Day Four. As morning approaches, the air outside is still, and a coastal fog lingers over the hillsides above Yachats. The little faux-lighthouse in the motel’s parking lot looks quite fitting for the early dawn light. I’m blessed with another day of beautiful clear skies as I journey from Oregon’s mid-coast to the coastal terminus of my trip, the town of Brookings near its southern border. To take advantage of the good weather window (tomorrow it’ll be again pouring rain along the South Coast), I re-arrange my itinerary and cut out a hike at Siltcoos Lake in order to spend more time this afternoon in the Samuel Boardman Scenic Corridor, where I know there’ll be a series of beautiful trails and viewpoints to explore. At seven o’clock, I set out from Yachats and drive twenty minutes to the south, to my sunrise destination - the lighthouse on Heceta Head. Aside from a single other campervan, I’m the only person visiting the beach at this early hour. I walk up the paved pathway toward the lighthouse, which passes the old lighthouse keeper’s house (now a bed-and-breakfast) and features beautiful views of the stacks and promontories to the south, as well as lovely views back toward the rising sun and the Cape Creek Bridge, which resembles an old Roman aqueduct spanning the forested hillsides. On Heceta Head, I climb the trail behind the lighthouse to grab a panoramic composition of the light with the coastline and sunrise behind. I stay here awhile, admiring the old lighthouse tower’s picturesque location at the edge of the sea, before returning to the car.
Back on the road for a long drive to the south. After crossing Cape Creek Bridge, I stop for a roadside overlook of Heceta Head behind me, and another stop as the Oregon Coast Highway descends the headlands toward Florence. Below me, the scenery opens up, revealing a long stretch of open coastal plains fronted by sand dunes and beaches. I take some photos of this scene, as well as of the blooming bushes of gorse that lie scattered across the hillside. Passing through the town of Florence, the highway continues back into forest, gaining elevation as it enters the Siltcoos area, a region of spruce and fir forests interspersed by the curling, dendritic arms of several freshwater lakes. There are lovely views to the east, of morning mist gathering over the waterways and trees below me, but I pass them by without finding any suitable place to stop on the winding, mountainous highway. After several miles, another descent - this time into the towns of Gardiner and Reedsport, on either side of the Umpqua River. Another few minutes later, I turn into the campground for the Umpqua River Lighthouse State Park, where I’ll be completing my second walk a day - a short, 1-mile loop around Lake Marie.
Not content to only photograph seascapes and coastal scenes, I wanted to include at least one classic forest-and-freshwater location on my trip. I park the car beside the campground and set off walking on the even, easy dirt path that circles the lake. It’s a beautiful place, and peaceful - almost too peaceful. Perhaps it’s the eerie silence (I note an almost total lack of birdsong, and even a scarcity of wind or ambient sounds), or perhaps it’s the long-outdated notice about a cougar having been spotted in the vicinity several months ago, but I can’t help but feel uneasy as I circle the lake by myself. I wind up power-walking the whole thing, save a few stops to photograph the interplay between light and shadow in the trees, and out on the surface of the lake. One mile and a half-hour later, I head up the road to glance at the Umpqua River Lighthouse, which is teeny-tiny and quite cute; I choose not to photograph it (honestly, photographing lighthouses tends to be extremely boring for me, as I alluded to when Jane and I visited Cape Cod in 2020). From there, it’s back to the highway, headed south to Coos Bay for a late-morning grocery run at the local Walmart and an early lunch at the adjoining Arby’s. Stocked back up with my final few days’ worth of canned vegetables, roast beef sandwiches, fruit smoothies, and decongestants (I have developed some lingering cold symptoms, courtesy of baby, and am in no mood to suffer plane-related ear barotrauma on the return flight in a few days), I leave the city behind and start the hour-plus drive southward to the southernmost stretch of the Oregon Coast.
In the early afternoon, having passed by the town of Bandon and made good time cruising down the coast on the highway, I reach Sisters Rock State Park, named for the trio of rocks (two paired on either side of a long, grassy promontory, and the third a sea stack just offshore). Here, the skies are absolutely perfect on this February afternoon, and the water shimmers in brilliant hues of turquoise and aquamarine. From the trailhead, the coast stretches away to the north and south: to the north, a landscape of wind-blown bluffs and rugged cliffs heading out along Cape Blanco, under the watchful gaze of Humbug Mountain; and to the south, an array of dark rock stacks nestled in the protected cove in front of Frankport Beach. I set off on the gravel path that descends along the promontory, ultimately leading to the two of the Sisters - one, a tall, imposing climb along an eroded grass path, and the other, a rocky trail that leads to a sea cave. I climb down and up to the mouth of the cave, from which the boom of the waves echoes every few seconds; at the gullet, I sit for awhile and watch the roiling waves crashing in the dark bowels of the island below. Terrifying, and beautiful. The landscape of grass and basalt, and the wildness of the interface between land and sea, make me feel again as if I’ve been transported to someplace in Iceland, or the Faroe Islands. After a steep climb back to the highway, I resume my course south, shortly passing through the settlement of Gold Beach and then stopping for a quick walk at Meyers Creek Beach, where another group of massive stacks is poking out of the ocean at high tide. In a beautiful moment of serendipity, Sufjan Stevens sings “…fumbling by Rogue River” (Mystery of Love) right as I cross over the road bridge at the mouth of the Rogue. The moody playlist has really elevated this trip, accentuating all my feelings of joy and introspection and solitude.
A little further south, I enter the famous stretch of the Oregon Coast known as the Samuel H. Boardman Scenic Corridor. Here, the coastline again evolves into a jumble of sea cliffs, secluded rocky beaches, and coves dotted with picturesque, pine-covered islands. There are a number of fine trails and iconic viewpoints in this 12-mile stretch of the coast, and I had planned to spend the entire following day exploring them, but have modified my plans to do as much as I can during what remains of this afternoon, given the oncoming atmospheric rainstorm which is set to hit the coast tonight. I stop for brief photo ops at the Arch Rock and Spruce Island Viewpoints, before driving south to the Indian Sands trailhead for a mid-afternoon hike. Here, the trail descends sharply through a forest of shore pines, to an open area of unstructured sand dunes and towering sea cliffs. It’s surprisingly hard walking, and the trail is not particularly marked, with desire paths everywhere, as evidenced by footsteps that tramp all over the dunes in every which direction. After viewing a natural sea arch to the north, I swing around the headland, following the dunes around, down, and up a sandy bowl. All around, the evidence of cataclysmic erosion is present, from the meandering lines of old creek beds, to a blasted chunk of fallen sandstone (right below the cliff where I am standing, I note with some concern as I cautiously inch away from the edge). On the far side of the bowl, I am greeted by a another viewpoint of the islands and sandstone capes to the north; I continue here up a grassy path on the cliff’s edge, which crosses a trailside creek and then emerges back in the forest, near the highway. Another few hundred yards, and I emerge back at the trailhead, at the opposite end of the parking lot.
From here, I take a brief drive south to see the rest of the Boardman area, stopping at the Whaleshead viewpoint (from which I take a long telephoto shot of houses back up the coast), and scouting out Cape Ferrello and Lone Ranch Beach (where I photograph the beach as well as the clusters of baneberries and periwinkles that line the path). Then, I return north to the Natural Bridges area, where I will be taking my final walk of the day and enjoying sunset. From the north side of the trailhead, I take a path that descends steeply through the forest toward Thunder Cove and a view of North Island. The sun is sinking lower now, and the shimmering, golden light looks quite lovely coming through the trees. Back at the trailhead, I camp out at the nearby viewpoint overlooking several pine-topped sea arches. There are several lower approaches that lead to famous viewpoints of these arches, as well as a (strictly off-limits and rather eroded) path to actually climb atop some of the arches, but both because I am traveling solo, and because I have a general distaste for causing environmental impact just to gather Instagram-famous compositions, I keep to the viewpoint by the road as sunset approaches. Regardless of it all, it’s a lovely one - the fading sun lighting the stacks and arches below in a warm, golden light; the crash of the waves upon rock; and the sigh of the sea wind moving through pines. It’s a beautiful way to end my long day on the coast. After dark, I drive into town and check into the Americoast Inn at Brookings, where I’ll be staying for two nights. After a lengthy shower and a fine motel room dinner (roast beef sandwiches, ramen with vegetables, fruit, and a drink), I pop on the TV for background ambiance and try to figure out what I want to do tomorrow, given a general reluctance to re-visit the Boardman Corridor and its steep, eroded trails during what appears to be incoming gale-force winds and rains. After scrolling around the map for awhile, I come up with a spontaneous idea that makes me feel quite satisfied; I tuck into bed with the plan to sleep in later than usual before checking road and weather conditions across the California state line.
Day Five. In the morning, a bona-fide storm is raging outside and I skip sunrise, as planned (although this involves getting up and taking some time to fall back asleep, thanks to jetlag). After breakfast (more sandwiches, more fruit, more juice), I call the Redwoods National/State Park office in California to inquire about driving conditions. The ranger seems totally nonplussed, and reassures me that Blooty will be just fine where I’m planning on going. After filling up the tank in Brookings, I make a forty-five minute drive southward in slashing rains and driving winds, passing the California border, and turning east along the banks of the Smith River. Past the settlement of Hiouchi, I cross over the Nels Christiensen Bridge and head into Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park along Howland Hill Road, a well-maintained gravel path that winds around and between massive trunks of coastal redwoods. I plan to stop at two trailheads in the park (at the Stout Grove and the Mills River Trail) before returning to Brookings to explore a third redwood grove in the Rogue-Siskiyou National Forest.
To be clear, I have already seen my share of beautiful old-growth forests and massive, majestic trees during this weeklong trip down the coast. However, this day spent among the redwoods achieves, in my mind, a different level of majesty - something approaching the sacred. As I wind through the enormous trees at the Stout Memorial Grove, it feels like I have made a pilgrimage to a truly special place - nature’s cathedral at Chartres, holy in its construction, unique in all the universe. The towering canopy and the vastness of the the individual trunks feels impossible to convey - almost meaningless to convey - on camera. The rain is coming down hard, misting down into the understory and totally soaking me and the camera despite my best attempts to utilize my rain gear. I become keenly aware that I am not sure how much what I am feeling is rain streaked across my face, and how much is tears of happiness. I sit in the grove for awhile, watching the rain coming down over everything, and feeling incredible light surging up through my body and into the old forest.
After walking out to banks of the Smith River and circling the grove once again, I return to the car and continue down Howland Hill Road, to the trailhead for the Mill Creek Trail. Here, I follow the forest trail as it winds uphill through stands of spruce and cedar before emerging into a special part of the woods known to the area’s former indigenous tribes (the Tolowa and the Yurok) as the Deep Forest. The trail here has to be one of the most memorable paths I’ve ever walked in my life. At one point, it emerges into a view of a massive fallen redwood, a three-hundred foot-long nurse log strewn across the edge of a grove; just as I begin to wonder how I will possibly get across the log, I notice that the trail actually descends under the log, paralleling it like a natural forest tunnel. For as long as I live, I will never forget the experience of creeping under and alongside the length of a fallen coastal redwood, shimmying beside it, feeling its bark and life-giving structure with my bare hands. On the far side of the log, the trail passes through a clearing and then re-ascends into the redwoods, entering the Deep Forest. The Grove of the Titans, a group of especially gargantuan trees, is only a few hundred yards further along. I have a hard time photographing this scene, in part because of the trees’ unfathomable scale, and in part because my camera LCD is beginning to short-circuit thanks to several hours of constant soaking from the rain. The camera troubles might normally become a source of intense anxiety or frustration during a photo trip, but I find that they barely affect me, so high are my spirits. I do as best as I can shooting with only the optical viewfinder, before putting the camera back into my pack and focusing my energy on being present in the forest. The photos, technically limited as they are by rain damage and moisture condensing on the lens, are still quite breathtaking when I am finally able to view them later that day from the comfort (and dryness) of the motel.
Back at the car, I retrace my steps, leaving the California redwoods behind. I stop briefly at the road bridge to photograph the turquoise Smith River in the mist-laden gorge below, before making the long drive back to the vicinity of Brookings. For my last stop of the day, I turn off inland along the Chetco River, to take a brief walk at the Alfred Loeb State Park, within the Rogue River-Siskiyou Forest and at the edge of the rugged region known as the Kalmiopsis Wilderness (after a rare rhododendron-related plant that grows solely in the area. It is mid-day now, but the rain has not abated; it comes down in great heaving sheets as I drive the car along the winding riverside road. From the trailhead, where I am once again alone, I set off on the Redwood Nature Trail, a mile-long loop uphill and down again across a series of creek falls and through an old-growth redwood forest - less monumental than the ones earlier in the morning, to be sure, but no less beautiful. My camera LCD is now glitching out erratically as if its having a full seizure; I still risk a few shots using only the viewfinder while praying that the moisture won’t permanently damage the internal electronics - or worse, the memory card. After a lovely but soaked jaunt through the trees, I take the final shots of the trip as I descend back toward the car: a view of the distant wilderness, the background peaks fringed with low-lying clouds and mist, the foreground fronted by evergreens and trunks in silhouette.
Back in town, it’s time for an obligatory visit to the combination KFC/Taco Bell for lunch (I get a 3-piece meal: amazing after a cold and rainy morning, but after all those years in Baltimore, I can no longer have KFC without reflexively thinking it doesn’t hold a candle to Popeyes), then back to the motel to wring the rainwater out of everything in my present life, including my socks, boots, hiking clothes, backpack, tripod, and camera. I spend the rest of the rainy afternoon relaxing, drying off equipment, and getting things repacked for my return to Boston. As evening approaches, I am tempted to sally out again by a slight break in the seaward clouds, but then I remember my camera (on life support), my gear (damp as hell), and the condition of the local sea cliff-top trails (probably a mudslick deathtrap) and think better of it. In an ultimate act of care for my future self, I call the rental car company and negotiate a later return time on my car (at no extra charge!), and have a lovely time sleeping in the next morning.
On Thursday, it’s a rainy, long, four-hour drive from Brookings to Medford via the California state border, Cave Junction, and Grants Pass (thanks to road repairs and a nearly hourlong delay on the Redwood Highway). After lunch at In ‘n Out in Medford, a final refuel, and returning my car at the airport, I board my late afternoon flight to Seattle, transferring after an airport dinner to a overnight red-eye to Boston. Slight case of airplane ear notwithstanding, I am excited to be home the next morning by the time Jordan wakes up, and feeling rejuvenated and ready to rejoin family life after an incredible week on my own, attending to and capturing a beautiful region on camera, and communing with the natural world in some of the most awe-inspiring places I’ve ever visited.
