Driving North - On the Road Again

Oregon Coast
see all photos »

This is the story of the drive *to* Umpqua. It's the route I took on my way to Portland, where I visited a friend rather than explore like a good traveler. I began on a Wednesday, hungry for the road. There were two hours of good light left in the day. My route took to the coast at Sebastopol, and followed 1 as it dipped by switchback closer to the shore. The road wound and dipped and rose like a ride, and once again I remarked (nearly aloud) at how the route must have been developed to coax a mirthy smile from drivers who love driving (there's no reason for people who don't like driving to ever enter 1).

... and to the right
see all photos »

As an early twilight raced to overtake the cloudy sunset, the road moved inland, and soon reached the quaint village of Mendocino, which must have been more quaint before "Murder, She Wrote" brought notoriety and overpriced lodgings. I had been told that this would be a charming destination for an evening and rest, but, having little in common with Angela Lansbury I decided to continue. The town twinkled pleasantly, as if the townspeople were all leaving the lights on for expected relatives, and I'm sure that my money and I would have felt welcomed and safe.

To call the drive... picturesque would be the understatement of this road trip.

just north of the border
see all photos »

A mist hovered over the night and threatened the last bit of visibility I was using, so I settled on a stop in Fort Bragg, where the beer was supposed to be superb and the accommodations were comfortably cheap. Unfortunately I just missed the kitchen hours at North Coast Brewing Company, so the stop would prove only as respite before a long drive. The next morning I rose to gray sky and damp air. With thirteen hours of driving ahead of me, this type of weather can't dispirit, it helps keep out the guilt that I should be using my muscles and eyes in order to maintain physical health or something.

Routes 1 and 101 merged about thirty miles north, into the Redwoods. These forests near the coast have an ethereal, fairytale quality about them, especially with the pretty mist that settled around the mammoth trees. Against the grays precipitating, the browns and greens maintained a stark, lively presence, and my jaw continually dropped at their majesty. As I marveled at the beauties, another feature of the region began to pop up at the roadsides: kitschy tourist stops. Mystery Spots and stores carved out of the trees. It was the northwest! I gaped, but was determined to continue.

When the road winds back to the ocean, it's almost Oregon. The cliffs have softened to rolling along a rocky beach. This softness pervaded the feel I got from Oregon- the people, the roads, the scenery. Honestly, I'd attest to Oregonians being the friendliest drivers in the country. Although similar to the view on California 1, the major difference seemed to be merely the accessibility between the road and the shore. The change in local driving was immediately apparent, when plates were majorly Oregonian, the traffic moved cautiously but responsibly, and I knew I could retire the extreme defensive driving techniques I had utilized since Colorado.

The map showed that 101 follows the coast, and 5 carves an industrial column into the western side of the middle, and in between are a handful of routes that follow rivers heading west to the ocean. I selected the Umpqua River because I had learned to trust the green dots that line scenic drives on my atlas, and its course divided the state north to south.

As soon as I turned east on route 38 at Reedsport, my enthusiasm multiplied. Here I had stumbled on one of the prettiest slices of the country, mostly by random, coincidental circumstances. Reaching Portland remained the goal, but I knew that my friend, an avid Oregonian if I've ever met one, would be satisfied as long as I had sampled a healthy array of territory. Thus, upon turning east, a tension of sweet dilemma swept over me. Control over the little decisions that ripen life, like what wine to order, which appetizer is both aptly priced and most satisfying, which campsite will get ideal post-dawn light, and so forth, are the stuff of power trips in my line of lifestyle. So, the choices to carefully soak in this countryside, or quickly drink it in as I drive and make it to Portland, started wrestling in my excited belly and brain. To call the sixty-odd mile drive along route 38 in mid April picturesque would be the understatement of this road trip.

The perfection of the river valley- from homely cottages to blossoming apple trees offering shade and symbolic borders between lush horse pastures and wildflower beds lining the river, was almost too much for me to keep my foot on the gas. All inklings of desire to drop everything and become a farmer, which, buried inside my subconscious still reside as stuff of fantastical romance, and are certainly difficult to part with, these surfaced to my conscious mind, and proved beguiling. I wanted to pull over, take a quilt out with a book and a pitcher of lemonade (each but the book figments of romantic imagination), and settle under an apple tree by the river for the remainder of the afternoon. If the family would have me, I would stay for the remainder of my days on this exquisite planet.

The afternoon was gray, but the sun surely tried to break through. The leaves were new, the grass matched in a green of bright yellow and new rain. They radiated their own light source, of new and resilient life. I imagined the earth was black with nitrogen and mineral-rich from the old Umpqua River. Hills climbed opposite the river, which dug an older path than the farms, and covering everything was vegatation of the bright, healthy green that makes you breath deeply to absorb the richness of the land that surrounds you and spoils your lungs, nose, and eyes. The urge to settle down, if only for an afternoon stolen under the apple blossoms, never ceased. I pulled over at a market and bought some local jam, but continued to follow the river. I promised myself that if I ever married a farmer, or embarced that dream to its fullest myself some day, it would be here that I would plant all my roots.

When this ride was over, I was sad for it. The day was drawing to a close, and the river valley graduated into a dullness from the lost light. I made a promise to myself to return to the Umpqua River, and merged onto route 5.