June 8 – June 11

The next leg of my journey was akin to a spiritual pilgrimage. Still weary and shaken, after a third night stay-over at Ingrid’s house, I was determined to press on. I told myself there was no turning back now. “California or Bust”, repeatedly came to mind.

I had charted a course following the Colombia River basin. After having said our goodbyes, I continued my journey, heading southeast on I-90. That took me to U.S. highway 395 south, then I-82 before crossing the border into Oregon following another going-the-wrong-way mix-up in Pasco. Eventually, I would finally connect with Interstate 84 west.

Not wanting to push myself too far, I checked into a small motel in Dallesport, Oregon as the sun was setting. The trip had taken a toll on me but I wasn’t about to give up or give in.

Rested and anxious to get going the next morning, I vowed to push on to Portland. The Columbia River occasionally came into view as I traversed its valley, ever westward. One prominent feature I passed was Mount Hood. I marveled at the distant snow-covered peak of that dormant volcano before it slipped out of sight.

Mt. Hood in Oregon

The west coast was experiencing an unusual heat wave. Driving across Oregon, the temperature was in the mid- 90’s and, once again, I would opt for the air conditioning over the open windows. About mid-day, I pulled over in a rest stop and climbed into the back to recoup my energy levels.

Even with the back door open, it quickly became apparent that in higher temperatures I would not be able to get any rest, let alone get any sleep in the back of my van. Reluctantly, I climbed back into the driver’s seat. I had discovered earlier on, that much to my dismay, the front was too cramped to be comfortable enough to sleep in, even with the seat completely tilted back. For now, I would opt to sit uncomfortably with the A/C running for about a half an hour before heading back out onto the open road.

Several hours later I would find myself nearing Portland. A part of me wanted to stop and explore this Pacific Coast city, as many friends and acquaintances had declared it a jewel. However, as I drew closer, the freeway slowed to a crawl with the onset of that all-too-common stop and go urban traffic. Something that I have long disdained. It was around four o’clock and the masses were heading home… rush hour! It was definitely not the best time to navigate an unknown city.

Truth was, I had my mind set on putting my hands and feet into the water of the Pacific Ocean. This had always been considered a core element of my current adventure. “From sea to shining sea.” Just like I said in the beginning.

Again, trying to stay on course without a local map, proved elusive. Coming out of Portland I connected with a local two-lane highway, Oregon 18, which wandered southwest on the inside of the coastal mountain range. I remember becoming quite frustrated that I was not finding a way to cross those rolling hills. At the same time, the signage for state road 18 had virtually disappeared.

Eventually, I decided to stop and get something to drink at a fast-food restaurant just past a small city called Sheridan. Although I had vowed to stick to a simple diet and avoid sweets, coming off of a sweltering parking lot, I entered and immediately ordered a strawberry milkshake. Before I left, I asked a man who had just entered the place to verify that I was going the right way. He pointed to the right of the room we were in and said, “That’s your road.” This seemed to indicate that I had somehow overshot a turnoff. I thanked him and returned, all the more frustrated, to my van, setting off in what I would soon discover was a northeasterly direction.

Seven or eight minutes later I hit the Sheridan city limit. Once more I wandered about, trying to find a westerly connection that always ended up in some suburban cul-de-sac. After a fair amount of fussing and fuming, which I knew was not good for my heart, I at last saw a sign.

As it turned out, if I had turned left instead of right on the road I took to the restaurant, I would have been on the right path. An hour later I passed over the Coast Ranges, and found myself gazing out over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I had made the trip coast to coast, fulfilling a bucket list dream. The beach was just north of Lincoln City, Oregon. I will never forget the emotions that filled my very being in that moment.

The Pacific Ocean 6-9-2025

The Pacific Ocean near Lincoln, Oregon

It was as if I was setting foot on the moon. Aided by my cane, I trudged wearily across the extensive beach. Removing shoes and socks, as I had done on the Atlantic side, I made my way knee deep into the briny water, splashing my arms and face. Tears of joy were running down my cheeks. Even as I realized that I would have to be making the return drive to New Orleans, I reveled in the fact that despite the obstacles I had encountered to get this far, I had, after all, made it.

The temperature along the coast was much cooler. I sat for about an hour enjoying the view and the accomplishment that had been made, thus far. Then, determined to soak up the awesome scenery that ran parallel to U.S.101, I resumed the drive.

Pacific Coast , Oregon

Making my way south I drove a bit slower. I had again grown fatigued at about six o’clock and needed to stretch my legs and get something to eat. In a little place called Winchester Bay, I saw a seafood restaurant, The Harbor Light, and pulled into their parking lot.

Now I haven't gone so far as to review the previous eateries that fed me along the way, but this was an exception. The waitress there greeted me like she knew me and anxious to taste the local catch I ordered the seafood platter and some iced tea. I devoured that meal like it was my last. Everything, rockfish, shrimp and scallops were perfection. A side of coleslaw closed the deal. When she inquired about a desert, I said, “coffee please”, and she looked at me amused but was back in seconds with the hot elixir.

The meal was what I needed and I again returned to my van, ready to move on down the road.

However, as soon as I started the engine, the heavy meal and weariness from the day’s journey hit me. I made my way to a nearby Reedsport motel and checked in for the night.

I don’t think I had gotten such a good night’s sleep since I first embarked on this journey. My energy and enthusiasm for the continuing travels seemed renewed. As I repacked my bags and took them out to the van, I celebrated the fresh, cool, salt-scented air.

Again, feeling no rush to get anywhere soon, I continued to take in the panoramic view of the coastline. Eventually, U.S. 101 took an eastward direction and the coast gave way to a more forested landscape. At first, I was a bit put off by vast swaths of land that had been stripped for the lumber.

I know that there is a need for the material but it is always difficult to see old forest growth being torn away in the chase for new resources.

Seven hours later and around three hundred miles of coast behind me I found an RV campsite where I would stay the night. This was my first night camping on the coast and I hadn’t realized how cold it was at night. My sleeping bag took much out of the chill but before getting settled in and rising early the next morning I found myself shivering.

After a couple of hours more traversing Oregon, I drove across the state line and into my beloved California.

I wanted to drive through at least one grove of giant redwoods. The Humboldt Redwood State Park allowed me that opportunity. At one point I got out of the van and walked up to embrace one of these ancient wonders. I love the old trees!

California Forestry

Humboldt Redwoods marker

Humboldt County redwoods

Unfortunately, the coast road, Highway 1, had been having some issues and large sections were being repaired. My favorite road in the whole world would be closed from here to just south of San Francisco. It was a definite disappointment.

Now my sights were set on the iconic Golden Gate Bridge. Two lanes turned into four, four into six, and six into eight as I made my way to the City by The Bay. By late afternoon the goal was met and I stopped to take in the popular Fisherman’s Wharf.

Golden Gate Bridge

Fisherman's Wharf

San Francisco marina

Coit Tower, S.F.

As I parked my van next to the San Francisco Bay, I was taken by the quietness that permeated the street scene. It was the 11th of June, a Wednesday. The throngs of tourists that I had encountered on previous trips to the city were not to be seen. I missed that energy. I also missed the coveted shrimp cocktails that were sold on the street. The shrimp I did get were not the giant prawns of yesteryear. It seemed to me like there was an air of change that had followed me on this trip. I can’t help but think that the political and economic issues of these times were putting a damper on people’s lives.

Regardless, I was now ready to travel on, making my way to the North Beach area and a re-connection to my beloved Hwy. 1.

North Beach, San Fransisco

California coastal road, Hwy. 1

As I made my way south, I found myself becoming more and more relaxed. The tension that had followed me from Spokane to this point seemed to fade. I was in familiar territory, The rolling hills of the coast ranges on my left and the mesmerizing Pacific Ocean on my right. From San Francisco to Santa Cruz, most of the coast is composed of rugged cliffs and a plethora of small hidden coves.

Another familiarity was the weather. It had cooled significantly. I used to say that every day on the coast was like the day before. The mornings shrouded in a grey-blue mist of fog. The fog almost always seemed to clear out in the late morning hours. Temperatures usually climbing into the mid- 80’s, featuring sunny beaches beneath blue skies accented with the occasional white puffy bank of clouds. Then, like clockwork, the thick, damp mist’s daily resurgence as the sun slowly dips, then disappears into the waiting waters of the western horizon.

The trip down the coast would normally take two to three hours. I drove at a slow but steady pace, taking an occasional side road, just to see where in went. I had never had the need to find lodging along this route before. But as darkness set in and the fog dimmed the view, I thought of the camping experience the previous night. Not giving it much thought I imagined that there would be some low-budget motel along the way. This was not the case.

I pushed myself to try to make it all the way into Santa Cruz, my next destination, but became too tired to drive on as I approached Davenport, just north of the city. It was after 10 p.m. by now and I decided it had become too late to inconvenience my brother with my arrival. From past knowledge I knew that this little coastal village allowed for some off-road camping. After a long, yet enjoyable day, I pulled over and tried to make myself comfortable in the back of my van.

(C) 2025 Michael S. True -

published by TruEnergy Enterprises