The West Coast: Oregon, Part I
I am inclined to find meaning in everything these days. This is what Oregon is like. This is what travel and departure and seeing new things is like. It is novel and loaded with meaning. I spent the summer working, making money and writing, so when it came time to leave, I raced out the door with a brand new Osprey carry-on pack and the delight of an artist with a hunger for the world.
Traveling carry-on only, I relished in the freedom of casting nearly everything aside. My mind could not be filled by extra packed sweaters or various added comforts–indeed, it seemed as though my thoughts were invigorated by casting off the material and returning to the ease of backpack living. The final stages upon me, I relished in the planning, printing, and packing, all the while listening to Bob Dylan and John Denver, anthems for the earth and road.
When I laid out the entirety of my pack across the floor its contents were scant, yet reassuring in their usefulness. Among them I carried a small bundle of clothing, three notebooks, two sweaters, a bandana tied to the handle of my pack, a toothbrush, a couple bars of soap, a disposable camera, two paperback books, and my laptop for blogging. It wasn’t much, but to me, it was a movable homeland. With a quick glance back over my shoulder, I was out the door and headed for the West coast.
The flight was easy and surprisingly quick. When I arrived in Oregon, I found I was right at home. And since that moment of touch-down, I have found contentment here. I feel like I’ve been here a lifetime, though it’s only been a week. Being in a new place feeds my curiosity and generates unmatched excitement for life and adventure. The new tastes, the new sounds, the new trees!
Wandering Corvallis, I felt the lull of another town, another state. Something about this area feels slow and intentional, lost in time, and in the sleepy fog that often hangs over the roads. There is a thick deluge of hues, raining down from mammoth trunks, leaves that clutter the sidewalks and the roadways. The storefronts are charming, colorful, alive with a vintage pop.
I’ve made it my mission to try all the local coffeeshops, and this pursuit has led to many cups of strong, full-bodied house blends, cozy corners where I can write and reflect, murals of countless colors. We’ve also frequented a local lookout, Mary’s Peak. Taking the winding road up through an old, mossy forest, I feel like I’m among the ancients. There is wisdom in the shadows of these forests, a spirit that rises with the mist. Once through the trees, the road comes out to an overlook where you can see the Cascades in the distance. The first time around, it was too hazy to see anything, still I was exhilarated by the smell of the air up there and the power of those heavy trunks that rise colossal and austere, draped in emerald gowns of moss and lichen.
On our second trip, there was snow at the summit. Giddy as children on a snow-day, we rushed from the car to catch a view of that glinting, sunlit peak, all done up in her winter visage, but the going was slow once we’d left the warmth of the car. The wind whipped us around until our teeth chattered and our fingers went numb, still we were filled with purpose and forced our way into the gale. At the top, the view was worth it, although even more cold and windy. Huddling and turning our collars up we pointed to Mount Jefferson and the Three Sisters, snow capped and regal in the distant fog. Our cheeks were red when we returned, but the view was worth the climb.
On Saturday, we hit the road, off towards Eugene to get a glimpse at a new city. The wide, flat farmlands stretched out for miles, and beyond that, the glorious mountains that we had seen from the overlook rose straight up. On the way, we had much to look at, and the drive passed peacefully with comfortable conversation and many views. Eugene was rainy when we arrived, and rich with character. We all hopped out, avoiding the puddles and stuffing our hands deep inside our pockets. With sleepy purpose, we headed to a pop-up market where vendors sold local art and fresh food, hot chocolate and crepes. We ambled between stalls and eventually I purchased some pottery. The locally crafted goods appealed to me, and I was tempted to buy more, but the size of my pack inhibited my wallet, so reluctantly we continued on.
Much of the day in Eugene was filled with this same kind of lazy exploration, taking a peek at this or that and then wandering in another direction. We went climbing for a few hours and then rejuvenated with lunch at a sweet little joint called Morning Glory where they served exceptional vegetarian breakfast. I’ve noticed that Oregon is a champion of comfort food, which tends to be a relief in the brisk, Pacific Northwest fall, when it’s guaranteed to rain on any given day. After lunch, I picked up some local kombucha, which I had been hoping to taste while I was here, and we dipped into a couple of thrift shops before our final adventure of the day–the Cascades Raptor Center. The Raptor Center is a wildlife hospital and home to nearly 40 raptors. Their work is so important, and seeing the birds up close was an incredible experience. My favorite part was seeing the eagles, which have a personal and spiritual significance for me. Read more about the center here if you’re interested.
In the days after our trip to Eugene, I spent my time trying new coffeeshops and writing as much as possible. During my time here, I’ve found a comfortable work rhythm, and I often spend my mornings in some new place, writing with the sound of coffee being brewed in the background. In the afternoons, we explore or cook or just hangout, enjoying the company. I feel relaxed and free, and I’m thrilled simply by the everyday experiences of this place. Never before have I settled, so completely and so quickly, in a travel destination.
I have met people here who remind me to laugh. I have met kind friends and encouraging climbing buddies, engineers and teachers, people who are as passionate and outdoorsy as I am. These people remind me what travel is really about–making new connections, finding new parts of yourself. In these interactions, I find ease and joy. Realizing I might never have met any of these new faces had I not been willing to put myself out there, I am grateful for the impetus to move, to change, to hit the road. Such passing interactions matter. They are the fundamental stuff of meaning and purpose. More than anything, I find I am comfortable because of the kindness of strangers. I am grateful for the community I have found myself surrounded by, and the journey that has taken me here.
More to come soon.
Authentically yours,
Caroline