Three Capes on the Oregon Coast

Devoid of the Willamette Valley crowds that descend on Lincoln City on the northern Oregon Coast during the pleasant months, the exquisite tranquility of forty-mile-long Three Capes Scenic Drive, and quaint ocean-side villages that dot this string of pristine pearls, is a surprising and pleasant respite few out-of-state visitors are aware of. Beginning at tiny Pacific City three miles west of Highway 101, and meandering generally north past diminutive and sandy Cape Kiwanda, the two-mile lofty protrusion of Cape Lookout that juts out into the Pacific Ocean like the Titanic, and the rocky bulk of Cape Meares at the far northern end of the drive, this hidden gem of coast pulls us back year after year without fail.

Except for the cantankerous explosion of ORV racket that rattles and roars across the mighty sand dunes at the Sand Lake Recreation Area south of Cape Lookout, this perpetually pleasant corner of Oregon is known for peace and quiet, gentle walks through towering stands of old-growth forests, crashing ocean waves, and rabbits too many to count. My first encounter with Pacific City (pop. 900) was thirty years ago, and not that much has changed since then. Of course it's grown, and tastefully so, but it has been spared the onslaught of rampant development that has engulfed other scenic parts of the Oregon Coast. Unpretentious and languid, the few square blocks of galleries, restaurants, shops and a 1,875-foot-long airport right on the edge of downtown, sit at the base of McMinnville Heights where numerous first homes, and occasionally empty vacation homes, are perched high overlooking the town, the Big and Little Nestucca Rivers, and the estuary with its abundant wildlife habitat. The action, for the beach crowd, begins at the Bob Straub State Park where endless miles of sand crowd the shoreline north and south, and large rolling dunes are covered by long, wavy Holland beach grass; deep corridors of it leading from the paved parking lot out to the boardwalk and the constant white curl of massive waves crashing and splashing. The park, free to all, is a favorite launch for the horseback-riders, one of the more popular activities to engage in along this incredibly sandy swath of beautiful beach. Most visitors deploy their kites, Frisbees and screaming children at the Cape Kiwanda parking lot. Motor vehicles are allowed on the beach, unlike many other places along the coast, where families and friends picnic and frolic in view of the sandy protrusion named Cape Kiwanda, and one of the grandest and photogenic haystack rocks on the entire Oregon coast, Chief Kiawanda Rock. For those with lungs and legs to spare, climbing high dunes near Cape Kiwanda and sliding down the steep descent is a popular activity, as are hang gliding and paragliding off the summit for those who don't know better. Like beaches up and down the Oregon Coast, these offer beach combing for hermit crabs, sand dollars and agates, and once Japan's tsunami debris begins to invade us in its radioactive glory, grinning human skeletons trapped in a tangle of two-by-fours, rusty nails, broken glass floats, and invasive marine species foreign to American soil that are certain to wreak havoc with our biological diversity and well-being.

Yes, they have birds, due in large part to the green and lush estuary; thousands of migrating Canada geese drop their leavings on the unsuspecting as they migrate overhead north and south in the many thousands; pelicans, herons, sea gulls, bald eagles – they've got it all. Paddlers can paddle the slow-moving Big Nestucca, the estuary and canals. Crabbers crab, clammers clam, and fishermen reel in Salmon mindlessly heading up fresh water. There's even a winter Steelhead run, lots of trout to be hooked and reeled in stocked Town Lake, and Ling Cod to be captured right in the Pacific Ocean surf. Pacific City is also known for its fleet of double-ended, flat-bottom dory boats, the “dory fleet” as it's known, which launch directly into the pounding surf and breaking breakers. Greatly reduced in number today, it was big business in the early 1900s when salmon was king and bountiful. These fishing boats were launched by motor vehicles, and difficult to fathom, horses. Today, Pacific City is host to one of only two dory launches on the entire West Coast, although their numbers have dwindled to a shadow of the hundreds of dories that launched from here during the 1960s and 70s. I don't eat rabbit, or should I say, I won't unless I'm starving. Lambs, goats, cats, dogs, and the flesh of most humans, are likewise off-limits to my palate. If you're visiting the Cape Kiwanda parking lot area, and the shops and restaurants in the vicinity, stroll over to the Cape Kiwanda RV Park where you'll find dozens – 30, 40, 50 - of these big and little bunnies lounging about waiting to be run over by Alfred backing up his Winnebago, or gobbled up by hounds on the prowl. It's quite the site, not the gobbling or the squashing, but their lounging about under picnic tables and parked cars waiting to breed like, … you know.... Black seemed to be the most popular color this summer. Has it really been that long? Thirty years ago my bonnie blond lass and I, and some shaggy brown mutt she adopted back home, set out from the Cape Lookout parking lot for the 5-mile round-trip hike to the very tip of the cape and back. We had the parking lot and the trail all to ourselves back in those days, unlike the small crowds today that have discovered one of the great hikes along the coast. We knew we weren't supposed to spend the night camping out on the end.

It was strictly forbidden, a sin of great magnitude, an egregious breach of the king's law and his men's rules and regulations; a hideous crime of immense proportions, a distasteful lack of respect for the proper order of things that ought to prevail on their public lands. I mean, what kind of a world would we be living in if everyone camped out on the end of lofty and oh-so-beautiful Cape Lookout? Or so implied the sign. Just in case, we hauled along our tent and one cozy large sleeping bag, and other what-nots, and made the wandering trek through towering old-growth, and out along the very edge of hundreds of feet of nothingness where the muddy, slippery trail skirted the inevitable end of life with one careless miss-step. And once we reached the very end, with the shimmering, vast and wide-open Pacific wrapped around us on three sides, my bonnie lass and I embraced the wind and sun and exquisite view with open arms like Sunday Pentecostals hard at work, long before Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet memorialized their rapturous ecstasy on the prow of the Titanic. And there we stood for the longest time, then sat on the old bench and cuddled and smooched, and waited for the setting orange sun to sink into the flat horizon, wondering if we should dare the powers-that-be and slink into the deep forest for the night like common criminals, or hoof it out in the dark. Decisions, decisions. And more touching. And then I took my gal by the hand, and off we trudged into the towering forest of fir and green ferns, and soft, deep, springy beds of fallen pine needles where I set up our little tent for the long night, out of view and out of earshot. Warm and cozy, and giddy at our presumptuousness and brazen disregard for the forest-Nazis who surely had better things to do than harass a couple of love-struck, groping kids who couldn't keep their hands off each other.

John Treadwell Dunbar——Bio and Archives

John Treadwell Dunbar is a freelance writer