A few days to kill on the legendary and highly-praised rugged Oregon coast. Took the standard Route 101 going north from Crescent City, CA. As expected, tons of bike tourists gliding their way south because, as we learned the hard way, going north is for idiots too lazy to do proper research.
Everything was pleasant, beautiful, and delightfully backwards from the border up to the dunes, which are ruled by legions of 4-wheeling warriors. To each his own, but it's challenging to contemplate the mysterious secrets of the tides amidst 2 cycle engines wheezing and sputtering. I took solace in sleepy Gold Beach, where the Rogue flows into the Pacific, the rock formations are mesmerizing, and the abundant good roadside camping areas are chock full of blackberries.
Foresaking this Eden for promises of action and adventure, I continued to press north. Before long the meandering roads were choked with Winnebago convoys, every campground notice was appened with a "Campground Full" sign, and every town was either a West-Coast strip-mall tragedy (how many GameStops, Hollywood Videos, Radio Shacks, and Subways do we really need?), or sickly-sweet resort tourist traps chock full of socks paired with sandals, disenchanted sunburnt kids, and plenty of confused husbands. Disappointment was a bitter drink chased with some dissillusionment, so I had no recourse but to head to Portland with extreme haste and prejudice. Yes, it may be 107 degrees inland, but at least my evenings won't be wasted driving around forest roads looking for places to set up a cot.
No comments:
Post a Comment