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.