I’ll admit this. The one true thing I really knew about the state of Oregon was that Lewis and Clark ended up there. (I think.) And, it rained a lot. Like a LOT. So they said. The rain, they said, made it a very green place. Green and so beautiful! The emerald state. So, I agreed to go. This was many years ago when a girl could still hop onto a bicycle with no appreciable prior training and stay in the saddle for 80 miles in a single day. (Okay, maybe I was crying real tears when I got off the bike, but, damn it, I didn’t get in the support van, which back then seemed like a shameful thing to do.)
Older and wiser I no longer do stupid things like that. (Other stupid things, yes, but I know my limits on a bike these days. Today I would get in the van and shamelessly stuff my pie-hole with high-carb snacks long, long, long before my feet and my butt cheeks made me weep.)
What I recall most about Oregon from that first visit was an intense dislike for the ubiquitous clear cutting all over the state. It was awful and it made an impression that was kind of sad and anything but green. The other notable and memorable physical feature during that bike trip was Oregon’s utter lack of anything you could remotely refer to as “architecture”. We never made it into Portland on that first trip, or even Eugene or Corvallis. We were mostly out in the sticks, but it seemed that the same guy had been in charge of constructing every single structure in the state and he apparently had a real penchant for post WWII rectangles and corrugated metal roofs. Every single building was a low-slung affair with the same kind of flair you might expect in a re-location camp. U.G.L.Y.
Fast forward, I have now been to the state of Oregon many, many times. Most of the time, because of time constraints, I fly in to PDX (one of my favorite US international airports-so good), but on the most recent trip we drove up. We wanted to “do” the coast of Oregon.
Regarding long west coast road trips, can we come to the reasonable agreement that Interstate Highway 5 is nasty, boring and interminable in California? From Tijuana to Shasta. You just do not ever enjoy the ride. The only good thing to say about it is…lots of rest stops and almost every one is clean and well-supplied. TP at least. A little less often, soap. Seat covers more often than you’d expect. It’s the little things, people.
But, from Shasta north the scenery gets attractive fairly quickly. I’m happy to report that the state of Oregon got the memo about clear cutting. It seems like there’s a lot less of that going on in Southern Oregon these days.
We took the 5 until we crossed over the state westward to get to the beach (Gold Beach), driving along the Rogue River for much of the way. We sheltered in Gold Beach for a couple nights at a lodge ten miles up the Rogue, Tu Tu Tun Lodge. It was ten kinds of decadent and except for the communal dining arrangement, we loved it. You can kayak in the river by day, have a lovely massage out on the river front gazebo (highly recommended) and then enjoy the lodge happy hour courtesy of your hosts. If you have an iconoclastic bent, (some of us do) you can dine alone in the library but this must be arranged prior to dinner and you have to know about this special arrangement in order to request it. (Consider yourself so informed.) The only catch is that everyone else is dining at the large communal tables in the regular dining room and in order to get to the restrooms they have to walk through the library. It’s okay if you don’t mind the glare of people who clearly have every right to think you are snubbing them by eating at the “special” table for the swell people. My guess is that the hosts are trying to recreate the feel of the old, original hunting and fishing “lodges” of yesteryear wherein the guests all just ate at one big table. (We’ve been to a couple of these in Oregon, now. Here’s how I feel about them. Meh.) Forced summer-camp-camaraderie is not our thing. Sometimes, on a long road trip we find it all we can do to be civil to each other over the evening vittles. I don’t want to ask a total stranger to pass the salad dressing. And, if you get seated next to one of those garrulous old geezers who can’t control his dentures so he winds up spitting his mashed whatever onto your plate….well, just go ahead and think ill of me. But, give me my own table, please. Otherwise, a complete delight, that place.
Onward north to Florence where you get to see the “two Oregons” in close proximity to each other like no place else (except Portland).And by two Oregons, I’m talking about demographic divisions. (Here we go again with the class warfare.) In the quaint old town that lies in the shadow of the bridge you will find cultured and artistic shop folk along with fine dining establishments and lovely galleries and boutiques. Up the road and just outside of the old town is the more plebian Oregon. Every fast-food franchise in America calls this outer area home and the folk are, shall we say, a tad bit less discerning when it comes to fashion. This is the part of the Oregonian population that bears a striking pale resemblance to the extra cast from The Children Of The Corn. The kiddies apparently all have similar dietary deficiencies and they all go to the same hair salon, (shampoo must be hard to obtain) since every single underfed child is stringy haired and vacant eyed. I know that’s a little harsh, but, also a little true. Go see for yourself. That stretch of Oregon is kind of like Appalachia by the sea. (Try not to make eye contact with “Daddy” – you just know there’s a loaded gun under the driver’s seat in all those 1989 Datsuns.)
And, then life and the winding road throw you a real curve…in the little town of Yachats, follow the signs to the bakery about a half block off the main drag through town directly across from the brewery. I am still dreaming (weeks later) about the good things in that bakery, both savory and sweet. Scrumptious doesn’t cut it by a long shot. I knew it would be good when I saw the Tibetan Prayer Flags flying over the door, but, inside those doors, I promise you that you will fall to your knees and sing praises to whatever God you believe in. This is a personal guarantee. (Note: this offer does not apply to the gluten Nazis.)
Our ultimate desto for that leg of our trip was the Willamette Valley where -from all things Pinot Noir emanate. You will find other appellations in Oregon wine country, but Pinot Noir is king. And, drink it colder than other heartier reds, damn it! Do we have to remind you? (But, not so cold that it tastes like Kool-Aid. A few degrees make all the diff.) See our trip notes for recs in wine country, please.
Wine country in Oregon is quickly catching up to California in terms of wine production, (and pretention – not a single plebian zombie from the apocalypse to be found anywhere). And, it’s a little bit on the expensive side. But, the food and (we covered this) great Pinot Noir bring a constant influx of tourism to all the towns of the valley and lots of them are local Oregon “staties” who venture down from Portland or up from the college towns throughout the year. You really do need to book lodging in advance and there are lots of very nice options.
We’ll give it a rest here while we re-group (and drink). Next desto…a rendezvous with Mssrs. Lewis and Clarke.
