Cape Blanco and Gold Beach

Cape Blanco

Castle Rock above the mouth of the Sixes River in late afternoon.

This from a low tide walk where the Sixes calmly meets the ocean.  The high tide rolls in, over and completely obscures this sand bar and river mouth.  The river pushes in; the ocean pushes back.

 

The afternoon before this photo, we walked the trail from Hughes House along the river. The tide deeply penetrates the estuary. We were on the sanctioned trail and then found a less developed opening through the dunes to the beach.  We clamored up, over and the ocean was right at our feet.  You can see our footprints, which I photographed the next morning.  The huge big highest tide was crashing just below this embankment.  I didn’t need Jason’s warning not to go closer.

We stood together marveling wordlessly at the power.  A moment later a 6 or 8 foot wave crashed to our feet undercutting the embankment.  We could feel it shift beneath us.  Gasping as our eyes met with reaction ahead of thought, we high tailed out of the high tidal plane!  A river and an ocean, both water with high tide wills powerfully, continuously and unrelenting opposed.

After our near demise, we meandered in the late afternoon light back to Lou (our truck) watching the mergansers.  What a great day.

On an 8:47 am low tide we went for the same walk.  We walked the black sand beach back to the lighthouse.  The climb from the beach to the ridge was demanding—for me our best, longest and hardest.  Last week we walked over 22 miles.  Walk, meander, stroll, photograph.  Hard to dignify what we do by calling it hiking.  While we rarely do, on the pedometer we can easily walk a 20 min mile.  I’m going for 15 by the end of California.

 Yes, we were completely alone on this expanse of beach for all the time we walked.

We had seen geese on the Sixes River.  I found this guy wandering alone in the surf. 

Well, not quite alone.  Goose and gull seemed to be together off by themselves.

 

 

Walking Gold Beach met a woman with a horse.  Gwen.  Some 30 plus years back she drove into Gold Beach in boom truck on which she and her boyfriend home made a camper. The truck broke down.  The relationship broke down.  She met her husband, Alan and has been married to him and been librarian in Gold Beach for 32 years.  She’s 61 years old, has done years of guiding on the Rogue River and the Chetco River.  She likes the Chetco best because it flows through wilderness, while the more famous Rogue follows a road.  We talked for only a few minutes and she told me lots about her most personal life.  Funny how women talk that way and men generally do not.  Jason agreed that the instant personal nature of the conversation would be unlikely between two men.  If I was broke down here, I would hope for finding Gwen.

Gwen.

We have endless material for our favorite humor—laughing at ourselves.  This entry in the category of “making friends where ever she goes.” If you are in it for the photos feel free to check out here.

At Harris Beach State Park we are camped by two host couples who are great neighbors.  They know park systems nationwide and are a resource to us.  Still strikes me as odd to be a hardside, and this campground borders Brookings, Oregon.  We walk to town. 

The January campgrounds are mostly vacant, usually not this urban and most places we have camped off having little interaction with other campers until Cape Blanco.  In our ongoing category of “better lucky than smart”, the camp hosts were walking the circuit as we drove in and invited us to camp at a spot with full hook ups, same price--$16/night.  The spots are used for lighthouse hosts in the summer and are unmarked off the loop.  Our sunny spot was 130 steps to a beautiful open warm green grassy bluff right over the beach.  For me, Cape Blanco is a favorite because good walking trails lead directly from the camp. We went some whole days with no driving. 

And finally we get neighbors too.  We’d been looking forward to it.  At the suggestion of the camp hosts we asked the guy to move his pickup out of spot we wanted to occupy.  Both he and his wife were very amicable and welcoming. 

Until I reflexively drop kicked her dog.  It couldn’t be helped, really.  That little yippy thing was not leashed, as is required, and was jumping all over me to the owner’s tune of, “Stop that. Stop that.  Don’t jump.” If you didn’t kick that dog, at least you would want to.  She was looking right at me when I did it.  And while my intention was to launch a convincing connection with that dog, it reacted quickly and moved away.  Mission accomplished.

Excepting, the neighbors didn’t speak to us again.  I’m lucky Pine Street is so tolerant!  Now walking by folks with dogs, Jase says, please don’t kick the dog.  Our latest entry into  “Making friends wherever she goes.”