both mornings in Ashland we prowled the shops, looking for gifts among their unusual offerings. My purchases complicated Tom’s car packing for the rest of the trip.

Carli had ordered tickets for two matinées. The first was Euripides’ The Trojan Women. By the time we reached Ashland, Carli had read the play and had misgivings about her choice. She was afraid the play would be a dismal ordeal and somewhat more edifying than any of us felt was in keeping with our holiday mood. Tom remarked that he planned to sleep through it.

We settled into our comfortable seats, second row center, thanks to Carli’s early purchase. At curtain time, the house lights did not dim; they suddenly were extinguished. Through the velvet blackness was heard the distant battle sounds of the Trojan War, now on this side, now on the other, increasing in ferocity, louder and louder. A woman’s cry sounded faintly over here. Others joined from different directions until the clash of armor was overwhelmed by the screams of unseen women.

Stage lights gradually illuminated a stark gray, multilevel set abandoned by battle. Center front, prone in the dirt, was the ragged and disarrayed figure of Hecuba.

The play was electrifying. It was a shattering, exhausting, exhilarating performance.

In contrast, the next afternoon was a brilliant performance of the witty The Man Who Came To Dinner. The sharpness of its repartee has not been dulled by the six decades since it first was performed. I probably appreciated some of its nuances more than Carli and Tom, because the real-life writers and actors satirized in the play were ones I “knew” in my early years. The director even caught the acting style of the late Thirties. It was an utterly diverting performance.

 

Both nights in Ashland we enjoyed excellent French food at two different restaurants. When we left the Chanticleer the first evening, deer were quietly feasting on the fruit trees in the side yard. They ignored us as we walked to the car.

Carli told me that one of their favorite French restaurants improbably was named “New Sammy’s Cowboy Bistro.” It was a few miles outside Ashland.

Tom realized that he had driven past it and turned back. The undistinguished, low frame building was half-hidden by trees close to the road. As we approached from the other direction, a curving arrow of lights, several bulbs missing—the kind of sign that used to advertise disreputable motels—pointed to Sammy’s. The interior was simple, but the food was superb.

Monday, 16 October

From Ashland, we drove north to Steamboat Inn. We paused briefly at Eagle Point to visit a 150‑year‑old grist mill, still using its original water-powered gears. We were tempted to buy some of the fascinating variety of grains on sale, but restrained ourselves out of consideration for Tom’s trunk-packing problems.

We drove through gentle mountains where cattle grazed on valley floors. We followed the Rogue River for miles past one tiny strung-out village after another. The river alternately danced and bubbled over rocks, or deepened into a dignified flow.

I caught the well-remembered highway smell of a distant skunk.

In great pine forests, the deep green of the trees was accented by sudden orange sprays of bushes snuggled at their feet. Traces of long-ago forest fires showed in large tracts where the trees all were slender and young regrowth.

As we continued through a National Wilderness area with walls of tall, dark pines hugging the highway, I felt lost in timelessness with no relationship to the outside world. I had a brief moment of claustrophobia. Reality returned when the popping of my eardrums suggested an unseen change in elevation.

 

The day was brilliantly sunny. Weather reports hinted at rain to come. We decided to detour to visit Crater Lake immediately rather than waiting till the next day, as we had planned to do.

Crater Lake is one of the treasures of Oregon. It is the deepest lake in the U.S., formed in a caldera. It is all that remains of Mt. Mazama, a volcano that erupted nearly eight thousand years ago. Crater Lake owes its famous brilliant blue color to the clarity of its water, which is replenished only by pure rain and spring snow melt.

Just the northern and western roads around the lake still were open this late in the season. We drove along the north side of Crater Lake, stopping at each overlook to enjoy the pristine view. As we continued, I was excited to see patches of snow, left from the previous winter. Tom stopped to take a picture of me standing in snow. Carli commented that the snow even crunched. I promptly marched down the entire five-foot length of my personal patch of snow, beaming at the resulting, long-forgotten sound of snow underfoot.

Carli’s guidebook said that the annual snowfall at Crater Lake is 44 feet. No wonder some of the snow survived the summer.

 

As we turned away from the lake, we passed the desolate Pumice Desert, miles of land still barren from the ravages of the ancient volcanic eruption.

As we continued through deep woods, deer crossed the road ahead of us. We followed the boulder-strewn banks of the North Umpqua River, passing quietly swirling pools and surging cascades, to Steamboat Inn. We settled into adjacent stream-side cabins, charmingly rustic and cozy, with a common veranda overlooking the river, which churned and gurgled its way past us over and around the rocks. The mountain on the far side of the river appeared to rise at right angles to the stream. Tall pine trees covered it, magically growing straight up as if attached to the mountain by magnets.

Steamboat attracts numbers of fishermen. Visiting with one of them soon after our arrival, I asked, “Does this involve waders and a fly rod?” I shuddered at his affirmative reply because I was semi-chilled in the warm lodge despite several layers of clothing. Both mornings we heard fellow guests leave early, and saw some (or their equivalents) patiently standing knee- to hip-deep on the edge of quiet pools in the river, casting long loops of line in hopes of hooking a steelhead.

We stayed at Steamboat for dinner both nights. Hors d’oeuvres and complimentary wine were served in the library. Dinner was family-style, with guests seated at long tables. The food was elegant and lavish. Unfortunately for our waistlines, we found it impossible to resist either the seconds that were served or the delicious desserts.

Wednesday, 18 October

After two nights at Steamboat and a day of exploring the forested mountains, we continued to the Columbia River. The weather had changed. We departed in light rain. The rain stopped almost immediately, but left a lingering overcast that was ideal for driving.

We drove through a Corot-like landscape. The climbing highway took us into the clouds themselves. They were a fleeting fog, misting the windshield without dampening vision. Nevertheless, I am not comfortable being in a cloud unless surrounded by the fuselage of an airplane. I expect them to stay in the sky where they belong. Carli’s comment that we were invading the cloud’s territory instead of the other way around did not impress me.

We checked into Skamania Lodge, a large, rustic hotel. Room-wide windows, three stories tall, in the public rooms looked past extensive, groomed grounds and tall pines, to the Columbia River in the distance. Fire blazed in a huge stone fireplace not far from the reception desk.

Our rooms were not ready when we checked in, so we drove to the nearby Columbia Gorge Interpretive Center, a fascinating museum in a handsome, modern building of award-winning design. Exhibits illuminated the history of life along the river and the cataclysmic formation of the Gorge itself.

We returned to the Skamania and, to our delight, saw my niece, Peggy Robinson, and her husband, Dick Mark, walking toward us, smiling in welcome. Plans for our trip had changed from a visit in Seattle to see them, to their meeting us at Skamania. It was a gratifying evening of reunion over a delicious dinner, served by a refreshingly independent and amusing waiter.

Thursday, 19 October

In the morning, we drove east along the Washington side of the Columbia. Across the river, in the distance above the mountains on the Oregon side, loomed Mt. Hood in snow-shrouded serenity.

When we stopped for our traditional midday coffee, I remarked that it was almost 1:30 pm and we still had not reached the Columbia Gorge.

“Where do you think we have been all this time?” Carli asked.

To me, a gorge is a deep Vee gouge in the earth, with a river far below high cliffs. The Columbia Gorge, however, was created by glaciers and is a broad U-shape. It winds through a 3,000‑foot-deep gorge flanked by volcanic peaks and mesas whose stark horizontal bands of basalt have eroded in stair steps. In places, great basalt slabs on mesa tops are draped by wide “skirts” of pebbled detritus clinging to the side of the mesa at the angle of repose. While a few trees lined the sharp valleys of watercourses, for the most part, the land bordering each side appeared desert-like, broken only by basalt boulders and towering basalt walls, etched by the elements. One needs to drive both sides of the Gorge to understand the forces that formed it.

During the most recent Ice Age, that is, up to 15,000 years ago, 2,500-foot-high glaciers filled the valleys that drained western Montana. An enormous lake formed behind the glaciers. When water in the lake rose high enough, it broke out the ice “plug” sending torrents of water filled with ice bergs roaring through the Columbia Basin. Forty of these periodic, catastrophic floods over two millennia scoured out the narrow Columbia watercourse and cut away the canyon walls, leaving the broad gorge that we could see. Tributaries remained high above on the plateau, joining the Columbia in waterfalls.

 

We turned in at the Maryhill Museum, a magnificent French-style chateau built in the early part of last century by entrepreneur Sam Hill. He hoped it would entice his socialite wife to remain in Oregon with him. It did not. She took one look at the desolate surroundings and fled to her beloved Philadelphia. The chateau never was completed as a residence. Carli and I looked at the sparse vegetation, the gloomy dark rocks, and the solitude of the mansion on its hill, without view of human habitation, and understood Mary Hill’s reluctance to incarcerate herself there.

A close friend of Sam Hill’s, Queen Marie of Romania, and other friends, took an interest in the chateau. They turned the handsome building into a museum, donating many personal items of furniture, clothing, and valuables to begin its collections.

 

From Maryhill, we descended to a bridge and crossed the Columbia.

“See, Mom, doesn’t this look more like a gorge?” Carli asked. She admitted that it probably was even more like a traditional gorge before the dams were built.

We drove back along the Oregon side of the Gorge. Tom turned off the highway to follow the old road, originally laid out by the multi-talented Sam Hill.

We wound through dark forests, brightened by the reds and yellows of fall foliage. We stopped at each of the waterfalls along the way. Water plunged from original levels, some 3,000 feet above the river, in torrents and cascades to reach the river far below. One is the second highest all-season waterfall in the nation.

As the river approached the sea, a basalt monolith rose from it, not far from the Washington shore. Beacon Rock is a long-loved landmark. At one time the Army Corps of Engineers wanted to use the material from it. Outraged private citizens bought the landmark to save it from destruction. They offered Beacon Rock to the State of Washington, which refused the gift. They then offered it to Oregon. When it became apparent that Oregon was going to accept, Washington was shamed into taking the prize.

During our drive, Tom remarked, apropos of nothing at all, “The Northwest grows very large women.”

Carli replied, “They may just be at the end of a long trip like ours.”

“Oh,” Tom sighed, “is that what I have to look forward to?”

Friday, 20 October

As we expected from the weather reports, it was dark and raining heavily when we departed Skamania. Thin cloud resting on the ground blurred the landscape. Halfway back to our highway northward, we had descended below the cloud layer and could say goodbye to the Columbia.

The rain stopped. The farther north we went, the more reds and oranges joined the ubiquitous yellows in the emerald forests.

We detoured slightly to visit my close friend Callie Young, who just had moved to Panorama City, a retirement community near Olympia, Washington. We spent a little less than an hour with her. For me, it was a visit with a dear friend whom I probably never will see again. I satisfied myself that she is happy in her new life.

We left Callie and headed for our next port-of-call. Our introduction to the Olympic Peninsula, as we left the main highway, was a Megalopolis of Tawdry. Tiny espresso shacks were barely large enough to hold one person. Ungainly, bare-wood shacks with crooked hand-painted signs advertised fireworks or bait shops. Boats were drawn up on shore where one expected to see a battered car. Low, boxy buildings housed everything from restaurants to shops to dubious motels.

Before long, we reached the lovely scenic drive along the Sound. Tall trees graced the landside hills, and woods to our right parted briefly to give glimpses of the water beyond. We spent the night in Port Angeles.

Saturday, 21 October

We caught the ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria, British Columbia. The trip was pleasant in a large salon with great windows and comfortably upholstered seats. We approached Victoria. Our car was parked near the door of the ferry. Across the harbor our hotel, The Empress, Grande Dame of hostelries, rose in stately splendor. As we came closer and closer with no apparent slackening of speed, Tom remarked, “Slow this puppy down before it runs into our lobby!”

The Empress is a dignified old girl of a hotel, her steeply pitched roofs topped by turrets. Lower walls are draped thickly with vines, much of it turned an autumn red that blended with the soft rose of the brick façade. The interior is a luxurious maze of wide, carpeted hallways, staircases gleaming with polished mahogany and brass, ramps, and handsome antique furniture. Most of our stay, Carli and I were hopelessly lost. Tom, on the other hand, went unerringly from Point A to Point B, followed by his trusting females.

 

We took off on foot to explore the neighborhood. We walked past fascinating shops and stopped to ponder the menu in a charming restaurant. Tom led us up a hill along a windowless bank of buildings. Carli protested. Tom insisted it was the right way, leaving us with the impression that glory itself would shine around the next corner.

Glory, it turned out, was a parking lot. Carli and I were hysterical with amusement. Tom was neither offended nor deterred. He marched us downhill past a series of parking garages, each of which gave rise to more giggles from his unhinged companions.

We ended within view of the great Royal British Columbia Museum. Tom indicated that it was where he was headed the whole time. We resisted mentioning that it could have been reached four blocks, one hill, and several parking lots sooner.

We wandered around the outside of the museum, marveling at the majestic totem poles standing on its grounds. We verified that it would be open on Sunday and planned to return for a leisurely visit the next day.

We continued past the museum to the handsome old parliament building. This photographer with her fine throwaway camera insisted on posing Carli and Tom where the detail of the elegant doorway would show in the background. Tom was surprisingly stubborn about moving to the step I designated. The resulting picture of my laughing companions was excellent. The background was exactly as I hoped.

We argued about the identity of a statue near the sidewalk in front of Parliament. To settle the argument, we walked down to the front of it to verify that it was a young Queen Victoria. Utterly appropriate.

We wandered down to the harbor. The slanted top of a granite wall was inset with brass plaques dedicated to sea and tug captains from the earliest days of Victoria. We read them all. Most were straightforward with names of people, ships, and dates. Others added touching bits of information about the seafarers, ships, or incidents they memorialized.

 

We discovered the hotel’s Bengal Lounge. It became our favorite refuge. The Bengal Lounge is a high-ceilinged, dark den of a room, done with great, overstuffed leather furniture and dark woods in the English men’s club manner. Tall, narrow windows overlook gardens. Splayed above a vast stone fireplace is a huge tiger skin with head attached and teeth barred, somewhat too Raj for all of us.

The mood was muted; service, swift and sure. We sank into our private sitting areas each time we visited and felt completely at home.

We all felt overfed from stays at various inns, so we decided against dinner in the Empress’s elegant dining room. Instead we walked to a nearby informal seafood restaurant Carli and Tom found listed in the guidebook. It was exactly right for our first night in Victoria.

Sunday, 22 October

After breakfasting at the lavish buffet in the Kipling Room, we set off for the nearby Royal British Columbia Museum. It was one of the finest I ever have visited. Exhibits were exhaustive and imaginatively displayed. Enormous totem poles of varying styles stood near the entrance to an Indian dwelling designed to house several families.

The two final animal dioramas imperceptibly merged from the static, behind-glass exhibit to life-size plants and trees alongside us as we moved to the next area. The museum covered the full history of British Columbia, its geography, history, people, flora and fauna, on land and under the sea.

We were so happy in the Bengal Lounge that we decided on their curry buffet Sunday night. I had been introduced to real curry by British Army friends in Belize and was delighted at a chance to enjoy proper curry again.

Monday, 23 October

We thought that we might be in Victoria too late in the season for it to be worthwhile to visit the famous Butchart Gardens. On the contrary, it was a spectacular time to visit because of the fall foliage. Some beds of flowers were in brilliant bloom. Most were not, but the landscaping itself was so lovely it hardly mattered. The Japanese Garden, with its bubbling stream, red lacquered bridges and matching Japanese maples, was exquisite.

To our surprise, except for the hotel, Victoria was not noticeably British. It was settled by the same mix of trappers, merchants, and explorers who settled the rest of the Pacific Northwest a century and a half ago.

We drove through some of the loveliest residential areas of Victoria, past enormous, beautifully groomed parks. Conservative homes of varying sizes perched high overlooking the bays. Unassuming mansions in wooded grounds were the conventional architectural styles of several decades ago. Nothing was pretentious. Even more modest homes had tree-sheltered streets and immaculate yards. Victoria appeared a city comfortable with itself and with no intention of changing.

 

The one thing one “absolutely must do” at the Empress Hotel is take afternoon tea. It is a long and elegant tradition. Carli made reservations for us, and we appeared, properly dressed, at the exact hour.

We were seated near a window. Our smiling waiter brought tea, announcing that it was the Empress’ special blend of Indian, Ceylon, and Burma teas. He poured for us, making sure we had the milk and sugar we needed, then retired. Every time we diminished the tea in our cups by three sips, he materialized to refill them.

Our waiter ceremoniously placed on the table a silver three-tier lazy Susan, artistically displaying three kinds of tea sandwiches, scones, and three kinds of pastries. Butter for the scones, a bowl of Jersey cream, and several pots of jam completed the array.

Conversation was limited.

After our repast, none of us could consider dinner. We took a short walk to consider possibilities, then adjourned to our beloved Bengal Lounge for a glass of Port.

Tuesday, 24 October

We took the ferry back to Port Angeles, Washington. I nearly did irreparable damage to my neck craning for a succession of “last” looks at the Empress Hotel as we left her behind.

Back on land, Tom took the scenic route through forests of green and gold with mountains on either side. I marveled again at the wisdom of the government in setting aside so much glorious country as national forests.

Then we passed a wide swath of clear cutting, the ground dug up unevenly, great stumps jutting out from it. Blanched limbs and debris lay scattered like Jackstraws. It was heart wrenching.

Patches of forest separated the clear-cut areas. Gradually we saw that efforts were made to clean up and reforest the raped tracts. Neat signs posted by Weyerhauser appeared along the highway indicating that a particular section had been clear-cut in such-and-such-a-year and reforested in the next. It was interesting to see from the girth and height of the trees how long it takes to reestablish a forest. Other signs proclaimed, “Future Forests Start with Logging.” We were skeptical.

Conversations with Washington residents later in the trip presented the other side of the clear cutting argument. The oldest, largest trees almost always are diseased. Fungus is a major problem. It quickly can affect nearby trees. Clear cutting protects adjacent tracts by removing diseased trees. Young trees have a better chance to develop. Unquote. Reforesting repairs the damage, but slowly, very slowly.

The road went through an Indian reservation. I was pleased to see that this tribe had received wonderfully wooded land, unlike the depressing desert of the Navajo.

 

Our next stop was at Caswell’s On The Bay on Long Beach Peninsula, a narrow spit of land off the mainland just north of the mouth of the Columbia River. The large, modern house with a flavor of Victoriana stood alone in luxuriant grounds on a rise overlooking Willapa Bay. The Caswells are charming people. We happened to be their only guests, so they ignored our room reservations and put us in their two finest rooms without changing the promised prices. Both large rooms overlooked an expanse of lawn leading down to the tidal flats of the bay.

At Tom’s request, Mr. Caswell suggested restaurants we might enjoy for dinner. We had elegant dinners both nights. The first was at one of the inns from the Unique Northwest Inns group, where we had superb food in a semi-private dining room. The second night we went to a gaudy fish house for a surprisingly elegant meal that included the famous Willapa oysters.

 

We explored the peninsula on Wednesday. We walked to picturesque North Head Lighthouse on the Pacific and Tom later walked even farther, uphill and down, to the lighthouse at Cape Disappointment, overlooking the mouth of the Columbia River.

We visited the small Lewis & Clark Interpretive Center at Fort Canby. In addition to giving us a fascinating view of the explorations, it provided a traumatic interval for this reporter. I excused myself to use the ladies’ room. I noticed that the commode in one of the cubicles had not been flushed. It was unsightly. I decided that, being a Concerned Citizen, I must take responsibility. I flushed. The foul water rose, and rose, and rose, and…Jiggling the handle did no good. I fled in advance of the flood.

I whispered the dire news to the attendant at the counter. She nodded and continued reading. I repeated that the room was flooding and that she probably should take action before it reached her toes. Startled, she called her supervisor. The two ladies put their heads together and decided to call the maintenance man, as soon as he emerged from a meeting.

Carli headed for the Ladies. I warned her which area to avoid. She returned to say that the flooding not only had stopped, but that a drain in the floor had coped with it. She went outdoors to scrape her shoe soles on the cleansing grass.

I determined 1) never again to take it on myself to be helpful, and 2) when in strange facilities, never to flush until I was ready to exit in a sprint, if necessary.

Tom returned from his hike to the lighthouse, assuring me that it was more climbing than I would have enjoyed. We continued our explorations of the dunes and the long, wide beach beyond and of the nature reserve at the end of the peninsula.

 

That morning, as he served our delectable breakfast, Mr. Caswell had been absolutely giddy with anticipation of the opening of razor-clam season. Clamming is permitted publicly on only a few days each year, during specified hours, and with a limit of fifteen clams. He spent all day getting his vehicle and his gear ready for the night’s expedition. Poor Mrs. Caswell, who was suffering from sciatica, went with her husband to provide a license for a second fifteen clams.

When we returned from dinner, Mr. Caswell happily was cleaning his catch of the huge clams. The two of them had a late, luxurious supper long after we had said goodnight and retired to our charming rooms.

Thursday, 26 October

Before leaving Long Beach, we stopped at a bookstore so I could buy a copy of the Washington Bed-and-Breakfast Cookbook, I was convulsed at the sign in a shop window:

 

Our departure gave us one last goodbye to the Columbia River as we drove south over the 4.1-mile-long Astoria Bridge, the world’s longest continuous truss bridge.

Our road was a few hundred feet above the rocky Pacific coast, along the sides of basalt mountains. We passed great black outcrops and caught occasional glimpses of the beach through the haze.

When we settled in the car for the drive to our next stop at Depoe Bay, Oregon, Carli suggested that we pick up picnic food for that evening as an antidote to the steady, understandable overeating in which we had indulged. This tied in nicely with our planned stop at the Tillemook cheese factory.

Carli read from the guidebook that Tillemook County had 23,000 people and 22,000 cows. The guide continued that the first thing people noticed at Tillemook was the smell. Carli and I both assumed it referred to the glorious aroma of cheese. The guide continued, “It’s fairly obvious that a lot of cows live in the area.”

Tom parked near the cheese factory. We opened the car doors and instantly agreed that the guidebook had not exaggerated. Fortunately, I am fond of farmyard smells.

We watched the automated factory operations, then took advantage of the cheese tasting to select a cheddar for our picnic. Carli found an interesting sausage. Our purchases were presented to us in a silver bag decorated with a large orange Jack-o-Lantern. Ever since arriving in Palo Alto, I had teased about buying a pumpkin and carving it to decorate my rooms on the trip. I appropriated the Halloween bag and put it up as a decoration each time we stopped the rest of the trip.

Next we went to the French cheese shop for Brie and baguettes. We needed a bottle of wine. Again, we decided a taste test would be in order. The house brand Pinot Noir was just shy of noxious. We tried the Cabernet. Not much better. Finally we agreed that the Merlot was enough better than the other two that we might as well take it, despite its price of $25.

Tom remarked that we could get a better wine at a supermarket for $6. Carli and I protested that we did not know when or if we would pass a store on our drive along the coast. As it happened, once we tucked our questionable bottle of wine away in the car and drove on, we passed endless numbers of markets and liquor stores.

 

Channel House at Depoe Bay was perched on the rocks at the foot of the bridge that crosses the narrow pass from the ocean into the tiny harbor. Carli had booked a two-bedroom suite. It had a spectacular view overlooking the rocky coastline, the surging Pacific, and the challenging pass. A balcony ran the length of the suite, with a Jacuzzi outside the sliding glass doors of Carli and Tom’s bedroom. The living room was a gracious size, attractively decorated, with comfortable furniture, a gas fireplace, and a full kitchen.

A hall led past Carli and Tom’s bathroom to my room. They had a basin in a mirrored niche in their bedroom. The rest of their facilities were across the hall. The shower had spray heads at each end and was large enough to hold a convention of bathers.

Which brings us to my room. It had a lovely double bed with a dark flowered comforter. A TV sat on a small chest of drawers a few inches from the foot of the bed. A small armchair chair blocked the hall door and obstructed entry into the tiny bathroom. Tom immediately picked it up and moved it to the living room, easing congestion marginally. The only place large enough for a suitcase rack was in front of my main door to the outside hall. One end of my weekender touched my bed; the other was flat against the wall.

Later, I noticed the lock on the sliding door into the small bathroom. I hardly could stop laughing enough to ask C&T why anyone willing to share that tiny room with another person would find it necessary to lock the bathroom door.

Carli and Tom were a little perturbed at the size of my room. They had trouble believing that I considered it delightfully cozy, rather than claustrophobic.

 

As we investigated our temporary home-by-the-sea, Carli found two bottles of wine, attractively presented in a little basket on the kitchen counter. Tom remarked that the red wine was much better than the one we had purchased so reluctantly. It cost slightly less. We decided to take advantage of it instead of opening the dubious Merlot.

I asked Tom what he intended to do with the Merlot.

“We’ll give it to friends we don’t like and tell them it is a fine Oregon wine,” he replied without hesitation.

I draped the Jack-o-Lantern bag on the mantle where we all could enjoy our Halloween decoration.

We gathered for the afternoon in our living room, spending more time looking out the large windows or wandering out onto the balcony to watch the waves break on the rocks below than we did reading our books. Tom, of course, was not reading. He was happily involved with his laptop when he wasn’t out on the balcony taking pictures.

That evening Carli arranged our picnic on our coffee table. We congratulated ourselves on taking advantage of our spectacular view and comfortable surroundings as we feasted informally.

Around midnight I was wakened when a blast of wind that literally shook the bed ushered in a violent storm. I roused enough to realize that it wasn’t a hurricane, that it wasn’t my house shaking, and that I was quite safe. I was asleep again moments later and missed the full fury of the storm.

In the morning, Carli and Tom told me the roar of storm and surf were so loud that they drowned out their TV. Tom got up when the power failed. He watched the storm long enough to see the raging waves of high tide below our windows.

 

It still was overcast and rainy the next morning, but after a nice buffet breakfast in an attractive room, we set out for the nearby Oregon Aquarium. On the way to the entrance, we followed a pretty little stream. Posted above it was a sign that proclaimed:

NO COINS NECESSARY TO OPERATE STREAM

The aquarium is justifiably notable. It has a beautiful display of marine life, both in tanks inside the modern building and in natural-appearing outdoor pools among the rocks. Visitors walk through a long, clear tunnel that allows them to see fish swimming past on either side, overhead, and—through heavy plates in the floor—underfoot.

In an outdoor exhibit, Carli and I were enchanted by the below-surface view of the Common Murres, penguin-like sea birds. Through a plate below the water level of their pond we saw nearly a dozen dear little round tummies propelled by webbed feet located far aft. Ducks, which we all had seen elsewhere, have flatter, less amusing underbodies when viewed from beneath.

 

Tom drove out to the famous Cape Sebastian overlook, high above the violence of the surf. Waves lashed by last night’s storm beat onto the shore. At my questioning, Carli and Tom agreed that the waves here were probably twenty to thirty feet high, so high that the wind whipped off their tops, blowing them back out to sea. The creamy foam stretched at least 100 yards from the breakers to shore.

Tom got out to take pictures. Carli was afraid that the gusty winds would whip him off the cliff. He drove through a long, dark tunnel of trees to the other side of the overlook. The car rocked in the wind. Carli remarked that at least we would be blown back against a little hill instead of being hurled out to sea. It was exciting to see the Pacific throw a tantrum.

We continued along the coast. The road dropped lower. Not far from the highway, mountainous waves broke over towering basalt outcrops. The surf surged through arches cut in the rock by centuries of billowing ocean waters.

Before returning our refuge at Channel House, we shopped to replenish our larder for a second picnic that evening. Despite the weather, we felt obligated to take more pictures from our balcony, carefully posing each other to capture as much of the wild water below us as possible in the background. The only use Carli and Tom had from their Jacuzzi was huddling together perched on its edge while I captured the pose on film.

Saturday, 28 October

The next day we were off, driving along mountainsides overlooking the Pacific. We returned to Cape Sebastian overlook. As the storm diminished, so did the violence of the surf. Waves probably were ten to twenty feet high, but that seemed almost moderate compared to the day before. Visibility still was reduced. We were unable to see the great distances along the shore in each direction for which the overlook is famous.

We continued our drive southward. A flat, sandy shore stretched for miles. The Oregon dunes we passed probably were lovely, but we were on one side of them and the Pacific was on the other.

I remarked to Carli that I would be quite happy living in a tiny house high on a bluff overlooking the Oregon Pacific.

Carli scoffed, “You’d be cold.”

I assured her that my little house would have good heat.

I was so busy watching for glimpses of the ocean on our right as we drove that I almost failed to see the great folds of mountains disappearing into the distance on our left.

The road twisted through a deep cut in the mountains, then turned back to the coast on the edge of a national forest. Below us, towers and mini-islands of basalt stood in the surf, separated from the shore by centuries of grinding waves. Smaller outcrops were marooned on tidal flats, waiting for the ocean to surround them again. Waves broke far out. There was a line of white water, a line of green, and some fifty yards of foamy white water with the wind catching the tops of the farthest breakers before they rolled shoreward.

Watching the pounding surf we marveled that this ocean ever could have been named “Pacific.”

Carli remarked, “Balboa must have had your eyesight, Mom.”

 

After turning off the highway and taking two or three smaller roads in succession (somewhat to my distrustful dismay), Tom actually reached Tu Tu’ Tun Lodge on the Rogue River. It was somewhat more elegant than the inns at which we had stayed earlier, but handsomely rustic.

We were told that hors d’oeuvres would be served before dinner in front of the fire in the lodge. We were familiar with this nicety from Steamboat Lodge earlier in our trip.

By the time we arrived, guests had begun to gather at the bar at the back of the room. Tom and I joined them, assuming that the wine was complimentary here too. I rapidly realized that we were expected to buy it, and told Tom that wine for the evening would be my gift. Tom had been speaking to the woman next to him and casually asked her opinion of a certain bottle of red wine. She replied that it was very nice, and that it was what she was drinking. Tom ordered a bottle and I asked that it be put on my room bill. The hostess poured us three glasses of wine. She put the bottle aside, obviously to be served to us at the table.

Tom and I rejoined Carli on great, comfortable couches by the fire. After a bit Carli got up to get another hors d’oeuvre. She returned, grinning, to say that she had been able to glance at the wine list at the end of the bar. Neither Tom nor I had seen a wine list. “Mom, you just bought us a $70 bottle of wine,” she added.

It was absolutely too much, after my $25 bottle of bad Merlot. The only consolation was that this really was a very nice red wine. It paid for itself in the laughs it gave us then and afterwards. Carli and Tom refused to let me cover the entire cost and insisted on splitting it three ways.

Next day we went sightseeing in pouring rain. We drove the twisting back roads in the vicinity and returned to the coast for another view of the Pacific. It was kicking up again in advance of another storm.

We had another lovely evening at the lodge, this one accompanied by a more modest selection of wine.

Monday, 30 October

In the morning, we left for the final inn of our trip under sunny skies. We drove through Prairie Creek State Park in Northern California and past the Elk Prairie Camp Grounds. Carli chided, “Here we are at Elk Prairie and where are all the elk?”

“Up ahead, crossing the road,” Tom replied.

Carli gasped in surprise: “It’s a whole herd of elk!”

In the back seat I struggled against my restraining harness and peered around headrests, hoping to catch a glimpse of the animals. Usually all I see of deer ahead of the car is a white tail disappearing into the underbrush. I need not have worried this time.

Tom slowed the car until he was barely inching along, then pulled over to the side of the highway and stopped. Ahead of us, a car on the opposite side of the road was doing the same thing. We were directly across from the apparently delectable patch of grass that had lured the young buck and his harem of nine to graze. The elk ignored passing traffic and the traffic ignored the two parked cars. We decided that this must be unexceptional behavior in the area. Tom had his window down and his camera in action. We must have spent ten or fifteen minutes watching the elk graze, move around, greet each other, and graze again.

 

As we drove on, we saw several plumes of smoke billowing from the mountains not far from the road to our left. It occurred to me that never have I been in so much danger. Throughout the trip, signs along our route warned me of dangers never before considered:

EARTHQUAKE INSTRUCTIONS

TSUNAMI EVACUATION ROUTE

ROCK SLIDES

BEAR COUNTRY

And now forest fire.

I was ready to return to Belize, where the only danger was an infrequent, familiar hurricane.

 

Our final night’s stop, Gingerbread Mansion Inn, was my one contribution to the planning of our trip. Carli roughed out our itinerary. She chose inns from listings of Unique Northwest Inns because Chanticleer Inn in Ashland, where she and Tom stayed often, was one of its group. When I saw the picture of flamboyantly Victorian Gingerbread Mansion Inn in the brochure and realized that its location made it an ideal last stop before returning to Palo Alto, I could not resist suggesting it.

Gingerbread looked exactly like its picture, but more so. It had been restored enthusiastically with windows, doors, paintings, furniture, and bibelots collected from all over the world. After walking through one fussy parlor after another, I reached down to lift the hem of my long skirt gracefully to keep from tripping as I climbed the stairs—then remembered that I was wearing slacks.

Our rooms were delightful. Mine came with a friendly painter on a ladder outside the window and a bed almost too high to climb into and a hazard to vacate.

After briefly settling in my room, I returned to Carli and Tom’s room, probably to say something innocuous that simply could not wait. I left them, walked to the end of the hall, opened the unlocked door, and was faced by a startled young woman sitting up in bed. I apologized, mumbled that I was lost, and fled. With only one room besides ours occupied, I had to invade that room. On the other hand, she could have locked her door.

When we checked in, the Innkeeper urged Carli to explore. She said we were free to go into any room with an open door. Carli and Tom did a quick check. They were so fascinated with each room that they collected me to join them. The rooms all were charming; all were different. Many had claw-foot tubs in the bedrooms themselves, mounted on small platforms inside low white wooden fences. The Empire Suite on the third floor was said to be the most opulent room in Northern California. Certainly it was an extensive jumble of draped king-size bed, Ionic columns, enormous multi-head glass shower and raised tub in front of a fireplace. A second fireplace warmed the charmingly Victorian living room. The three of us had a wonderful time exploring and exclaiming.

We strolled through the lovely, small gardens. Low, immaculately clipped hedges outlining flowerbeds gave the impression of a much larger garden. We returned to one of the parlors for tea, a lovely presentation of tiny sandwiches, pastries, and candies.

Tuesday, 31 October

After a good night’s sleep (during which, to Carli’s vast relief, I did not fall out of bed) and a superb breakfast, we started the final leg of our homeward trip.

One of the things I had hoped to see was California Redwoods. I did. Tom paralleled our highway to take us through The Avenue of the Giants, dark woods where the enormous boles of Redwoods stood sentinel-straight in a valiant, last-ditch stand against the loggers. We passed “The Immortal Tree,” which survived multiple attacks by fire and lightening.

From the back seat, I could not see the tops of the trees. Finally I realized that by turning around as much as my harness permitted, I could see the trees’ full majesty through the rear window.

Tom especially wanted me to see the Redwoods on a sunny day. I realized why when I saw how streaks of sunlight pierced the heavy foliage to gild a branch or outline a tree trunk in gold.

The Avenue wound through the mountains overlooking rivers shrunken to small streams snaking over wide, dry riverbeds in the dry season.

Even after we left the reserve and returned to the highway, we passed dozens of Redwoods, their slender spires towering above the other pines.

 

Gradually, we left the heavily forested mountains. In the Sonoma Valley, the land flattened into rolling, grassy hills, tawny in the autumn. Tom remarked happily, “This is more like the California we know and love.”

We approached San Francisco from the far side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Unexpectedly seeing the city across the bay, I had the impression of a double handful of square white stones tossed recklessly onto a hill with taller stones studding the top ridge.

We returned to Palo Alto on October 31. Carli had just enough time to get into her traditional black slacks, black top with sharks’ teeth necklace, and black witch’s peaked hat before the Trick-or-Treaters arrived.

Halloween made a festive end to a glorious trip.