A Brighter Summer Day

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Wednesday, August 17, 2011: Our “resort” serves a “continental” breakfast: individually wrapped muffins, bread in the shape of a bagel, hard boiled eggs, Tang (I swear, confirmed by an RV-er), “coffee” with whitener, bananas and yogurt.  I stuck with the latter two.  We tried coffee from the drive through hut across the highway—I was noticeably out-of-town by standing carless in-between running pick-ups with a dog on lead (one woman even got out, with her car idling, to admire the “Airedale”), but it too was a facsimile.  We later went to a bookstore (any town with a book store in the centre of town is by definition economically depressed) and although there was no one even browsing books, they had superb coffee, and the coffee shop was busy.

The dirty thirties engineering marvel

Our plan for the morning was to take a six mile hike along the picturesque Rogue River, but that was something of a bust; we drove too far inland, then backtracked, finally found the trail head but in the end it was too dense and poorly maintained to trek.  We ended up at a State Park where there was about a mile of river shoreline to traverse and plenty of sticks to throw for pooch; the fresh water took the saltwater skank off, but he was quick to regain it in the afternoon.  We saw eagles and hawks, a river otter with a salmon in its mouth, a bi-plane, chipmunk fights, and teenagers in the remote picnic area engaging in what is commonly referred to in the vernacular as “friends with benefits.”  After our river walk we went back to town (I can’t help writing that without thinking first of Agnes Moorhead in All That Heaven Allows getting dressed up for town and second SS telling me that his gran did the same thing in North Bay!).  There was an old wreck at the burnt remains of the once thriving cannery and some interesting perspectives on the Rogue River bridge which rounded out the AM.

The bridge over the Rogue: Completed under Hoover in 1932 using, for the first time in North America, an engineering technique developed by a French, Ernest Freyssinet.  Functional and like new.  Note to Gregor Robertson: It’s called engineering.

Wreck of the Mary Hume

Hard to see but two large birds--turkey vultures?--resting

All Quiet on the Western Front

North by Northwest

Field of wild fennel

A River Runs Through It

Swallows nests under the bridge

The wreck is the Mary Hume, built from old growth wood, her keel from a 141 foot white cedar hauled down the Rogue, and christened in 1881.  It served Mr. Hume’s king salmon cannery on the Rogue River, hauling salmon and wool down to San Francisco.   In the 1890s the whaling industry was in full swing; the ship was sold by the Humes to a company that put her to use on long voyages to the arctic.  On one six-year voyage it hauled a record $400,000 worth of whale baleen back to SF.  Of course its trips to the Arctic were not without misadventure, including scurvy and lunacy among the crew, who were kept on ice until they could be buried.  As the whaling industry waned it was sold.  In 1909 it was reconfigured as a river tug, and kept in commission until retirement in 1978.  It still holds the record of being the longest sea vessel in use on the Pacific as well as having the longest record of a single registry ship.

For lunch we crossed the bridge to a little out of the way bakery for homemade soup and sandwiches, took cupcakes with us for later, then drove south of Gold River towards Brookings, where myriad parks dot the rugged coastline.

Most of the afternoon we spent at Cape Sebastian, an overwhelmingly beautiful and grand outcrop, with vertigo-inducing views to the cliffsides below.  We took the 1.6 mile beach trail down, which traversed what felt like three climate zones: First, a windswept, bitter tunnel-like path that wound down to the south bank, then a long warm, still, switchback through forest, awash with hyper Stellar’s Jays and the odd Flicker, then a roller coaster saltwater misted path above the sea, pock-marked rocks with shore birds and seals below—Holy guano paysano—dropping suddenly onto a long, secluded beach.  The only thing was that unlike mountain hiking, up first, down later, we had the heavy lifting at the end.  Although we had the hike to ourselves, the parking lot was abuzz.  It amused me that most visitors we witnessed, in the parking lot, didn’t even get out of their cars!

1.6 miles down to the beach.  Felt like five miles back...

View north from Cape Sebastian to Gold Beach

South from Cape Sebastian, Into the Woods

Rocks.  Go figure.

Beach at Cape Sebastian.  Lottsa hiking and a beach.

Boyz in the Hood

After the Cape we drove south into Boardman State Park which is dotted with various pull-outs and viewpoints.  At Thunder Rock Cove we had to leash the dog who put his famous guile and agility to misuse on the cliff edges.  Later we strolled a very windy wind-surfer beach that, in the parking lot, had the feel of a 1960s B-movie.  All that was missing was Troy Donahue in too tight short shorts having a blow out with Sandra Dee.

It was a fantastic day, weather wise, activity wise, and konked out the pooch who was snoring before dinner.  Speaking of which we went to Spinners, the go-to place for townies, not a single good view at any table despite the beachfront locale, servers all recruited from the basketball team, a perverse amount of booze on offer (“there’s a beer menu a wine list and a martini menu—do you want all three?") and no one serving water under six foot five.  It was actually quite pleasant, despite getting the cheque while still eating.  What’s the phrase?  In America you pay the check with a bill, in the UK you pay the bill with a cheque.  Mr. T was glad for our return and took to his dehydrated slop with a dedicated concentration.

View at Thunder Rock Cove

Tree stump going into space

This and the following four pics: Views from Thunder Rock

The Long Day Closes

Tuesday, August 17, 2011: Cannon Beach to Manzanita, Nehalem, Rockaway Beach, Tillamook, Hebo, Neskowin, Lincoln City, Depoe, Otter Rock, Newport, Seal Rock, Waldport, Yachats, Florence, Gardiner, Reedsport, Winchester Bay, Lakeside, North Bend, Coos Bay, Bandon, Langlois, Sixes, Port Orford, Gold Beach.  Also, Smith Lake, North Bay Rd, Glenn Ave, Lois Lane and, my favourite, Matlock Way.  It was a bit ambitious.  Especially considering it took us one hour twenty-two minutes to go the first hundred kms!  So many towns with 25 mph zones and road work and hairpin turns and RVs with the oomph of a 2cv Citroen.

View south from West Oswald State Park

But magnificent scenery, all the way.  The start started out with archetypal Northwest treelines into a rocky shoreline, transitioned midday into the dunes famous along the coast here—some spilling for kilometres from sea inland, toppling through the brush onto roadways—then becoming open, spare, Mediterranean, a craggy shoreline and horizontal windswept evergreens.  But it was a long drive to tackle in a single go.

Gold Beach sits where the Rogue River funnels into the Pacific.  We arrived just past four, checked in, then took a walk along the beach.  It was warm, blindingly clear sky, but windy, then to a small bistro off the main drag called Anna’s.  There was a chef and a server.  It could top out at 20 covers, tops, but there were only about 12 of us Tuesday; still, it was full tilt and although our service was excellent some diners waited a half hour for simple mains.  SS had a homemade tomato soup with dill, I had a salad all crunch (red peppers, celery, snap peas, cucumber, and a little avocado, but no lettuce) then we both had ling cod with caramelized onions, succotash and potato popovers.  Nice.

Picnic lunch at Honeyman State Park.  Teens surfed the dunes.  The lake was like soup.

Pelican, deceased.  Damien Hirst, 2011. 1.25m quid.

The Long Day Closes: My favourite “boring” movie.  Which is, I guess, a pretty broad category.  Does Joseph Losey’s Boom! go in the boring or unusual category?  I don’t consider Resnais or Bresson boring, probably a debatable point.  Another consideration: How many people will you meet in your life who have seen a Terrence Davies movie?  And liked it?  25?  30?  Check out the Wikipedia entry; it reads like an algorithm, which is particularly perverse given how much compassion went into the film.  I guess boring has now become so common, I mean how many “Saws” will hold your attention? that we should have an “authentically boring” category as well.

Dog Day Afternoon

Monday, August 15, 2011: On an endless, trans-continental, ultimately fruitless quest, for the ideal Americano, SS served me a delicious freshly roasted cup from the roaster across the street; I sat up in bed and said thanks but half an hour more sleep would also have worked instead.  So, again, early start.  Off to Portland, city of roses, less than two hours away through a scenic forested route which winds down into a Jolly Green Giant valley of farms and ranches, then into Hillsboro, the outskirts of an urban landscape that is at the least an affront to Vancouverites (rapid transit along the highway?  Light rail to the suburbs?  Synchronized traffic lights?) and into the downtown.  Warm, sunny, subdued.

Contrail Crud

Most boring den ever...

Portion control

We shopped the morning away, last of the big spenders, I got socks, SS ate some Junior Mints.  Segue to the Seinfeld Junior Mint episode (Kramer pops a Junior Mint into a splendectomy but also, incidentally, the episode Jerry can’t remember the name of his girlfriend, except that it rhymes with something unique to the female anatomy—not Mulva).  It was 79 and glorious in Portland, sleepy in its wakefulness.  Eminently walkable, but with free downtown transit if you must.  Is there any more enviable metropolis under one million?  We had lunch in the Pearl so Tony could stretch out on the pavement; “healthy” salads with a “side” of onion rings. 

Upon our return it was too glorious to wrap up the day.  We took a long walk along the surf, then put loungers in the sand and talked about the two and a half pages of comics in The Oregonian.  SS hadn’t read Ziggy yet so I told him the punch line and he related the latest in Prince Valiant and we both wondered who phones in Mother Goose and Grimm, and the ocean roared in a soothing metronome and then it simply got too late for us to ignore that it was time for dinner. 

View (I guess you could call it that)

Fish for dinner

What would have been ideal was a long table a la Roma, but on the beach, a la Amarcord, but we did in fact have to rise, walk across the street and order dinner.  SS had a salad and a halibut, I had a wild mushroom soup and corned beef.  We came back, with the horizon in pink, several bonfires across the beach, gulls in defence of Haystack rock, and said goodbye to Cannon Beach.  It was a sad moment for the dog, but there you go.

Dog Day Afternoon: They should play the opening credits at the MOMA in a loop in a dedicated room the way they have the Water Lilies.  No, they should give credit in history class.  There is no finer four minute montage of NYC in the 70s, so brilliant and taut and observant.  Then landing on Al Pacino in a wretched gas guzzling 70s sedan, before he became a mockery of an image of an actor called Al Pacino, tense and torn, about to commit a crime, polyester and sweat.  But that’s when the movie starts and before it starts, those credits, that montage, that’s the stuff of Lumet’s genius.  (And a side note to John Cazale—a six year career including the first two Godfathers, DDA, Deer Hunter and The Conversation!)  It could have been Winterbottom’s The Trip except SS saw a sign that said Virginia Woof Dog Daycare which led to an hour of conversation intermittently cut with, e.g., Lone Woof DD, Grey Woof DD, Woof Blitzer DD, Never Cry Woof DD, Big Bad Woof DD, The Woof at the Door DD, et cetera.  That's called yer long term relationship.

Long day's journey into night

And Now for Something Completely Different

Sunday, August 14, 2011
No reason for an early start but we had an early start nonetheless.  Tempurpedic bed.  I’m of mixed opinions—but if you sleep on it like the body in the logo it is perhaps wonderful.  SS got coffees and we read (“read”) the Oregonian.  Still printing Tiger in the colour comics; I used to think Andy Rooney had the best job going in America.

Oswald West State Park

Drove south on highway 101 about 15 minutes to Oswald West State Park, down to a secluded surfing beach, then hiked a 2.5 mile trail to an outlook onto the Pacific.  Back to “town” for lunch, in a garden, with the dog lying at peace in the dirt, then south again, this time to Arcadia Beach.  We saw a 14 week old Irish, Glimmer, who had perfect ears and all the typical IT demeanour that I remember so fondly, but I also admired at a distance, fully cognizant of “puppy exhaustion.”  The beach was a mile or two, not busy, and the sun came out in force.  We walked for a couple of hours then retreated to the hotel.

Leader of the pack

Arcadia Beach, south of Cannon Beach, Oregon

Glimmer, 14 weeks old

Then, for something quite out of the ordinary, a chef’s dinner.  We walked from “midtown” into the centre for one of 20 spots at EVOO, an acronym for extra virgin olive oil, a kitchen where a CIA trained chef prepares four course meals as guest entertainment.  There are seats around the stove then four raised tables behind that; we were with a father and daughter from Chicago, who were famished, at one of the raised tables. 

The first course was a grilled flat bread with lemon-zested greens, cherry tomatoes, sheep’s feta, Moroccan olives, a delectable baked falafel, and a baba-ghanoush, which he mixed with baked garlic, fresh ground coriander, tahini and cilantro.  It was a show, a series of mixing and matchings, and a good start to the evening, fresh and forward and summery.  We drank a Capitello pinot gris, something a little blasé to sip but which came alive with all the flavours in the mezze.

Nice start.  What else ya got?

The second course was substantially more chef-like.  Sturgeon, carefully scaled and cleaned and fat removed, then bathed in buttermilk overnight, then breaded in two types of cornmeal, and while he baked that he made a salad of corn off the cob (grilled) and red pepper.  Meanwhile, freshly baked chipotle biscuits (more like small scones) were brushed with blue agave butter.  This all came together with a remoulade (preserved lemons in a mayonnaise base) on top of the fish.  Perfect fish.  Will probably never eat sturgeon again in my life (it’s usually prepared poorly, greasy and gamey) so having something so spectacular was a gift.  We drank something completely different, a “young” fruit forward zinfandel, against type with fish, a 2009 Four Vines from Sonoma.  Holy shmoly!

Third course was an applewood smoked tenderloin of beef.  We had the demo on dry smoking and prepping and cooking.  Meanwhile he mixed up a creamy polenta with Tillamook cheddar and pancetta.  Polenta is officially banned in our house—years ago in TO I had not reduced the heat sufficiently and a pot of polenta turned into Vesuvius which came up and scalded me in the face—so SS takes pleasure in any opp to order it.  And, while that was all coming together, he threw together a hugely refreshing watermelon salsa (watermelon, cilantro, onion, cucumber).  We were offered “black salt” as we ate, an unusual but complementary accompaniment.  With this course a Bordeaux California blend, J. Scott Avante 2009 (a little beefy and heavy for my liking). 

Somewhere along the way we toasted the chef and his wife’s 23 years together and, to the day, their seventh year of running EVOO.  And the famished couple from Chicago began creating doggy bags but the two of us, up to the challenge, persevered.

Dessert was a feat.  The base was a graham cracker coconut cake.  He prepared a fresh chocolate ganache to spread on top.  While we had been eating steak he had begun a meringue, a twist on seven minute frosting.  This was piped in “Dairy Queen” swirls on top of the ganache, then “torched” before he soldered the gas line.  Just kidding.  A few fresh raspberries around the cake.  Then, and this was criminal, a berry ice-cream (blueberries, blackberries and salal berries mixed with a ruby port), a smattering of almonds and a mint sprig garnish.

Tony, upon our return, had dehydrated beef reconstituted to mush and a little rice cake for crunch.  Seemed to think he it was a Top Chef masterpiece.

And Now for Something Completely Different

Monty Python is a bit insulting to the Irish

I debated on calling this entry Barefoot in the Park, because we spent most of the day barefoot in a park on a beach, but I couldn’t bear it, thinking of how Jane Fonda recites her lines a fraction of a note above 2001’s HAL, and there isn’t a chance in heck Robert Redford ever had to live one iota of the life we’re supposed to believe he’s living in BITP, and Simon’s best play (Prisoner of Second Avenue) and his best line (Odd Couple: “It took me three hours to figure out FU meant Felix Unger.”) have nothing to do with Barefoot.  And it wasn’t a turn from the norm.  True, ANFSCD doesn’t have a zippy music-hall number to end the picture, a la Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, or John Cleese “farting in our general direction” but it is more politically incorrect than, say, John Waters’ Bin Laden nesting dolls he keeps on his side table, and is both brilliant and ragged and pulled together on the fly, much like our day.

Goin' Down the Road

August 13, 2011

Dog trip.  Sooner or later it had to happen, no swooning like Harlow in Monte Carlo.  Very early start and zipped through the border, brief stops in Bellingham (Starbucks) and Seattle (Pete’s—91 point Piper Heidseck Brut NV at $31—less than half the price in Canada.  Less than half the price! Don’t get me started...), a couple of extremely busy rest stops—one like the midway at a fair, I won’t get into what a slice of Americana that was, and a deke off the I5 through Kelso, where, literally, we ended up on the wrong side of the railway tracks: pit bulls off lead, half naked men standing in open doorways suspicious of out-of-state plates, a number of slacker yard sales, boarded up buildings, a litany of sale and lease signs.  I locked the doors.  Lost, map-less, it took two convenience stores to figure the issue.  We later found our way, over a viaduct, then across the river into Oregon.  By design the most direct route is through Portland, but the hourglass of traffic across the Columbia is a slog at best.  We took the narrow two lane route 47 up and over a small pass, through tiny towns such as Mist (two homes, a school, and a sign that said Gasoline), Jewell, and some other “municipalities,” to put it generously.  Myriad layers of green, not typical arid mid-August at all, like a Disney animator’s vision of Oregon countryside.  Huge swaths of clear cut, like the cover to Pynchon’s Vineland (for those who still read...)  Eventually we joined the 26 and turned west toward Cannon Beach, arriving early aft, for a stupendous beach walk, where an uncommonly large amount of people knew that Mr. T was in fact an Irish Terrier.  Afterwards we unpacked and sussed out the services.  Our room looks out directly onto the beach, Haystack rock, but being a “dog friendly” room doesn’t have a deck.  Still, very nice, with the roar of the Pacific, a la Tofino, through the mosquito screen.

Early evening walk with Mr. T from “midtown” to the centre (12 minutes each way, but the hotel runs a shuttle bus for those unaccustomed to putting “one foot in front of the other, and soon you’ll be walking cross the floor... you never will get where you’re going if you don’t get up on your feet” with apologies to Jules Bass.  Then out to dinner at Irish Table, much lauded on the much lauded TripAdvisor.  SS had a fresh fish chowder followed by a vegetarian (mainly wild mushroom) shepherd’s pie, I ordered a supreme curry lentil soup, pureed to within an inch of its life, and a ling cod on wild rice with baby squash and snow peas.  A sharp, metallic Oregon Ponzi Pinot Gris to go with.  Then SS had a Guinness Oreo ice cream sandwich (I just watched).  I had commented on the way down—with stops in Bellingham and Seattle—that we hadn’t encountered a typical American sight.  But we sighted it at dinner.  I’ll let you guess what it was.  Hint: Think deep fried butter at the Iowa State Fair.

All Dogs Go to Heaven

Consider the lilies.  Seriously: Consider the seven foot tall friggin lilies!

Ling cod on wild rice with baby squash and new peas with lemon thyme and parsley

Haystack rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon

Goin Down the Road.  A Canadian classic, apparently.  Looks like it was shot in Super 8.  An archetypal story—two Newfies make good in TO at minimum wage jobs of $2 an hour (it was 1970)—but it baffles me how that could make “the top 10” of CDN movies ever made (source: Playback magazine) and Jeremy Podeswa gets a shutout.  To name just one example.