Revered as the People’s Coast, Oregon’s 350 miles of rugged, fog-shrouded headlands, dark and mossy evergreen forests and wide, meandering swaths of beach and dunes have beckoned the ever-arriving masses like a benign, spiritual opiate for years.
Unlike some other states that border the open sea, the privileged here are prohibited from owning their little patch of beach to the exclusion of others, of blocking public access to the glittering sands of the Oregon Coast.
This diamond necklace belongs to all of us.
You can spot first-time visitors covered in goose bumps who’ve never set eyes on offshore rookeries white with guano, who’ve never seen rolling waves of great magnitude slam against blocks of freestanding stone pillars crowned with gnarled pine tilting leeward in stubborn defiance of that howling, incessant maritime wind that will knock you around, try and knock you down into the bramble and summer wildflowers of vibrant color, and waist-deep grasses that envelop beachheads and course along exposed cliffs in perpetual erosion. They get that look, of momentary disorientation, a sensory overload perhaps at bearing witness to such beauty. They stand in awe, not gleeful, but reverent.
To be blunt, the southern coast is prettier than the northern stretch, and far less crowded due in part to its relative isolation from Portland and the Willamette Valley, although that is changing rapidly as the word gets out. And of that southern 200-mile reach, one of the finest, most photogenic areas lies between Brookings, ten miles north of the California Border, and Gold Beach 35 miles farther up the coast.
Brookings, a town of around 7,000 situated on a high protruding bench, has been called the “Banana Belt” of Oregon, although you’d be hard-pressed to find the yellow fruit growing around here. They grow flowers instead, like Azaleas. You might even spot a palm tree. Compared to the rest of Oregon, true, Brookings is warmer and more temperate, but it gets its fair share of powerful rain storms in winter and spring. And like much of the coast during the summer months, its wrapped in a cold, damp blanket of fog that’s somewhat eerie and invitingly mysterious in a London kind-of-a-way where everything is gray and the air’s fuzzy. But that gets old real fast.
Those first-time visitors with the romantic, faraway look in their eyes breathing gallons of ocean breeze thinking they’ve stumbled on the Promised Land begin to shiver and shake when they realize they forgot to pack a jacket and wool hat. So if you’re coming in summer and have your heart set on shorts and sun lotion and sweaty, beach chair afternoons, think again and dress appropriately. Granted, it can get warm and balmy, there are delicious 65-degree days, but if it’s sun you’re craving, come in the fall, September and October. Yellow orb, blue sky, blue ocean, white surf, big smile. It doesn’t get any better.
I’m a harbor man. I love harbors. Armed with a digital camera, one of the great delights during morning and evening hours on sunny days, or overcast afternoons for that matter, is wandering out on the piers in search of old ships and tall masts reflected off calm water, and rusty anchors hanging off the bow, crab pots stacked lopsided among heaps of colorful plastic fenders, pink and blue, and piles of nets and their geometry, and lines coiled and knotted with premeditation. Sailboats are my favorite, tethered in neat rows, waiting, and those dirty old fishing trawlers covered in grime. Brookings harbor is such a place, across the bridge and south of smooth Chetco River, with ample parking, restaurants, shops, some fine lodging and convenient beach access. It’s not all about sand and surf.
A mild climate means flowers grow all year, and if you love flowers, especially rhododendrons and azaleas, don’t miss the short detour to Azalea Park with its meandering walkways and birdhouses. It’s a perpetual favorite for photographers, professional and amateur. And if you’re in Brookings during Memorial Day weekend, don’t forget the annual Azalea festival.
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For those who don’t want their bubble burst, avoid glancing west while driving down the main thoroughfare. The South Coast Lumber Company (Plywood) has been gluing wood chips together for years, although why they chose this location is beyond me. Like Uncle Tommy who rolled a Port-a-Potty into the dining room because it was convenient during Sunday’s buffet, it’s hard to ignore. Who knows what mix of chemical concoctions spew forth from yonder smokestacks in thick, belching columns near the heart of town between Fred Meyers and those quaint and orderly neighborhoods.
Maybe the vapors are beneficial. That was a different era when the factory was first constructed, a vastly different mind-set that would be sacrilege today. And as financially beneficial as the plant no doubt has been over the years, many will heave a sigh of relief when that aesthetically sordid complex is dismantled. Unless it’s your meal ticket, and it’s paying off the mortgage, and your kids’ braces, and your boat. And your wife’s implants. And the chemotherapy. Plywood aside, Brookings is a very nice town with some very friendly people.
You’ll forget all about the lumber industry when you enter Harris Beach State Park just north of town. Don’t miss it. With convenient access to a marvelous stretch of rugged coast and sprawling beach, it’s virtually mandatory during your visit. With seagulls screeching and rug rats ranting and boogie-boarders bounding, Harris Beach is a great introduction to sea cliffs, towering stacks, tide pools and just a whole bunch of rocks for playing on and around. Goat Island is right offshore and is part of the Oregon Islands National Wildlife Refuge, home to Auklets, Puffins, Murres, Petrels and countless other seabirds too many to list.
The drive from Brookings to Gold Beach is spectacular. State parks and waysides, such as the Samuel H. Boardman Scenic Corridor, the long and narrow sands of the Pistol River region, and the Cape Sebastian Corridor, offer unlimited and unsurpassed photographic opportunities. Follow the signs. Don’t just race past these little gems. Take the time to pull off the 101 and explore. You’ll find pocket beaches, hidden coves, lofty overlooks and trails meandering through tall, dense evergreens with towering vantage points offering glimpses of the roaring sea below, churning and frothing and smashing waves a hundred feet into the air, and those jumbled piles of enormous driftwood logs skinned and rotting in repose. And sand dunes with tufted grass, rippling and swirling the sand-dance as tiny grains skitter and scatter about, and an endless parade of sea stacks in all shapes and sizes. And always the great wide Pacific Ocean, each wave unique, every photograph one of a kind.
Are you in search of solitude? As busy as the highway might occasionally seem, many of the waysides and picnic areas are devoid of people. For the most part, there’s no one on these remote beaches, some of which are inaccessible for good reason, so be careful. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment, viewfinder pressed to the eye, clicking and composing as you step closer and closer to the slippery, craggy headlands.
About a third the size of Brookings, the town of Gold Beach is flatter, straddling a long mile or so along Highway 101. Not as spectacularly rugged as its neighbor to the south, the coastline is more subdued, with green hill country rising abruptly to the east. It’s been drawing tourists for years. Motels are plentiful. I wouldn’t call it upscale, but it grows on you over time and has a down-home country feel, nothing too glamorous, a non-industrial enclave attracting retirees and others avoiding the bustle. North and south, the beaches are long and wide and the harbor tiny although a stroll down by the docks might reward you with sea lions lounging about and otters slipping in and out of the water and over moss-covered rocks while long-necked black cormorants sit perched atop rotting pylons.
One of the primary attractions isn’t ocean but the Rogue River that has defined Gold Beach as much as anything over the decades. With its headwaters 200 miles inland, the river courses through the coastal mountain range, unimpeded from the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, down the lush, green Rogue River Valley. Many drive long distances to fish the waters for returning salmon in summer. You’ll see them bobbing by the dozens in their aluminum power boats in the wide mouth of the river near the beautiful concrete bridge, reeling in pinks and reds, and kings.
The Rogue River is designated “Wild and Scenic.” Rafters love it as it slices through some of the few remaining specks of coastal wild lands. As boaters float down, the very popular jet boats from Gold Beach roar upstream hauling 40-plus tourists a pop into the wilds for the thrill of a lifetime. Jet boating the Rogue is big business. If you want to get away from the fog, are tired of sand in your soup and want your hair blown back the safe and easy way, stop by Jerry’s Jet Boat operation down by the harbor for the details, and visit the museum while you’re there.
Of course you can leave the carnival ride to others and simply drive down meandering County Road 595 that winds and wends up the verdant valley for miles to eclectic Agness and beyond, with outstanding views of the river to your left, ospreys snatching their catch out of the green, slow water, and if you keep your eyes peeled, you just might spot an eagle, a bald one.
If you’re curious what the country looked like before the timber companies ravaged the coastal range in their gluttonous fury, stop in at the Schrader Old Growth Forest preserve about 12 miles inland. The trail is short by necessity - very little climax old growth remains. Just think of it as a free museum, and some of the most spectacular hardwoods and Douglas Fir remaining in Oregon. I hear their big.
Revered as the People’s Coast, Oregon’s 350 miles of rugged, fog-shrouded headlands, dark and mossy evergreen forests and wide, meandering swaths of beach and dunes have beckoned the ever-arriving masses like a benign, spiritual opiate for years.
Unlike some other states that border the open sea, the privileged here are prohibited from owning their little patch of beach to the exclusion of others, of blocking public access to the glittering sands of the Oregon Coast.
This diamond necklace belongs to all of us.
For those who don’t want their bubble burst, avoid glancing west while driving down the main thoroughfare. The South Coast Lumber Company (Plywood) has been gluing wood chips together for years, although why they chose this location is beyond me. Like Uncle Tommy who rolled a Port-a-Potty into the dining room because it was convenient during Sunday’s buffet, it’s hard to ignore. Who knows what mix of chemical concoctions spew forth from yonder smokestacks in thick, belching columns near the heart of town between Fred Meyers and those quaint and orderly neighborhoods.
Maybe the vapors are beneficial. That was a different era when the factory was first constructed, a vastly different mind-set that would be sacrilege today. And as financially beneficial as the plant no doubt has been over the years, many will heave a sigh of relief when that aesthetically sordid complex is dismantled. Unless it’s your meal ticket, and it’s paying off the mortgage, and your kids’ braces, and your boat. And your wife’s implants. And the chemotherapy. Plywood aside, Brookings is a very nice town with some very friendly people.
You’ll forget all about the lumber industry when you enter Harris Beach State Park just north of town. Don’t miss it. With convenient access to a marvelous stretch of rugged coast and sprawling beach, it’s virtually mandatory during your visit. With seagulls screeching and rug rats ranting and boogie-boarders bounding, Harris Beach is a great introduction to sea cliffs, towering stacks, tide pools and just a whole bunch of rocks for playing on and around. Goat Island is right offshore and is part of the Oregon Islands National Wildlife Refuge, home to Auklets, Puffins, Murres, Petrels and countless other seabirds too many to list.
Are you in search of solitude? As busy as the highway might occasionally seem, many of the waysides and picnic areas are devoid of people. For the most part, there’s no one on these remote beaches, some of which are inaccessible for good reason, so be careful. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment, viewfinder pressed to the eye, clicking and composing as you step closer and closer to the slippery, craggy headlands.
About a third the size of Brookings, the town of Gold Beach is flatter, straddling a long mile or so along Highway 101. Not as spectacularly rugged as its neighbor to the south, the coastline is more subdued, with green hill country rising abruptly to the east. It’s been drawing tourists for years. Motels are plentiful. I wouldn’t call it upscale, but it grows on you over time and has a down-home country feel, nothing too glamorous, a non-industrial enclave attracting retirees and others avoiding the bustle. North and south, the beaches are long and wide and the harbor tiny although a stroll down by the docks might reward you with sea lions lounging about and otters slipping in and out of the water and over moss-covered rocks while long-necked black cormorants sit perched atop rotting pylons.
Of course you can leave the carnival ride to others and simply drive down meandering County Road 595 that winds and wends up the verdant valley for miles to eclectic Agness and beyond, with outstanding views of the river to your left, ospreys snatching their catch out of the green, slow water, and if you keep your eyes peeled, you just might spot an eagle, a bald one.
If you’re curious what the country looked like before the timber companies ravaged the coastal range in their gluttonous fury, stop in at the Schrader Old Growth Forest preserve about 12 miles inland. The trail is short by necessity - very little climax old growth remains. Just think of it as a free museum, and some of the most spectacular hardwoods and Douglas Fir remaining in Oregon. I hear their big.