Female on the Beach
Yes. Once again I find myself on a clam chowder and hiking binge on the Oregon Coast. It was such a success last year that I’ve decided to make it an annual event.
Hard to believe that a stretch of beach this beautiful would be deserted, but it was. I could have kept going for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles (to paraphrase The Who).
I stopped and watched a convocation of eagles (or possibly a kettle of hawks) cruise and swoop overhead. They were huge and majestic and utterly silent. I got a bit lost—but not panicky lost--traversing the dunes. There really aren’t any landmarks to speak of. I inspected this intriguing sea vegetable. A while back, Jamie sent me a regional Northwest cookbook that has a recipe for pickling these things. If the one I saw hadn’t been swarming with flies, I might have “harvested” it.
I crunched over beach detritus—severed crab claws, former scallops, defunct razor clams—and wondered if I was accelerating in any meaningful way the evolution of the shells into grains of sand. Are, in fact, seashells a component of sand? Surely they must be, but isn’t sand mostly silicon? I should know this. At some point I probably did.
Best of all—I’ve got everything I need for an evening of pure self-indulgence and pampering.
The Collected Stories of William Trevor (I'm rereading this with great relish and awe at his skill as a storyteller.)
A tote bag of knitting
My laptop and free WiFi
A bellyfull of quite passable clam chowder and Bombay Bomber IPA from Eugene's Steelhead Brewery
A coffeemaker procured by special arrangement with the innkeeper
Wiliam Sullivan’s 100 Hikes: Oregon Coast and Coast Range
A baggie full of bridge mix
In about 15 minutes I will head over for my private appointment with the hot tub and stew myself into a prune.