Pacific NW 3: Oregon coast

 

We stayed for 2 nights at the Inn at Cannon Beach, and enjoyed long coastal walks. Though we seemed to have brought Sequim's blue hole along the trip with us so far, the rain we had been expecting finally came in on the second day, but even then only intermittently. This coast is punctuated by dark sea stacks of volcanic rock, and the beach here is dominated by Haystack Rock, where the locals were celebrating the annual return of puffins that breed here.

Oregon has a strange idea about claims to fame. While in WA we saw the world's biggest Sitka spruce, and many other such giants, whereas Oregon boasts the world's shortest river, the world's smallest harbour, and the world's shortest commissioned lighthouse (superseded after 43 months, but still very picturesque).

We had some excellent long walks along the beach over the next two days.

But we were saving the best beaches for later. Continuing south, we stopped off at Depoe Bay, a lively little tourist town where the waves were getting fiercer, slamming into the rocks along the promenade with great plumes of seawater shooting up and sometimes over the visitors. 
Our destination was Yachats (pron. ya-HOTS) where we had booked a longer stay, 5 nights at the Overleaf Resort: a house there, to be precise, just metres from the beach, with a huge double height living room with fireplace, and comfortable ensuite bedrooms. Fully equipped, so we ended up cooking in most nights, managing to construct some very memorable meals, including casseroles, lamb shanks slow baked in wine, and frittata. Yachats is a laid back little place, not entirely given over to holiday lets and weekend homes. It has some friendly local shops and an independent brew pub, and we did eat out one night at Heidi's Italian restaurant, which was charming and very authentic, with home made ravioli. We had a pleasant chat with an amateur marine historian who was touring the coast, giving talks to US coastguard staff. 
 
Most of the time we just walked, up to 9 miles a day on the endless empty beaches. Mostly sunny but cool, and with the constant roar of ocean waves, this was ideal for walking and watching local bird life. Behind the beach, the trees are contorted by the wind into tight swept back shapes, like a Japanese water colour, interspersed with grey Cape style houses – from the most shambolic shacks to huge mansions of Seattle software billionaires – but all bowing to the strength of nature, recessive among the pines. We literally felt the power when a freak wave on the incoming tide, swept right up to our 'unmentionables' as Kathleen put it, forcing us to scramble onto the front lawn of a motel, soaked and freezing. Apparently these 'sneaker waves' are well known on this coast.

We made some short trips too. To Cape Perpetua, one of the highest capes on the coast, with a 70 mile view from north to south. Next, to a working lighthouse at Heceta Head, whitewashed and pristine, with an elegant keeper's cottage nearby. Beside it, the coast road shoots over a huge viaduct then plunges into a tunnel under the next headland. Finally, into the woods, where we drove on difficult forest tracks for miles through yet more giant firs and spruces, way up over a watershed and into the clouds, where we got a real sense of the temperate rainforest. The hillside dropped away from the track in deep gorges with fast running streams, and not a single person to be seen.

A final long barefoot walk on the beach and it was time to leave the coast and head inland.

Pacific NW 2: Olympic national park

So we had to say goodbye to the Sunset Marine Resort and the friendly ladies that own and run it, and continue our trip along the north coast. We passed Crescent Lake, its long dark waters utterly still and mirror like; via blink and you'll miss it Forks; eventually to Lake Quinault (pron. kwinolt) deep into the Olympic temperate rainforest. The Lodge here, where we stayed, is part of that early tradition of national park accommodation, solid and dependable, built in just a couple of months in the 1920s when this area must have seemed very remote. It sits above a lawn reaching down to the lake, and surrounded by huge Douglas firs and Sitka spruces, with a view to the forests beyond. The rooms have been discreetly modernised to retain the feeling that early visitors would have experienced - no TVs or fridges, but now with en suites and wifi. The main lobby with its log fire and massive chimney, and decorated dark wooden structure, is very comfortable, and the restaurant was surprisingly good, if expensive. 

Next day we walked the long carefully maintained trails through the forest, across the valley's steep sided flanks. The forest is extraordinary. Every tree is covered with moss and cascading air plants and ferns. Trees brought down by storms lie chaotically, with new growth sprouting from them as they slowly rot into the ground. Everywhere there is running water, creeks and rapids and waterfalls. A primeval feel, enhanced by exotic bird calls and distant rustlings. Later we drove right around the lake, passing remote farms in cleared areas along unmetalled roads. On the north side of the lake we visited another well marked trail through one of the wildest rainforest areas, and visited an abandoned farm that is slowly being restored, complete with rusting ancient farm implements and even an old truck.

Next day, we travelled on to Oregon, passing quickly through the poorer coastal towns of south coastal Washington, stopping briefly at Astoria for a look at the still thriving fishing port and the huge panorama from the park at the top of the town: of the coast and the Columbia River, destined to become a theme of our overall trip.

Pacific NW 1: Washington north shore

A stunning start to our tour of the Pacific north west as we took a swing around Olympic National Park, in record breaking weather, like a good, clear summer day. We had been expecting dank and drear, but all was blue and bright.

We met up with Kathleen at Seatac airport and were soon clear of the traffic on back roads that took us past arms of Puget Sound and the Hood Canal, which is in fact a wide natural fjord between steep heavily wooded hills. Pines and newly leafed maples, dark and vivid greens, and blossoming flowers everywhere, the countryside was fresh and renewed, brilliant in the sunshine.

We started to catch glimpses of the Mount Olympus massif, still snow capped.

A few hours later we were sitting on the deck at our first destination, watching a spectacular sunset over the Pacific, with a rather pleasant local Pinot Gris in hand. We were at a little resort - just 7 cabins - near Sequim (pron. Squim). Our cabin had a very homely feel, with pot plants and many little domestic touches, amongst old Douglas firs on a steep slope leading down to the shore. The ocean lived up to its name that evening, calm as a millpond, reflecting the resort's jetty like a mirror.

The weather here was surprisingly good, given the north west's rainy and foggy reputation. The owners told us that pilots flying into Seatac talk about Sequim's 'blue hole', the sunny anomaly in the general cloud cover. We certainly got the benefit of it.

Exploring the area, we visited Dungeness with its 5 mile long sand spit, covered by mountains of tree trunks tossed there by violent winter storms. In the distance at the end is a lighthouse, and beyond we could see the pure white cone of Mount Rainier, which we had been glimpsing ever since we left the airport in the unpolluted air of this region. A bald eagle drifted slowly along the length of the spit and into the pine woods beyond. Later, we drove up to Port Townshend, a very lively, alternative community, by contrast to sleepy Sequim. This town once had grand pretensions and has a substantial number of old Victorian houses and store buildings, generally well preserved, as well as a working harbour with ferries to Victoria, visible across the sound in British Columbia. We were accosted in a very friendly way by several locals, who started up conversations as if with old friends. This seems to be the norm hereabouts. Everyone gives you a polite 'hello' and a smile as they pass, or even a wave if across the street.

Days 12 and 13: Sedona and home

     On to our final two night stop, at Sedona. South of Flagstaff the road descends into a deep and heavily wooded gorge. For the first time on our trip we are in well-watered, green country, with early summer lupins and fresh leaved trees. The town itself is a prosperous little tourist town, full of shops selling crystals and native American nicknacks.

      We explored several areas here on foot, including the West Fork Creek and the area of big red bluffs to the south, where we met a lovely lady who had retired and was living in a Winnebago on permanent tour of the national parks, with her cute little dog as her only companion.

      We also managed a trip on the Verde Canyon Railroad, an old mining track that made someone a fortune at the time, and was bought up by a local native American entrepreneur, after it fell into disuse. Arriving in a tropical downpour, which soon cleared up, we were shown to our luxury car, with armchairs and a running buffet, and a sound track of every pop song ever made that mentions trains (and boats and planes). Our down-home stetsoned guide explained the natural and man-made history rolling past, from thousand year old native houses to the day the How the West Was Won film crew blew up the water tower, as we traversed the world’s bendiest train line.

      So to the final leg, out of the pines and into the Arizona desert with its organ-pipe cacti, then through the vast, ugly sprawl of Phoenix. We spent a little time in the Desert Botanical Gardens, very pleasantly laid out and stuffed with exotic dry climate plant species, before heading to the airport.

All in all, a rich and fascinating tour, with every type of weather known to man, and natural wonders that have to be seen to be fully comprehended. But I hope these words and pictures capture a little of the magic.

Days 10 and 11: Grand Canyon

   

  So, moving on again towards the final sections of our trip, we approached the Grand Canyon, via an interesting old trading post by a rickety suspension bridge at Cameron. Our first sight of the Canyon was at Navajo Point, where is found the Desert View Watchtower, a quirky building that dates to the period in the 1930s that the national park was opening up to visitors.

      From here you can look into the depths of the canyon itself, which is so vast that our brains can’t really comprehend it. But you just spend a lot of time staring into this amazing abyss, transfixed.

      The Colorado river can be glimpsed a mile straight down below the rim: and rising above are layer after layer of sediment. The canyon is 277 miles long and up to 18 miles wide.

      We continued along the south rim’s scenic drive, stopping off many times at the various viewpoints, for about thirty miles to the main village, then south a little to Tusayan, where we stayed for a couple of nights. This is a typical national park fringe town of motels, steak houses and the like. There is a quirky IMAX presentation, which includes great fly throughs of the bottom of the canyon, but with highly dubious ‘historical recreations’.

      No — the canyon itself is the thing, and we took several long walks along the rim, watching a chilly, brilliant sunset and along the bluffs further west during the day. Theodore Roosevelt, a great advocate for its preservation, said: ‘The Grand Canyon fills me with awe. It is beyond comparison absolutely unparalleled throughout the wide world. Let this great wonder of nature remain as it is now. Do nothing to mar its grandeur, sublimeity and loveliness.’ The national park service do a great job in preserving it, while allowing easy, unobtrusive access, and long may this continue.

Day 9: Lake Powell

      Glen Canyon Dam is an engineering triumph of the 1950s, which flooded the Colorado river valley and some of its tributaries, forming a hugely popular water recreation area, and one of the south-western USA’s most important water and energy sources. However the recent three year long drought means that the lake is a hundred feet below its optimal level, leading to rationing for farmers and other users.

      The lake has great numbers of houseboats. This being America, they really look the size of floating houses which, like the Winnebago motor homes, allow for travelling in some style. With nearly 2000 miles of shoreline, there is plenty of space for these ungainly vessels to pootle around, although the surrounding countryside has a rather desolate, desiccated look.

We stayed one night in Page, a fairly prosperous looking town built to service the dam construction and now a tourist centre. We found a little Mexican redneck cafe that was cheerful and friendly, but probably not a good place to get into a political discussion.

Days 7 and 8: Monument Valley

     

Leaving Moab bright and early next morning, we drove through young pine forests mostly on back roads, taking in the Natural Bridges national monument, and continued across a flat plateau, before suddenly finding ourselves on the edge of a precipice. The road descends rapidly through a series of hairpin bends so vertiginous that my companions threatened to get out and walk, leaving me to drive the car on the gravelly, sloppy surface. But our trusty Ford Fusion got us to the bottom — and there, hovering on the horizon, was our next destination: Monument Valley.

      Through Mexican Hat (above) and you are into the lands of the Navajo Nation, a self governing state-sized area that we would drive through for the next few hundred miles. Monument Valley itself is a red desert with the familiar buttes of John Ford movies. We had to split to stay in separate hotels, but each has spectacular views across this famous landscape.

      Everything in the valley is run and staffed by the native American community. The hotels and rooms are comfortable and well designed, but we were warned off the food: what we saw looked uninteresting, so we ended up picnicking in our room on what we could glean from the general store.

      On our first evening we sat on a cliff overlooking the Mitten buttes as the shadows lengthened and the sunset polished up the sandstone until it was glowing bright and deepest red. Next morning we woke early to watch the sunrise behind the monuments. No wonder the film makers love this place.

      With my knee playing up, Ian and Kathleen managed a long walk around the buttes while I took it easy on the first afternoon, and we had a leisurely drive around the (inevitable) scenic drive the next day, stopping off at many good viewpoints — although we resisted the temptation to hire a horse to be photographed in Lone Ranger style at John Wayne rock.