No Ponies Allowed!

Life is like Sanskrit read to a pony.

--Lou Reed

This morning I found my way to a Starbucks again, and am sitting sipping on a Jade Citrus Mint green tea with cream in it.  Strangely, there is yet another group of about six retired people here keeping up to date on the local town gossip.  It appears that one lady's husband named George has come down with a bad case of Pneumonia, and one gray-haired fellow in a red ball cap was lamenting the high price of salmon at the supermarket.   Apparently it should be much less expensive since salmon run not far from this area, and there's absolutely no reason that it should have to be previously frozen.   All six of them seemed to agree that this made sense.

The past two nights I have been at South Beach State Park, near Newport, Oregon.  Campgrounds at state parks in Oregon are quite different from the ones in California.  First off, they are quite a bit cheaper:  a site with full hookups in Oregon will run you $24, whereas in California it’s $35 for a plain campsite with nothing but a table and maybe a fire ring.  Second, the showers in Oregon are free, as opposed to having to put quarters in the California showers.  But so far, the two Oregon State parks I’ve been in, the camp grounds have been a bit more like parking lots—several campsites in a large flat area, all lined up parallel to each other with only a few bushes and trees in between.  This makes for a good environment for talking to your neighbors, but it lacks some of the “camping” feel to it. 

After I got to the campground on Friday afternoon and picked a spot (there are about 300 camp sites in this campground, and nearly all of them were full), I walked the half-mile or so back to the ranger station to pay. 

Not the Golden Gate, but still impressive!

On the way back to my van, I saw a family up ahead that had a very large black and white spotted dog—it appeared to be some sort of cross between a Dalmatian and a Great Dane.  He stood nearly 5 feet tall to the tips of his ears, had broad shoulders, long lanky legs, and a very excited tail.  A lady who was perhaps in her mid-60s and was wearing a tan vest with the word “Volunteer” in yellow letters across the back was walking next to me.  “Wow! That family brought a pony with them!” I exclaimed to her.

She immediately furrowed her brow and looked alert.  “Where? You’re not allowed to have ponies or horses in the campground!” she said sternly.  Like a bird of prey searching for a meal, she began scanning the seemingly-miles of large trucks and fifth-wheels that stood at attention in rows ahead of us to see which one had a pony in it.  As the official volunteer, it was her job to keep order in the campground, and she would have no ponies in it on her watch.

I stifled back my laughter. She actually thought I was serious!   “He’s right there ahead of us—the large black and white pony on a leash.”  I pointed forward.

Her eyes snapped ahead.  “Oh! That’s not a pony! That’s just a big dog!”  She said without smiling, perhaps even a bit disappointed that she would not get to reprimand some naughty campers who tried to sneak a pony into the campground.  The funny part, though, was that she apparently still didn’t realize that I was kidding.  And she probably also thought I was stupid for not being able to distinguish a pony from a large dog. 

We all live in a....

This was a woman that I would love to talk with for a while, purely for the entertainment value of it.  Before I could strike up any more conversation, though, she darted off to check on a group of college students that were staying in several of the yurts off to the right. (I hope they didn't have any ponies with them!)

I went back to my van, got the power and water hooked up, and headed out to discover what was in the Newport area.  I started with a brief two-mile walk along the beach and into the town.  Newport is settled just beyond a jetty, under an impressive bridge called the Yaquina Bridge, and along a small harbor in the Yaquina Bay. (I was corrected once that it's pronounced yah-KWEE-na, not Yak-In-A, when I asked someone where I could see the yak in the bay).  I walked along the south side of the jetty to the closer side of the harbor, which turned out to be a bit more industrial than the north side.  It had a small RV park, an operations headquarters for NOAA, and a working fishing dock.  I saw a sign pointing to the Oregon State University Hatfield Marine Science Center. That sounded like an interesting place to visit, so I followed the direction the sign pointed and ambled along Marine Science Drive.   The path took me past the Rogue Nation Brewery, which smelled absolutely fantastic.  The air around it was perfumed with a thick, sweet aroma of fermenting hops. Surprisingly it didn’t smell like beer, but more like a decadent, caramely sauce you might find on a fancy dessert at an expensive restaurant.  The aroma lingered deep in the back of my nose, seducing my throat, and almost made me hungry such that I briefly forgot about my destination at the marine center.    As I walked further past the brewery, the warm smell gradually diminished and set me free to continue on my path.  I actually wasn’t expecting much from the Hatfield center, as it was in an area that looked more like a working harbor rather than a tourist-type area, but I was pleasantly surprised.  It was a bit like a cross between an aquarium and the California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park, but on a smaller scale.  Outside, in front of the center were displays of a small yellow research submarine, a buoy that was used to generate electricity from waves, and a piece of a shipping port from Japan that was torn off in the Tsunami and made its way across the ocean.  The inside of the center was filled with interactive displays about the hazards of non-native marine species, the local marine environment, various pieces of ocean research equipment, and a few touch tanks as well.  

Yikes! That's a sidewalk??

I spent probably an hour there, which was quite a deal since admission was free.   It started getting a little later in the afternoon, so I decided it was time to walk back to my van.  I again passed the delicious-smelling brewery, made my way underneath the Yaquina Bridge and along the jetty back to the campground.  I cooked a typical camping dinner of quinoa and wild rice with vegetables and Parmesan cheese, got settled in under my 5 blankets, and went to sleep.

The next morning I decided to take a bike ride over the Yaquina Bridge to the north side of the bay.  A couple camping next to me named Chris and Shasta told me that there were some interesting lighthouses to see on that side of the town.  I was a little hesitant about riding my bike across Highway 101 on the bridge, as I wasn’t sure if there was a bike lane or not.  A few checks on the Internet indicated that there was a narrow sidewalk, but no formal bike lane.  One site suggested walking bikes across going north over the bridge, since it is an up-hill direction, and then riding bikes coming south, since it is a downhill direction and a bike could go faster downhill without too much obstruction to the cars.  I also asked Chris and Shasta about riding over the bridge, and Chris insisted that it was something I should do. He assured me that he had done it several times, and that the bike lane was at least 8 feet wide and provided plenty of space.  I decided that it was worth a try, and headed out on my bike.  I navigated towards the bridge, and found my way onto the onramp. There were only two lanes of car traffic on the bridge: one going north and one coming south. 

Yaquina Bay Lighthouse

There was indeed a “sidewalk,” in the loosest sense of the word.  However, it was nothing like the sidewalks that cross the Golden Gate Bridge or the Sydney Harbor Bridge—both of which I have walked across, and both of which have well designated walkways over them.   It was more of a concrete rim about four or five inches higher than the roadway, and perhaps three feet wide if that.  Other than that, there was nothing to separate walkers (or cyclists) from drivers.  It wasn’t until about three-quarters of the way across the bridge when there was an additional small railing about two feet high that helped demark the sidewalk from the cars whizzing by on Highway 101 over the bridge.  I don’t think the small railing really added any safety, though.  In fact, it probably made it just a bit more dangerous by giving a slightly careless walking person something to trip over and to fall head-first into whatever vehicle might be speeding by at the moment.  I decided to tempt fate, though, and walked my bike over the bridge.  It was indeed worth the adventure.  On the other side I found my way to two very different lighthouses: the older, smaller Yaquina Bay lighthouse, and the newer, taller Yaquina Head lighthouse.  Interestingly, the Yaquina Bay Lighthouse was only in operation for three years from 1871 to 1874 before it was replaced by the Yaquina Head Lighthouse only four miles away, which is still in operation today.

Yaquina Head Lighthouse

 After spending a couple hours between the ride and the lighthouses, I ventured back home to my van.  I actually rode my bike over the Yaquina Bridge on the way back, but I elected to stay on the sidewalk section of it rather than in the lanes of traffic.  Oregon has a unique method for bicycles to use the relatively narrow bridges and tunnels, though. If you opt to ride in the lanes of traffic, there is a button for you to push before crossing over the bridge. If you push the button, a yellow light flashes at the entrance to the bridge warning cars that there is a bicycle ahead. It sounds like a good idea at first, but I wonder how many people look up to see what the flashing light means and miss seeing the cyclist on the road in front of them.  I decided it was safer to just use the bit of concrete that served as a sidewalk.

After 23 miles I returned to my van.  Chris and Shasta were lounging in their lawn chairs at their campsite and they asked how my ride was.  I told them it was a great ride, and that I ended up walking my bike over the bridge rather than riding it.  Chris sheepishly said “We drove over the bridge today and I realized that perhaps the bike lane wasn’t as wide as I remembered it being.”  Perhaps not, Chris, but that’s ok.  It still provided ample adventures and a few great pictures.

Tomorrow I’m headed north to Fort Stevens, which is at the northernmost edge of Oregon in Hammond, about three hours away.  Along the way I’ll pass through Tillamook, and I plan to stop at the Tillamook Cheese Factory for a free tour and perhaps some samples.  And maybe I’ll find a pony to bring to the next camp site with me.

...because you wouldn't want to mix the good trash with the dog or pony crap*.

* This trash can was in the South Beach campground, and I thought it was amusing and just had to take a picture of it.