Drunk on a Dream

Our movements slowed considerably with the onslaught of rain. Large globules spattered the window shield as we bid good bye to Cape Lookout, wet hair dripping as I began to drive further north into the unknown. Great expectations were on route to have a day of concrete walking through quaint towns, boutiques and bakeries.

The deluge never subsided for 24 hours, and how we thanked the Lord for giving us the fortitude to rent a Yurt for this eve. From Garibaldi steam engine, to the boardwalks of Rockaway, Cannon Beach, to the outlet shops in Seaside, and onto Fort Steele there wasn’t a dry eye to be had.

Our Microbrewery Guide to the Coast would be our only companion today. A lonely barrel in the middle of the empty parking lot was the only sign of the Seaside Brewery. A cold bare saloon at 12:37 with a chalk board of its specialities was all Hal had to go on. The brewery was situated in a 1924 court house with jail cell still intact, that where the vats were kept, if you got out of hand, you were rooming with the hops, not bad for a robbery.  

Hal started with a mixture of hops, whisky, and spices resembling and tasting to me of black sludge. I tried some oyster shooters with lemon, with a proclivity to add sauces, I went raw.

Next stop was Astoria at the top of the Oregon Coast, there were five brewery of which we ventured into 3. Astoria brewery was situated over the ocean and the honking we’d heard down the coast from the sea lions persisted on the wharf and rungs of the pillars below, but out of sight. Hal enjoyed a delightful lighter Stout and I a horrid bitter concoction they called Angel. She must fallen from grace into hell to taste that bad. There drinks were procured with grand names: Bitter Bitch, Lynched Lager, Hitting Harder Stout, Solar Dog IPA and our favorite Mean Monster Mash.

We stopped at a road side picnic area to eat our lunch hunched over in the car avoiding the rain listening to Amy Whinehouse, always uplifting songs on a sour day.

Onto our favorite, George Public House and Brewery. You could see the vats through glass windows and the guys tasting the mixture every ten minutes, grand career. High beamed ceiling, warm character and heat was all it took when a middle aged women with a yellow and grey t-shirt dress with square glasses long grey pigtails greeted us with the warmest smile engaging in fruitful dialogue about each beer.

“Now this one is squash stout made with real squash in it. Deep essence of spices with a balanced texture and flavor.” I thought wine bottles were getting out of control with hints of apricot, apples and cinnamon, beer must have caught onto what sells. I had my first beer that I actually didn’t squint at Wix Mix, a light savory blend of beer…….the chips and salsa were superb, we might have stayed for dinner but it was only 4:30 and I was catching on to the structural atmosphere, stories behind the brewery locations, many of them outdoing the café I’d once enjoyed. Remember it is Monday afternoon and this place is hoping….pun intended.

Our last brewery was right on the waterfront with a large glass viewing platform to watch massive 1-2 ton sea lions using the stilts and platforms that this place is held up on for resting spots. I’d never seen a beast that big it was grotesque, and I thought they should have forced them into the open water for some exercise. Buoys Brewery overlooked the harbor with 3 mammoth cargo ships in port, one loading up and the other 2 waiting for their wares. Grey stormy skies left cold beer less than flavorful in my palates, yet I’d found another one. I had a mere ounce of it as this was Hal’s journey enjoying a London Bitter. He reminisced about opening a brewery in our backyard and then thought if only he had done it in his twenties. Okay perhaps instead of becoming a deacon we’d open a brewery when we retired.

Cannon Beach

Cheri’s café was so out of place with devil leprechauns and the owner that charged us double for our coffees because we didn’t buy anything else put more than bitter grounds on our palate. Cannon beach was a quaint town of uniformity, military conformity wasn’t far off, they had set a high standard and it was evident that no drifters were looking for lodging here.

Dashing into town yesterday morning was rather comical, looking for the Catholic Church we found 4, count em 4 churches on four adjoining corners but no papal speeches. It got a little much when the pastor of this First Christian Church spoke about how he hated ‘ego’ and proceeded to make reference to himself throughout the entire sermon. Hal had had enough when the Pastor said he took the bible literally when speaking about what the disciples had done. He whispered to me, “I don’t the disciples sat at the top of the mountain.”

Out into the outdoor we went venturing to the 2 Cheese markets and my second best cup of coffee at the Pelican Blue Heron Cheese Factory. Then we met flesh on flesh, at the Tillamook cheese factory where Hal and I were the only ones interested in the operations while corpulent American’s were devouring ice cream like the Tsunami’s they’d spoken about where going to happen and their next meal was going to be delayed by mere minutes.

Oceanside gave us ample time to admire massive rocks jetting and sand patterns. Sand was beginning to mount in our clothing, shoes, food, orifices in our bodies and the car. The sweet essence of the ocean mist was become pungent and we couldn’t find the precise source. Our calves were becoming strong from hours of walking on crushed rocks, sedimentary ones.

A quick tally of where my wallet was brought us back to Pelican Brewery where Hal truly wanted another pint. My wallet hadn’t moved nor had our bar spots or the Master’s Golf Open where Jordan Spieth won and we met a local that gave us insights for state parks to walk tomorrow.

Feeling a little woozy from the beer as I still considered myself a neophyte we ventured down the Cape Lookout pathway tactfully trying to avoid puddles of mud knee deep. Hal’s white runners were a muck but the 2.5 hour walk was met with reward at the end. Looking 37 miles out to sea we saw waves lots of them, but the evening walk on our private beach after tasting oysters proved magnificent as the waves in the evening light marvelled our minds. Translucent softened muscles shells swept down the beach for miles making layered patterns perfect for photography. All was well until late in the night when the dinner garlic decided to revolt on our bodies in the tent.

 

Mandrills

Hand in hand, for all those that think the big bang theory is the force, think about how humans walk hand in hand, ever seen our ancestors do that, they don’t but we do. The sky is the limit but only God could have thought of the comforts that cupped hands would bring in times of cold, intimacy, comfort and love, he reigns.

Walking down the Cape Lookout beach with Hal allows me to comprehend the myriad of reasons I have come to love this man. The warm of his hand in my constantly frigid ones allows more than heat to resonate between us. Discussing laureates, literature, careers, and why humans tend to hurt themselves when they are down and out, as he is reading yet another Irish novel filled with sorrow.

The wind hasn’t stopped howling on the Oregon coast it keeps the feet moving, jackets done up to the neck and toques on tight. An evening walk displayed hues of dark purple muscle shells gone jelly. We heard today that the starfish are all but gone due to a bacteria in the area. The photos of their being here are only visions for those of us that haven’t experienced them.

Last night at the Driftwood Inn in Yachats we listened to some blue grass music while being serenaded by many Canadian tunes. The musicians found out that Canadians were in the pub and played many of Hal’s favorites. Rich maple wood surrounded the bar that we were seated at with staff so overly friendly we thought they knew us. Bread pudding with rum, real rum glaze drizzled over it with whipping cream was given to us as a taster. It lathered our tongues, palates and spirits for the entire night for a storm was a brewing when we returned.

The tent breathed all night in and out pushing the gale winds hard into our heads then releasing us into the night sky just to repeat itself seconds later. It took some mind games to name all the vegetables I knew in alphabetical order to outdo the storm that was mere meters from our tent. The tide was in about midnight, our arrival back to camp, and the cacophony took some time to finally slip into a deep R.E.M. cycle and dream of new careers.

Yachats has proven to be an artist’s haven, what might have been a potters affair turned into the most magnificent artistry of oil, acrylics, unique jewelry, photography on steel, glass work, and wood sculptures. Just when you thought you’d seen it all, those creative mixture come up with new combinations.

Hal loved the brewery with a new found favorite, Tsunami Stout. With all the warning along the coast was it any wonder that drink, food, furniture and businesses were named after it.

Long walk on the beach and up through a botanical garden allowed us plenty of time to ponder gratitude which was the sermon this morning. We’d been listening to them daily with God pushing us to truly trust him without any doubts, yet humans have a need for assurance.

Hovered in our car writing our notes Hal jotting down poetry with classical music in the background, is there anywhere or anyone I’d rather be with, well you know the answer.

 

Southern Coast - Lush hints only of the sights missing the growth

Down to Eugene for the day in rain, we dodged puddles sprinting from one shop to another in cover. We ventured up to the University, my sister’s old stomping ground, and then onto some needed expensive shopping for a week of camping.

There are few words to describe when vegetation grows on every inch of building, ground, and earth. Our car headed coastal bound and immediately what should have been farm land was transformed into plush carpets of grass, wheat, and hay encased in mature trees with moss hanging on every limb. No bark was discernable as we stopped several times to photograph this phenomenon. Dr. Seuss must have visited here prior to writing about his Trufula trees.

Within an hour our feet were in sand dunes. Pine needles gave way to sand as our feet contoured this way and that to move up and down the dunes for hours to reach the ocean. Through pools of water that sat 2 ft. deep our feet were inevitably going to be wet, so we plunged in and were rewarded with a 12 mile beach to ourselves. The sun had come out long enough to doff the umbrellas and the wet sand made it easier to move beside the torrent of crashing waves.

That night nestled in our tent we read books, listened to prayer and thanked God for this magnificent island we are on.

Morning came with Chinese children singing “All about the Bass” quarter a mile away yet their lilting voices carried through the empty campground. Fried eggs and cheese for breakfast and then off to the Hecate Lighthouse, situated far up on a cliff. We climbed behind it for an hour prior to descending to see the cut glass dome that shone out as a safety beacon for sailors. The rain gods had descended but there was far too much beach to see, so off to Hobbit Park up the road about 1 mile and down to the beach on a route lined by thick green leaves the size of your palm covered every living breathing thing.

Children were making castles in the sand as the rain hailed down only to stop about a mile down the beach for us. Sun takes on a different meaning here, since the warmth it brings is so intense it truly has a magical effect whenever it reaches the recesses of your body, warming it up, flushing out our pruned hands and toes.

Heading back home we noted a pull out and could hear a distinct air horn sound. Looking over the stone hedge tens upon tens of black seals hovered on the shore their close knit family never venturing without kin to the ocean waters. Green canopies of trees varying color with vibrant yellow flowers framed the perfect photos of the distant light house and bay.

Florence is a small town and meandering the old district allows history to rekindle harder times for men working the forest and ocean. A quick stop in the library to write to you and off to our tent to begin cooking a Mexican fiesta for dinner. Olah!

Florence is a small town and meandering the old district allows history to rekindle harder times for men working the forest and ocean. A quick stop in the library to write to you and off to our tent to begin cooking a Mexican fiesta for dinner. Olah!

Portland - liquid brown runs like the Niagara

Hal’s dream was to marry me first and then take me along to savour the myriad of brown stouts in Oregon. Just like Ireland I’ve become the designated driver and Hal, well he never drinks more than a pint or two yet those rosy cheeks can glow surrounded by beer vats, talks of hops, and his favorite chips in his midst.  

We arrived in Portland in the afternoon walked the floral streets of downtown up to the University admiring the vibrant blossoms of the: Japanese ornamental, cherry, laurel, thunderclouds and Mt. Fugi trees. Then onto to the Pearl district to view modern architecture and Hal’s first of many microbrewery – The Rogue. The sun shone through the hovering clouds as we shared several “flights” of varying colors, textures and tastes of beer. I have been corrupted never would my lips have tried beer now I am indulging and more often than not finding something that will quench my thirst.

That evening we found our home and nestled in with our hosts for the night rich in conversation about the arts, politics, and how Portland went from a logging mill to a beer and granola haven.

Up Mt. Tabor for our morning joint before savoring my first coffee in the Alberta District. Rich cream hit my tongue with a hint of bitter dark African coffee and I heaven bound. Cool brisk winds kept our feet hoping as the morning walk turned into a late lunch near the Mississippi District and Hal’s next brewery – Ex Novo. The seats were nestled right beside the massive vats of beer illuminating Hal’s linguistics chance to woe me further into his indulgences.

Walking into Laurel wood Park, similar to Mount Royal, large mature trees were the playground for children and their parents setting up picnics strolling past glorious homes teaming with flower pots of gold, orange, and lilac tulips. Matching the mauve bushes and teal blue heather growing on the ground. The lush green lawns looked artificial as we crouched down inconspicuously to see if they were. That evening back at our home we met a guest from Australia studying art in Argentina with a 1 month layover in the U.S., we shared fine wine and dinner as she spoke of her adventures.