“Whosoever is delighted in solitude
is either a wild beast or a god.”
—Aristotle
As much as I adore the mountains, they can suffocate sometimes. Depending on the day, vast chains of towering rock either inspire or hold you captive. Especially here in the Rockies where I live—I swear, it seems like they go on forever. Like if anything lies beyond their reach at all, it’s got to be at least a trillion miles away.
Maybe that explains why it’d been six years since I’d seen the ocean?
This landlocked heart of mine was close to shriveling up. It’d been begging for the relief of wild open water, so I tossed my hound dog Pablo in a big silver truck and together we took off for the Oregon coast. Twisting two-lane highway hummed under our wheels as Italian sludge metal surged through our stereo. The rhythm of the road lulled us both into a state of calm and, one by one, life’s little worries faded away. As they disappeared, so went my whiskey hangover from the night before. So went Colorado, our mountainous captor, in the reflection of the rearview mirror.
North of Wyoming’s state line, signs of human life grew few and far between. It was just me and Pablo, some wild antelopes, and a couple of bald eagles. On the high road up Togwotee Pass to nearly 10,000 feet, those spirited animals became our watchful guides. As evening set in, late summer snow created icy conditions, demanding extra focus on the road for the remainder of the way to our hotel. Eventually, we made it down to Jackson Hole with nine more miles to go till a hot shower…a warm bed… I exited the highway at Moose-Wilson Road and tried to turn left at the light, but a barricade and orange traffic sign blocked our way. Across that sign flashed six words you probably don’t see every day: Road Closed Bear Activity Moose Casualties.
The next day, winding our way through Idaho Snake River country, insistent sunrays morphed Wyoming into distant memory. Stopping in Boise for the night, we ditched the car and stretched our six collective legs—first strolling down the Greenbelt along the river, then heading over to Freak Alley Gallery to see the street art. Then we circled back to the Modern Hotel for a lovely al fresco dinner of brandade croquettes and razor clams in uni broth paired with a nice, farmy BTG crémant de Jura.
Well, at least that’s what I had. Pablo was of course sitting by my side, drawing all sorts of attention from admiring strangers. A man in blue flannel chatted us up, trying what must’ve been one of his better pickup lines. He said he’d seen us a few days ago outside his neighborhood grocery store. A decent play, sure. Although, as far as I know, neither Pablo or I had ever met that guy, and we’ve definitely never gone grocery shopping in Boise either.
After a solid night’s sleep we hit the road again, crossing the Snake River a for second time then dropping down to historic U.S. 20. That carried us across Oregon’s high desert hillsides over to Bend, where we drove into the Deschutes National Forest and a rainstorm so intense I’m still not sure our wheels were even touching the highway. That storm hammered down hard, blurring the pavement’s painted white and yellow lines, and it sounded like a barrage of BBs ricocheting off our truck’s steel frame. Worried we’d hydroplane out of control, I slowed my speed down to a crawl. Obvious out of state novices—that’s who we were. The ocean closer than ever, yet we were still four hours away.
Daylight waned as we drew closer to our final destination. The evergreen forest shapeshifted into a gang of shadowy giants wading through thick maritime fog which crept like smoke through the opaque, wet night. This last stretch of our drive was slick and sinuous. I’d been white-knuckling it. Flashing my high beams on and off to see a set of hairpin turns, I noticed the steep vertical drop to a ravine below. We were deep in Oregon’s backwoods and it was starting to get late. Better not break down out here, I thought.
Finally, we reached the Kiwanda shore in a downpour of pitch black rain. I couldn’t see the ocean but I could hear it roar. As I unloaded the truck and got Pablo settled into our cottage, the Pacific greeted me with a long, soft, salty kiss.
Exhausted as I was that night, I couldn’t sleep to save my life. Our vacation rental smelled of must and someone else’s memories. And from its steps the ocean’s edge was mere meters away. I longed for its waves to wash over my feet, coat them in cold, coarse, sticky sand. Stand there face against the wind and be reminded of how insignificant I am. But a starless sky and threat of sneaker waves kept me housebound until daybreak so I cracked open the window, curled up with Pablo in bed, and stared for hours at unfamiliar popcorn ceiling. The air was heavy and damp. The tide’s steady drone, hypnotic.
A few hours later, as first traces of sunrise started streaking across the sky, we set out for the sandstone headlands on the north end of the beach. Dating back to the Miocene Epoch, this delicate terrain is prone to sinkholes and landslides, but a hiking trail goes up there if you’re willing to take the risk.
After a relatively short climb, we were out on the continent’s edge, about as far as we could get from civilization and still be touching terra firma. We spent the rest of the morning quiet and humbled, taking the power of this tremendous landscape in. Double crested cormorants perched on the edges of razor-sharp cliffs to dry their outstretched waterlogged wings, while jade-colored waves crashed like thunder claps shaking the ground beneath us.
For the rest of the week, Pablo and I blissed out in a shared meditative state, wandering up and down the beach, simply keeping to ourselves. I’d become fascinated with gargantuan driftwood that’d washed ashore, while he steered clear of the waves and tried to catch a few seagulls. Mission accomplished. We’d made it. And with many negative ions absorbed. This ocean therapy took some doing but the doing was worth it.
All good things come to an end, and that particular Friday morning came way too fast; I packed up our bags and loaded them back into the big silver truck. Though before saying goodbye, I needed a just little more time with those prehistoric headlands where I’d purged my past a few days prior. Dragging my fingertips across their face, sandstone specks stuck to my hand, each granule bore the kind of gravity that can only be acquired over several mega-annums. Gray sky met even grayer horizon. I stood there a different woman. Changed. And taking slow, deliberate sips of ocean air, I watched the ocean’s waves roll in.
