The Oregon Coast

Gold Rush

Hustlers grab your guns / Your shadow weighs a ton / Driving down the 101 — Phantom Planet, “California”

My cousin Garth and his wife, Amy, are boat captains. They spent most of this year working whale-watching charter boats in Juneau, Alaska. When the season ended, they ferried back to the mainland, their son Sean (9 years old) having caught thousands of fish from his fishing boat and kayak in the after-school hours. They traveled around the California and Oregon coasts in the past weeks, prospecting for a place to settle next; they are looking for more work on the left coast, a place that makes Garth talk with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. I stayed a night with them in Salem, south of Portland, in a house where Garth’s old friend from Louisiana now lives. That night, we sat around a back-patio fire and talked and sang old country songs.

Garth begged me to take the scenic coastal Highway 101 for the rest of my drive down to Eureka, California; Amy didn’t think I would miss much if I skipped driving the switchbacks in the rain that was predicted. I took both their advice and drove down Interstate 5 to the notoriously free-spirited town of Eugene, checked out the university (a habit when I’m alone, now, is to stop at colleges and stretch my legs), and switched over to the coastal highway via Highway 38.

I did not listen to the O.C. theme song as I drove down Highway 101 South into California, but I did sing it to myself. The pacific coast is epic, and I never forgot myself in a driving daze while cruising its scenic, winding stretches. I snacked on banana chips, and listened to the news about Paris to the extent that I could stand it; then, I listened inside my head. Stories always abound.