Where the long journey started....
I bobbed up and down on a surfboard and watched a small, clean west swell bend around a massive, rocky point and march into the small Oregon coast inlet.
The lines -- each a pulse of a faraway storm’s fading energy -- showed on the glassy horizon like ripples in a giant pond.
The early fall swell -- about four feet and clean -- was a reminder of the just-departed summer. Soon enough the big swells of winter -- 10-foot-high, muscled waves with cold winds and rain -- would thunder into the inlet. Much of the Northwest coast is almost impossible to surf during most of the winter, as the combination of big waves and strong onshore winds turn the surf into a heaving, crashing washing machine.
But the past two days had been perfect -- small, clean waves and no wind.
I could see sea-run cutthroat trout and some coho salmon glide through the clear water just outside of the breaking wave. The fish were waiting for the next rainstorm to fill up the little creek that flowed into the inlet. The coho salmon would swim right through a deep channel cut in the beach sand and head up the creek to gouge nests out of gravel, mate and die.
I stopped looking at the fish swimming under my feet and looked at the horizon again. A bigger set of swells was rolling in. As the swell lines got nearer, the inlet’s shallowing water jacked them up into forming waves.
Some passed under my surfboard -- which is why I bobbed up and down -- but others had that special dark glossiness and shape that meant the peak of the wave’s energy was in my path.
One of those swells was marching right towards me. My arms had that pleasant, weightless feeling that comes from hours of paddling for waves -- and it was time to head for the beach.
But I wanted one last wave.
I twirled my legs like eggbeaters to get my surfboard pointed toward the beach. Even as I did this, I pulled myself down onto the board.
I peeked over my shoulder and saw the swell -- taller and darker now -- about ten feet away. I made a couple of gentle paddles to get 10 feet of foam and fiberglass moving.
I could feel the wave approaching -- like a gentle finger on the back of my head.
Four or five hard paddles later, the wave picked up my board and I was on my feet.
Sliding down the face of a living, soon-to-die wave feels like riding the heartbeat of the planet. The power of the wave comes through your feet, and the surfboard rails hiss through the water.
The face of the wave crumbled into a mass of whitewater, and I turned the board to ride the last energy of the wave toward the beach.
I stepped off my board into knee-deep water and carried my board up the beach. My throat burned with saltwater.
I stripped off my wetsuit and drank a quart of water, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the waves. I kept telling myself that this may have been the last surf of the short Indian Summer.
But I had a long drive ahead of me.
On the hike out, I waded into the creek -- which was colder than the ocean -- and ducked under the water. Sea-run cutthroat trout skittered under the dark cave of a root-draped undercut bank.
Suddenly, I felt the pull of the long drive.
I hurried up the gravel path to the Subaru. I strapped the board to the roof rack, put the neoprene wetsuit, booties and gloves -- the price of surfing the chilly Northwest -- into the Tupperware bin and then poured two gallons of water over my head to rinse the salt off my body and hair.
I dried off, pulled on clean shorts and a T-shirt and started the car.
U.S. Highway 101 waited.
The highway snakes along the Oregon coast, up and down over rocky headlands and through small towns named Nehalem, Rockaway, Manzanita and Cannon Beach. The ever-present rainforest of cedar, Douglas fir and maple trees line the road and shadow the steep hillsides and ridges.
Near Cannon Beach, I caught a last glimpse of the ocean -- darkening purple with an orange-pink line of sunset glowing over the lines of swells -- before i turned off onto Highway 26 toward the human beehive of Portland.
Highway 26 rolled up and down through the woods -- and a few ragged clearcuts -- past the logging-camp sprawl of the Camp 18 restaurant.
My stomach --empty from a day on the water -- cried out for chicken-fried steak, but i had a ham sandwich in the cooler. I didn’t need a big meal weighing down the long drive.
I ate the sandwich and drank a full bottle of water while inching the car through Portland traffic.
Even as i drove past tall buildings, i felt the rocky cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge pulling at me.
A full moon on the rise hovered over the Gorge as I raced past Troutdale’s neon glow of gas stations, truck stops and fast-food drive-ins.
Then the road was dark --except for the light of the full moon reflecting off the huge Columbia River. Dense stands of Douglas fir trees crowded Interstate 84, and hid the steep slops of the Gorge.
As I drove, I thought about the Cascade Mountains -- solid, basalt rock waves that tower thousands of feet into the air -- and how the Columbia River cut through the mountain range over thousands of years.
The river’s cut through the rock left the gorge -- a stunning corridor of rock and water and trees.
The sky brightened as the road neared the floodlights off Bonneville Dam.
After Bonneville, the road grew dark again.
The Columbia River -- often whitecapped from strong winds funneling through the Gorge -- was calm on this night, and the moonlight gave the glassy water the look of ice.
I thought of steelhead trout swimming up the Columbia toward the Deschutes, John Day and Klickitat rivers, and my heart raced for a second or two.
The road took me past Hood River and The Dalles -- and then past the mouth of the Deschutes River. The lights of steelhead anglers camping in the state park flashed by in a moment.
I stopped in Biggs -- a cluster of truck stops and a bridge over the Columbia River to the Washington side -- for a Coca-Cola. The cold soda fizzed in my mouth as I drove over the bridge.
Then, suddenly, I was in the rolling hills and steep cliffs east of the John Day Dam. Hundreds of huge windmills perched on the bluffs reflected the moon, and a small red light blinked on each tower.
The moon turned the rolling, brown folds of the land into silvery swells, and I felt as though I was traveling through a motionless ocean. I stole glances at the Columbia River -- still glassy under the moon -- and thought about casting a popping bug for smallmouth bass at dawn.
Dawn was just a few hours away when I pulled off the road at a cluster of trees and drove up a long driveway through acres of apple and cherry trees.
The air carried the sharp, sweet scent of freshly picked apples.
A house with one light shining waited for me.
I stepped out into the moonlight, the door opened, and Heather’s warm, strong arms were waiting for me.
