Marie Hathaway

On our way to PDX to finally pick up the rental car, the driver asks, “Where are you guys from?”

“I’m coming from Philly.”

“No way, I grew up in Philly. I’ve been here for more than 40 years, but I still talk fast. The Eagles finally lost one, but I heard the refs were against them.”

He turns to Eric in the front seat, “How about you?”

“I’m from Austin, though I actually grew up in Pennsylvania too.”

“Yeah, I can hear it in your accent. And how about him? He’s quiet back there. Where are you from, guy?”

I turn to the empty seat next to me. “Oh, um. It’s just the two of us.”

“What? I thought there was three of yuhs. There’s not another guy back there?”

“No, just me,” I say, trying not to laugh but starting to laugh. “Though now I feel like I’m sitting next to a ghost.”

“Being a Christian, I don’t believe in ghosts, because I don’t believe that souls can get lost, you know?”

“That makes sense,” I say, trying to be diplomatic.

“And you know when they talk about like a spirit is haunting a place, someone’s walking down a staircase over and over? That’s not really a ghost, that’s just residual energy. It’s like, like a…”

“Like an echo,” I suggest.

“Like an echo…So where are you guys going next?”

“We’re heading to the redwoods,” Eric says.

“Is that like a forest?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well say hello to Bigfoot.”

Eric laughs and points back to me, “She’s actually really into Bigfoot.”

“Oh, is that so? You know I had a close encounter.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, back when I was a little kid. Back when we first moved out here. I was on a camping trip with a big group, but I had wandered off by myself. I was out by this big tree and I start to smell this awful smell. Then the whole tree starts shaking. So I took off running back to camp. I run up to my Scout leader and I’m out of breath and he asks what’s wrong and all I can say is ‘tree shook, ran.’ After I caught my breath and told him what happened he says, ‘You saw Bigfoot.’ And I told that story to, there’s some guys who do a Bigfoot podcast, and they had me on. That’s Class C sighting.”

Eric says, “Well hopefully we’ll get to see him too.”

“Well you know, it’s like love, or a perfect job, or a lost wallet. It’s usually when you’re not looking for something. That’s when you find it.”

He helps us unload at the airport drop off and wishes us happy trails. He gives me a fist bump and I instinctively say, “Go Birds,” to which he says “Go Bigfoot.”

Just inside, we have our first sighting.

It’s relatively smooth sailing at the airport rental counter. By a fluke, since I put off making the reservation untill I was in Canada, we got a really good deal. And we looked dumb/defeated enough that they didn’t take it away from us despite not having Canadian passports.

We tune the radio to 105.9 The BREW, Portland’s rock station, and cruise east on 84 to get in our first oohs and ahhs at the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area.

Multnomah Falls is the first stop with a place to eat, and the first place where Eric gets acquainted with my squealing and giddy reaction to being physically afraid of heights but delighted by the view.

We backtrack to Portland then head south on 5 toward Eugene. There is not much to say about Eugene, except that the restaurant we ate at had maybe the most interesting wines of the trip, both from the Willamette Valley, and the waitstaff were all alarmingly quiet. The host doesn’t say a word to us. The person who fills our water glasses tries not to make eye contact. And our server waits for us to speak before offering any information.

“Oregon is a little weird,” I say.

Eric says, “Yeah, I’m starting to get a vibe like we’re on the menu.”

In the morning we’re up early and off for the coast.

We stop for coffee and, in a scene out of a David Lynch film, the only customers in the large, dimly lit seating area are a mother and daughter. The daughter is seated with her back to us, and her mother is standing slowly brushing tangles out of the daughter’s long blond hair which nearly reaches the floor.

“We gotta get out of Oregon.”

The westbound drive on 126 is more scenic than expected. Long low marshlands and a carpet of fog.

In Florence we turn onto 101. Our route for the duration. Mostly two lanes running through woods, and I have no complaints.

We cut off at the first chance to see the Pacific, Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area.

We passed a dune buggy rental place just before turning in, but when Eric sees tire tracks on the dunes, he asks “Can anyone drive on here?” and then quickly answers himself, “I’m doing it.”

It works ok at first, but then the tires start to spin. For a moment I picture us needing to be winched out. We start to turn around then decide to back up slowly, letting the front wheels do the work.

Eric says, “Good thing we have that invisible third man with us, so he could get out and push.”

We manage to get out then park go by foot. Our steps sink against our progress but we make it up alright, and the view is good. Eric points out how there’s almost no one around and no development off in the distance. “It’s not the right word but the only word I can think of is ‘desolate.'”

A man in a Gulf War Veteran hat makes his way slowly up from the beach to us and offers to take our photo. “Isn’t this something?” he says, and we agree. “Back in the 60s the state made a law that classified the entire coast as public land. It’s protected and pristine.There’s nowhere else like it.”

Further south on 101, it cuts closer to the shore line and nearly every bend in the road reveals a more dramatic vista.

Bandon Beach.

Humbug Mountain.

And the Natural Land Bridge, where a biker gang in squeaky leather has also pulled over to soak up the view, and they raise their eyebrows at me as I scream in delight.