CALIFORNIA Day 3: Tillamook to North Bend

At 4:00 in the morning, I dragged myself out of bed and packed my bag. No time to linger. After dropping off my keys in an outdoor box, I walked a few blocks down the pitch-dark sidewalk of Route 101 and arrived at the Tillamook Transit Center.

The town was dead silent at 4:30 AM, but another passenger was already waiting under the awning: an old white man sporting a well-trimmed mustache. We passed the next twenty minutes in silence, staring at a dim parking lot as the sun began to rise.

Exactly on schedule, our bus arrived and the driver beckoned us onboard. I had planned to sleep on this bus -- big mistake! Instead of a pleasant embrace of warm air, I sat down to a seat that was just as freezing as the bus shelter outside. All of the windows were open. The driver, a cheerful white woman with a country accent, had it all figured out. "You know, sometimes when that heater's on and you feel all cozy in here, you start to fall asleep!" she yelled. Mission accomplished. As we moved down the highway, a cold gust whipped through the windows and turned the bus into a rolling freezer.

As usual for rural transit, she turned on the radio to a local music station. I had heard most of the songs before, but this one stood out.

My ears perked up when it said "I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you... The difference 'tween I-rock and I-ran." Luckily, though the song was conservative-leaning, it was free of overt bigotry and centered on a theme of love. If 9/11 happened in today's political climate, I doubt the country songs would be as "nice."

No one entered or left the bus until we reached the Lincoln City Safeway. It turned out the old man was also going to Newport, so I followed him when he got off and joined him at the connecting stop across the street. I had about 40 minutes to kill, so I stopped by the Safeway and got some M&Ms and a tube of toothpaste. Unsurprisingly, despite Oregon's mask mandate, many people in the store were behaving like normal human beings and showing their faces.

The stretch of Route 101 from Lincoln City to Newport is filled with small towns and great views. I took the local bus, so we made our way South at a leisurely pace. This one was more full: about half of the seats were occupied at a time. 

Across the street I saw a large restaurant with a logo of a pig holding a fork and a plate of pancakes. Intriguing. Underneath, in Chinese-restaurant letters, was the name: Pig n' Pancake. Thinking back, I realized that I had ridden past several of these restaurants farther north on the Oregon coast. They had a location in Newport, where I was due for a two-and-a-half hour wait. I decided to stop by.

The bus was a few minutes late. A few blocks into Lincoln City, I saw an unexpected but familiar sight: a curved arrow lined with flashing lights, advertising the Otis Cafe. The bus from Tillamook used to end in the tiny town of Otis, in front of what was then the Otis Cafe. I probably have a picture of the old location on a previous post on this blog. Apparently the "world famous" Otis Cafe had abandoned its namesake town and moved to Lincoln City. I was glad that it survived the pandemic.

I arrived in Newport eager for breakfast. Newport's Pig n' Pancake is right next to the City Hall bus stop. Donning my mandated mask, I opened the door to a bustling room with jaunty music. It looked like an IHOP, except a large part of the floor space was occupied by a counter selling local trinkets and Pig n' Pancake swag. Back in a pancake house for the first time since the pandemic started, I was inexplicably ecstatic.

Waiting for my shortstack

Three fluffy pancakes and a glass of orange juice went for a reasonable price. Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. It was time to leave that happy place and find somewhere else to wait for the next ninety minutes.

Saying goodbye to the Pig n' Pancake

Walking a few blocks to the west, up and over a slight hill, I saw the ocean. There was an empty bench overlooking the beach. I sat there for an hour, reading and watching the waves come in.

Walking to the beach in Newport

Best seat in the house!

Half an hour before my bus was due, I ventured down to the beach. The walkway was a long gentle slope, with broad stone benches every few feet. 

Walkway to the beach

I watched The Shawshank Redemption during the lockdown and cried when I heard Red's final speech. I was reminded of it as I walked across the Newport beach. Having finally been released from prison, Red decides to ride the bus down to Mexico to meet his old friend Andy Dufresne. As he rides south, Morgan Freeman reads these lines:

I find I'm so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

The Pacific was just as blue as it had been in my dreams. 

My next bus arrived a few minutes early at Newport city hall. My destination was the town of Yachats. I had no idea how to pronounce it, so I asked the driver "how much for the end of the line?" He said, "You mean yah-hots?" I said yes and filed it away in my memory.

We rolled down the coast at a leisurely pace, crossing many bridges and looping through many small towns. For long stretches of the highway, Route 101 was separated from the ocean by a thin strip of expensive-looking houses. We rushed by their driveways at sixty miles per hour.

In Waldport, we pulled up to a redneck old man standing next to his truck. His teenage son approached the bus and asked how they could get to Portland. The itinerary was complicated but the driver knew exactly what to do: head back up to Tillamook the way I came, then take the route 5 into Portland. The driver handed them a pamphlet with all of the information they needed.

Yachats arrived quickly. I had a choice: keep going down to Florence and wait there for four hours, or do the waiting here. The town of Yachats had no Street View coverage so I had no idea if there were any nice places to sit. On the other hand, Florence seemed like a dull and unscenic place to wait. I decided to take a chance and have lunch in Yachats.

Great choice, it turned out.

A few blocks from the bus stop was a small park with sturdy log benches overlooking the Pacific. Every few seconds a wave would crash against some nearby rocks, sending up a glittering spray. Overcast skies allowed me to sit there for hours without getting baked by the sun. In short, a great place to kill four and a half hours waiting for a bus.

After an hour of sitting, reading, and relaxing, I decided to grab lunch. Remember, this was back when Oregon still had a mask mandate and a 50% capacity limit for restaurants. It wasn't easy to get a seat in a restaurant, and if I couldn't get lunch in Yachats, I wouldn't be able to have lunch at all.

I tried a few high-rated restaurants, and each had over an hour-long wait. Then I went to the LeRoy Blue Whale. After waiting in a line for fifteen minutes and watching several parties of two sent away with promises of a 45 minute wait, an overworked waitress came up and asked me the size of my party. When I told her it was just a table for one, something remarkable happened: she immediately ushered me to a window booth. It could have easily fit two to four people. She probably did this because of some obscure COVID distancing requirement. I like to think she did it because I am just such a wonderful person.

Service at the LeRoy Blue Whale was friendly and as quick as it could be with only one waitress. I got a giant burger with a thick slice of ham -- not a good combination, it turned out. Luckily the dessert was better than the entree. From a large rotating cabinet of pies, I selected a slice of cherry pie and enjoyed it with my Jeffrey Archer. A line of angry tourists grew longer and longer at the front door.

I left quickly, somewhat ashamed at taking up an entire booth. While I ate, the grey clouds had turned white and some clear sky had broken through.

For many years, the journey down the Oregon coast required a detour inland from Newport to Corvallis followed by a (shameful) Greyhound ride to Coos Bay. This route missed the most scenic part of the Oregon coast. Then Greyhound dropped their route to route to Coos Bay altogether. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise: public transit agencies filled the gap. Now, for the first time in decades, there are cheap public buses from Yachats to Florence and Florence to Coos Bay. I had been looking at this route for over ten years, so in a nerdy way it was thrilling to finally be able to ride straight down the coast.

New Florence-Yachats bus schedule taped onto the Lincoln County bus stop.

I still had a whopping three hours to kill, so I searched for some other benches. It turns out Yachats has a second park. Brilliant green bushes and trees bent over the narrow paths. Everything was dappled with sunlight. I found a secluded bench and enjoyed the atmosphere for an hour.

Two hours to go and I needed a change of scene. The sun was out full-blast, so I needed a seat in a shade. I thought I hit the jackpot: a picnic table with a view of the water, under a shady tree. I cracked open my Loomis and Sternberg Advanced Calculus and started doing some linear algebra.

About 45 minutes later, I noticed a small moving dot on my notebook. I swiped it away. Then I looked at the table: dozens of tiny spiders frantically crawling around. I looked at the seat and the ground: spiders spiders everywhere, but so small that I didn't notice them until they walked on a white piece of paper. I guess they also liked the shade. I shoved my books back in my bag and swept myself off. I would have to sit in the sun for another 45 minutes. At least the view was good!

Back at my original bench, I surrendered to the sun and allowed myself to be baked. I relaxed. COVID was over. Lockdowns were over. The only thing I had to worry about was going to restaurants, checking in to hotels, and showing up at bus stops at the proper time. There was no need to rush. I could sit sleepily on this bench and gaze at the Pacific to my heart's content. 

2021 had been torture: locked at home, forced to watch Zoom calls, prevented from doing anything I enjoyed. Waiting for random bureaucrats in the government to decide when I would be allowed to take off my mask. Watching the vaccination rates as if they were my key to freedom. Worrying about the South African variant and wondering if I would be locked down forever. At this bench in Yachats, I set down the torturous weight of the last year and rested at last. The future seemed clear as the summer sky.

Yachats had been my home for four and a half hours, so parting was bittersweet. I was the only passenger on the bus to Florence. 

South of Yachats, Route 101 rockets up and down tall cliffs as it hugs the coast. We hurried by warm green trees bathed in sunlight. Looking at the peaceful plants overlooking the ocean, I felt like everything had been there forever and would be there forever. It was a comforting thought after so much change.

I was dropped off in front of the Grocery Outlet in Florence. I walked over to a nearby park. The parking lot was full. The playground was crowded with laughing children. Middle schoolers struggled to look cool at the skate park. Elderly couples strolled along concrete paths. This all may sound mundane to a future reader, but it was far from mundane back in 2021. After a year of lockdown, this normalcy was beautiful.

Soon it was time to hike back to the bus stop. I got there 25 minutes early, so I stopped by the Grocery Outlet to buy some crasins -- my favorite dried snack. I munched on them as I waited for the bus to North Bend.

My old bus heads back to Yachats

Five minutes past 5:35 PM, and the bus was nowhere to be seen. When you are traveling only with a backpack and a series of advance reservations at hotels, it is nerve-racking when your bus is late. If you stand in the wrong place, or show up at the wrong time, or have a cancelled bus, the entire trip can be destroyed.

Thankfully this hasn't happened to me yet. My bus showed up ten minutes late. Paying my $12 fare, I settled in to a back seat behind four other passengers with suitcases. As we pulled back onto 101, the driver flipped on his playlist: a collection of smooth jazz. On that small bus, rolling through a shady inland stretch of the highway, we all enjoyed a little slice of sophistication.

Bridge into North Bend

We all piled off at the North Bend VA clinic. This was where I thought I would board my 7:30 bus the next morning -- I was reassured to see a "Coastal Express" sign attached to the bus shelter. 

Walking away, I snapped a picture of the bus and the driver. The driver didn't look pleased that I was taking a picture, but I was far enough away to make a quick getaway.

I couldn't see the coast but I could feel it in the clean air and the clear, warm sunlight.

Every time I checked into a hotel I was a little nervous -- I didn't know for sure whether each hotel accepted people under age 21. After waiting in line for twenty minutes at the understaffed Comfort Inn, I handed over my ID and waited. The receptionist had some problem but thankfully it wasn't related to my age. She informed me that "due to COVID," there would be a "bagged breakfast" rather than the usual buffet. I thanked her and found my room.

It was clean and comfortable, with very strange lighting. A curtainless window above the sink faced the sun, but the walls were structured to prevent that light from illuminating the bedroom area.

Time for dinner. I felt like having something healthy for a change, so I decided to try the Mexican restaurant La Herradura.

Walking across a small bridge, I was quickly seated among a crowd of redneck Trumpsters. Some of them were making racist comments about "illegal immigrants" as they ordered their Mexican food. It is strange, the contradictions people can hold in their minds.

I was feeling brave so I ordered a dish of rice, tortillas, beans, steak, and vegetables. The steak was singed in a black "sizzler" pan, and let off an acrid plastic smell. Everything tasted OK. The problem was that I got about four times as much food as I could finish. It was quite a conundrum: should I ask for a box, bring the box back to my hotel room, and throw it out there? Or should I just leave the food here and risk seeming rude? Inspiration struck: I walked up to the front desk and asked if I could pay there. They ran my credit card and I was out the front door, several pounds heavier and with a mouth full of burnt steak bits.

Today was a day of transition. Back in places like Yachats, Newport, Cannon Beach, and Astoria, the streets are lined with glitzy tourist shops. Down here in North Bend and points south, the towns had a much more working class feel. Tomorrow I would make another leap of demography as I journeyed south to the college town of Arcata. It was hard to imagine that this day had started with a 4:00 wakeup in that Tillamook motel. I had my footing as a solo traveler, and I was eager to see what would come next.

CALIFORNIA Day 2: Raymond to Tillamook

Mist, bitter cold, and a shrieking phone alarm.  I couldn't believe the night was already over.

Packing my things, I heated myself up in front of the heating vent. The bus was set to leave in half an hour, and I wanted to get every last bit of warmth before moving on.

Time to leave. I walked back to the Raymond bus stop. The town was deserted, just as it was the previous day. No cars on the road, no people on the sidewalk. 

A bus showed up, empty, but it wasn't mine. The driver said that the bus to Astoria would be coming along in a few minutes.

My bus rounded the corner right on time. It was the same vehicle that had brought me down from Aberdeen the previous evening. And the same driver. I boarded, this time the only passenger, and paid my 85 cent fare. 

We rounded the Willapa River, rushing past all of the local stops and heading straight for South Bend. I am always surprised at the number of sidewalks and benches in these rural towns. Though you almost never see people on foot, the highway is quite pedestrian-friendly. Certainly there are far more benches than you would see in a place like Seattle.

South Bend behind us, we rolled back into timber country. Pacific County has long been a staunchly Democratic county, but it flipped red for Trump. The county council is Democrat-majority for now, but the trends aren't good. I can't help but wonder whether this lightly-used bus will be cancelled when Republicans take over the county. If there is one thing COVID has taught me, it is to enjoy things while they last.

Suddenly the highway curved to the right, the forest mist disappeared, and I saw the broad Columbia River. I had dreamed about this sight during the lockdown -- a symbol of the freedom I had lost. The river reintroduced itself to me as we wound our way toward the Astoria-Megler Bridge.

A small intersection, a left turn, and I left Washington behind. We were flying over the choppy mouth of the river, the Pacific infinite and sunlit, the city of Astoria growing larger every second. The sky was bright blue for the first time.

Having curved down the long ramp into town, I said goodbye to the driver who had carried me from Aberdeen. Suddenly I was in the middle of a real city. I located a place for breakfast. The Astoria Coffee House and Bistro was a brightly-colored hole in a yellow building. Shelves upon shelves of globes covered the walls. The barista loudly insisted that customers wear masks and distance as we entered the open-air cafe. Incredibly, Oregon still had an indoor mask mandate, so I gave her a pass. I munched on a mediocre crossiant and a fruit parfait on a sidewalk table.

I still had about an hour to kill, so I wandered over to the boardwalk. Astoria has a long riverfront walkway made of broad wooden planks, with a single railroad track running straight through the middle. A trolley sometimes runs there. I think I saw it once, when I was seven or eight years old, but it is hard to remember.

My backpack was getting heavy, and I began looking for a nice bench. Finding good places to sit and wait is a critical skill for any transit traveler. There was a little seating area occupied by three drunk homeless men -- great view and great seating, but not so great company. I was about to turn away when I noticed a memorable little boat tied up at the end of a nearby pier. 

The M/V Tourist II ferried passengers and cars across the mouth of the Columbia River from the 1924 through 1966, when the Astoria-Megler Bridge (background) put the cross-river ferry out of business. After passing through a few different owners, the ship ended up with Argosy Cruise of Seattle. They converted it into a wedding destination, installing big windows and modernizing the interior. The boat was tied up at the Bremerton pier for many years. I was pleased to see that the Tourist II had somehow made its way back home.

Wandering further along the boardwalk, I passed a large fish cannery. Workers parked their trucks on the planks, right in the middle of the walkway, and lugged large boxes into the warehouse. Mysteriously, the building read "NEW ENGLAND FISH COMPANY OF OREGON."

It was time to move on. I walked back to the Astoria Transit Center about twenty minutes early, and found the customer service building identical to when I last visited it in 2012. I'm always impressed by the clean facilities and helpful staff at these county transit centers. Most of their customers are very poor but the transit system treats them with dignity.

In came the next bus: the first of ten that would whisk me straight down the Oregon Coast. It was a long white van adorned with beach-themed decorations. The driver, a big, smiling, white guy, fiddled around with an iPad that was hooked up to the speakers. We pulled away and the wind began to rush through the half-open windows. His driving soundtrack began to play.

"Dreams, they're for those who sleep... Life, is for us to keep."

Rolling toward the Oregon Coast on a sunny day, with that tune playing in the background, after being stuck in my house for a year -- that's my definition of paradise.

My stop arrived all too soon. The Seaside Cinema bus shelter is behind the building, out of sight of Route 101 but in sight of a grassy field and creek.

I had about an hour to stand there, reading Jeffrey Archer on my Kindle. About half an hour into the wait, a young man walked over. "Hey! I gotta lift this fridge into my truck. Can you help me out?" I was tempted but I didn't want to miss my bus. I tried to think of something to say, and I decided: 

"I don't know. I'm pretty weak, so I doubt I could do it. I don't know." 

"You don't work out?" he replied amiably.

"No," I admitted.
"Hey, you should! You have the right frame for it!"

I wished him good luck and he walked back to his truck.

The Route 20 to Cannon Beach arrived right on time. I boarded, along with a young black woman, and the bus pulled away. Rural bus drivers are much more talkative than drivers in Seattle. Our driver was an old white woman, endlessly helpful and enthusiastic. After about 20-30 minutes, we were already turning onto the main road of Cannon Beach. I was met with a beautiful sight: crowds of tourists milling in and out of trinket shops, restaurants, and hotels, enjoying the beautiful weather. No one wearing a mask. Every few blocks the driver would announce the next stop, along with all of the nearby businesses and beaches. Instead of pulling a cord, the rule was "holler when you want off!" I hollered near the end of the road, thanked the driver, and stepped onto the most spectacular beach of the entire journey.

One block west of the bus stop, I was greeted by Haystack Rock. It was much bigger than I imagined -- covered in trees and quite a distance off the shore. I couldn't resist taking off my shoes and socks, feeling the sand under my bare feet.

Following the cardinal rule of bus travel, I found a log to sit on and read my book for 45 minutes or so. Eventually I realized that the restaurants were likely to be crowded. I only had two and a half hours in Cannon Beach. "Out of an abundance of caution" I put my shoes back on and walked up to the Pelican Brewery. 

There was a big crowd of frustrated people standing outside the front door. I walked up to the counter. As usual, they were short staffed. To make things worse, The Science still limited all Oregon restaurants to 50% capacity in order to "stop the spread." I was about to give up when the lady at the counter suggested takeout. A table would only be ready in a hour, but a takeout order would be ready in 20 minutes! I got a nice salad in a cardboard box and wandered back toward the beach.

Lunch took place next to the sidewalk that led from the parking lot to the beach. Parents wandered by with excited young children. Many were excited, others were fussing -- but all felt delightfully normal. The last year was a distant memory that day at Cannon Beach.

One last hour to go, I returned to the beach and found a more comfortable log with a backrest and footrest. My eyes alternated between Jeffrey Archer and the Pacific Ocean. Who knew waiting an hour for a bus could be this wonderful?

It was finally time to leave. Before I said goodbye, I walked up to the water and touched the Pacific Ocean with my hand. One last picture of the rock.

Walking back past my lunch bench, I saw my next bus parked across the street. In keeping with the main industry of Tillamook County, it was a large van painted like a black-and-white spotted cow. The bus painstakingly turned around in a small parking lot filled with tourists, turned left onto Route 101, and rushed south. We descended from Cannon Beach to Manzanita, skirting massive cliffs with infinite views of the coast. 

The road was dotted with pullouts where one or two cars could stop and take in the grandeur. Though the pullouts were only a few feet away from the highway, the bus raced around the corners at 50 miles per hour. Tips of pine trees whizzed by.

Most passengers only traveled one or two towns down the coast: Cannon Beach to Manzanita, Wheeler to Garibaldi. At Garibaldi, the bus suddenly turned left and climbed a steep road to the outskirts of the town. We pulled into a parking lot far too small for the bus. There was an empty hospital, and a single hospital worker waiting for us. She boarded and gave the driver a friendly hello -- common on the Oregon coast, but rare in Seattle.

Rural buses usually allow passengers to call ahead and request a pickup slightly off of the main route. As we rattled and inched around the tightly curving streets, the driver remarked on how tough it was to make the turn off the highway to get to the hospital. Our new passenger, who seemed to know the driver well, was sympathetic. 

Soon we had arrived in downtown Tillamook. It looked much nicer than the last time I had visited. The roads were freshly paved, and the sidewalks were lined with shops and restaurants. The old Mar Clair Inn had been replaced by a roundabout. 

Before exploring the town I decided to check in at the Western Royal Inn. The Inn was a U-shaped motel lined with Blue Lives Matter and POW/MIA flags. I imagine they were itching to fly "Trump Won" and "Lets Go Brandon" flags, but were worried about losing business. My suspicions were confirmed when I stepped into the front desk and discovered that no one was wearing masks. (Remember, this was back when Oregon still had a pointless mask mandate for all indoor spaces.) I happily ripped off my mask and checked in to the Hotel of the Free.

The room was bare but clean, just like the old Mar Clair Inn. It was good to relax in a hotel room after all that travel. I got dinner at a decent Mexican restaurant in downtown Tillamook. The customers didn't seem to know how to handle the mask mandate. Some walked around holding their mask in front of their face, without actually putting it on. 

On the walk back to the hotel, I saw a place that I had visited long ago. It was a walkway next to the river. The last time I had visited was over ten years ago.

It was strange to be there without my dad. I felt free but also a little lonely.