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.