A sense of place.

You are looking at Cape Blanco Lighthouse, at the tip of Cape Blanco, the westernmost tip of the contiguous states. We are in the Far West, and the myth about the West lives here still.

Around us are ranches, forests, cranberry bogs, pastures, and tiny towns, of which Port Orford and Langlois are the closest. The land is rugged. Only one highway, US 101 parallels the coast and connects California on the south, to Washington,  on the north.

We were the last frontier here in Oregon. The Oregon Trail moved people from the East to the West through many territories. We all have ancestors who came this way and settled here.  My husband's family started out in the Carolinas, and made its way west, landing in Utah first before settling in in Willocreek, Montana, and in Oregon and Washington.

My great Uncle Giuseppe arrived in San Francisco as a youth, to make his fortune in California during the gold rush. He settled in Fresno and Los Angeles, where I landed as a seventeen year old from Italy.
We were all drawn to the open land, the sense of adventure and opportunities that the West promised.

Right here and right now, our young people are moving away from their family ranches to seek their fortunes in big cities, East, North, South, to Europe, Asia. They'll join a fishing expedition in Alaska, go raise cattle in Utah, dig for oil in Louisiana. The West offered much, but it is still a wild place, full of natural beauty, but lacking in jobs and opportunities.

Retirees are moving to these small places. They are enchanted by the wild rivers, the spectacular ocean views, and the thundering sound of crushing waves. They are also amazed at how little this place has changed since it was first occupied as Fort Orford, a military outpost to protect ships and lumber workers as they loaded up and moved lumber down the Pacific to Eureka, and San Francisco.

We are still on the frontier, in a sense. We must be prepared to live without electricity for days after a major storm as the highway may be impassable, and no truck or car full of provisions can make deliveries or bring repairmen.

Gawking Season

Starting this weekend, the highway will be crowded with RV's, cyclists and run-of-the-mill tourists, looking for a place to pull off.

Hwy 101 is a two-laner in these parts of Oregon.  People become irritable and insensitive after a few hours. They want to stop, walk on these beaches, find a restroom. And gawk.

The rest of us? We want to get to the hairdresser, school, work, at a good pace, say 45 to 55 miles per hour.  Tourists forget that people have a life that demands appointments made and kept.
How else do you account for their hypnotic looks?  One curve after another on this stretch of the 101 reveals one beautiful set of coves after another.  Sky, sea and forest share kisses and flotsam, intimately connecting all points of the compass  to eternity.

More accidents occur in the summer months when roads are clear of rain and ice and fog than at any other time. It must be all that gawking.

Groves, hatcheries and other surprises on the highway.

U.S. 101 or the Coast Highway travels N-S the entire West Coast of the United States.  In Oregon, the highway is rugged, a slow two-laner, the Pacific on the West, the Coast Range on the right.  At times, and for many miles there are no lights, no towns, no habitation. Forests of Redwood,Douglas and this one, Myrtlewood, will stretch as far as the eyes can see. If you get off the highway, you'll run into old hatcheries like this one.

This stream is by Humbug Mountain, just south of Port Orford, easily forded in many places, and sometimes rerouted by beavers as it happened in the foto above.

All over the coast, Myrtlewood shops display many products made with the Myrtlewood, a cousin of bay laurel.  Myrtlewood is a majestic tree, evergreen in these parts, with a distinctive perfume.