Circumstances Dictate

It’s crunch time. I haven’t been able to take the last week off at work, but over my two official days off, I crammed in life.

Packing. Doing crafts. One last run. One last coast ride.

I kept thinking as I left the house at dawn that this is crazy. I should be packing MORE. I should be doing little things to get ready. I should stay and have a slow back porch breakfast, but I was at the bus stop at 7:15 a.m. for the Lane Link shuttle to the coast. The driver is starting to recognize me—as well as the other passengers, riders to the casino in Florence.

This time I caught another bus to Yachats, a cute little tourist coastal town. It had that beachcomber souvenir vibe.

After getting off the bus at 11:30, I began to slowly make my way down the coast. I wanted to savor the sea, salty breeze, and fog rolling in off the ocean. I turned on my taillight and had on a safety vest. I wasn’t taking any chances. I didn’t want to die before moving to Michigan.

The fog wafted over the road at the head lands, where the coast jutted out. In between where little inlets such as Thor’s Well and The Devil’s Churn. Such ferocious names for where the ocean butts up against the lava rock that formed this part of the continent. At Devil’s Churn I hopped off the bike to explore. I hiked down to the plumes sprayed up and where the ocean threaded through a narrow channel, eons of time and grinding to form.

Next I kept cycling south to Carl Washburn State Park where I rode through a nice tree canopy to picnic in view of the water. A blurred view because of fog but the waves and sea foam and birds were out there, crashing, squawking, washing over sand and rock.

I next stopped at a favorite place: Heceta Lighthouse. I hiked up and took pics. Last pictures, a melancholy mind told myself. Yes, but stay forever in my memory, I begged silently.

I remembered the road back into Florence from my last cycling trip. A few ups before a favorable down—into town. I ate the rest of the soup from my thermos at a secluded picnic table by the Siuslaw River. By now the fog was thick and misty. Old Town, the cute touristy section of Florence, alive and bustling only a few weeks ago at the height of summer, was shrouded and sleepy. The season over. All the souvenirs were on sale. Masks were required. No one was buying ice creams—the few pedestrians walked with cups of hot coffee.

At the bus stop I recognized one of my fellow passengers—a guy who probably gambles everyday at the Three Rivers Casino. I sad hi, what are you doing down here? I walked he said. I assumed the tables and slots hadn’t been good for him and he walked away. Smart move. We chatted for awhile. I wanted to tell him this was my last time, but it might have seemed incongruous. We all vow it will be our last time, yet we always come back.

I’d like to think so.