Oregon
06 April 2024
An Uber driver in San Francisco asked me where I was going next and my intended route. An Oregon native, he was unequivocal: after two days doing the coast, I needed to ride US199 to Grant’s Pass. There must be an angel on my shoulder as every piece of advice proffered by total strangers has proven to be pure gold. This might be the best of the lot so far.
It’s a 74-mile run from Crescent City. Only in the last twenty miles does it peter out. The rest of it is off-the-scale brilliant, elevated by a spirited encounter with a really well-driven Subaru Impreza that I spar with for most of it.
There are passing places every few miles, so you can blast past the dawdling little hatchbacks in complete safety. And then re-join a video game experience where every horizon is 30 degrees off horizontal.
The fuel light is flashing when I reach Grants Pass and ask the gas station attendant where is good for an early lunch. Without hesitating, he points me to the Big Bear Grill.
This is a classic, American Diner and has all the favourites. I ask the server what I should have as it all looks so great: “Oh, you really need to have the bacon. It’s very special” he assures me, so scrambled eggs, bacon with a biscuit (we know them as scones) is what it will be. And it’s all just bloody lovely. An honest, wholesome American Dream on a plate.
The server asks: “Has anyone ever told you you sound exactly like Elton John?”
“Yes, they have” I reply “But only once, about twenty years ago. Billy Joel said the same thing.”
He withdraws, now convinced this strange Brit who has wandered into the place is an international-standard bullshit artist. It is true, by the way. Billy Joel did say this to me and then something else that I wouldn’t embarrass him by repeating.
Interstate 5 is another civil engineering marvel as it powers its way through the heart of Oregon. It has proper bendy bits as well, enough of them sufficiently tight to take the bike of Cruise Control. It looks a lot like Switzerland. Pine trees, low mountains and orderly driving but on an entirely different scale: Oregon is five times the size of Switzerland.
In the last few days, my agenda has changed from ‘things to see’ to ‘roads to ride’ and I’m about ready for it. The problem is roads don’t make great photographic subjects, and the weather is grey so I have little evidence to support my endorsement. Just take my word for it. Along with B500, Douro Valley and Fluela Pass, these roads are up there with the greats.
After 15:00 and consistent with the last three days, the weather closes in as I approach Reedsport. And it just gets worse. The rain in this corner of the US is unlike anywhere else as it permeates everything. I’m going to leave earlier tomorrow to try and avoid the mid-afternoon deluge.
When it’s clear the rain won’t stop, I trudge down to the Harbor Light Restaurant and along with the three other diners, resemble characters in an Edward Hopper painting.
A recurring surprise of the last six weeks is how often you hear Tom Petty songs played in coffee shops, diners and restaurants. We never really took him to heart in the UK the way the American heartland did. And they have continued to hold him pressed closed since his death in 2017.
Unlike Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen, who are two, messianic talents, Tom Petty (and Bob Seeger) are more relatable and are well plundered in the length and breadth of the land including the Harbour Light. I nod along to ‘Night Moves’ and ‘American Girl’ while I scan the weather in my destinations over the next ten days on my phone: I can’t seem to get rid of winter and am not likely to anytime soon.
We’re near the coast so I go for their Shrimp Cocktail and then a Seafood Pot Pie, filled with all kinds of locally sourced fishy things. It might not be Chez Panisse but simple, delicious, life-affirming and exactly what I need right now.
07 April 2024
Reedsport sits a few miles inland from where the Umpqua River becomes the Pacific. Not quite at the mouth, but like a pretzel stuck in the throat. There are so many inviting-looking B&Bs and boutique hotels on this coastline, there is no need to stay in grisly towns like Reedsport and I won’t repeat this mistake.
North of here, the great road changes perceptibly. It’s all off-the-grid, faded, out-of-season, leave-us-alone territory. Bleached and battered by wind, rain, sea salt and sun. Land and sea are pretty much level as the road follows the course of the various gullies and creeks, avoiding stagnant coastal lakes, with occasional low bridges at Florence, Waldport and Newport.
On the route is the hippy town of Yachats where I stop at the Green Salmon Coffee Company for breakfast. Their mission statement below, explains their ethos better than I can:
To say this is a rose-tinted view of the indigenous Americans’ ability to make sense of the modern world is generous at best. But I’m hungry, so not about to get into a debate. Inevitably - the entire menu is plant-based.
Against all expectations, their fake chorizo and scrambled egg breakfast burrito does the job and I’m not hungry until 20:00 that night, ten hours later. Interestingly, I had no energy-crash two hours after scoffing it, so maybe there is something to be said for this way of eating.
The cafe is actually rather lovely. Apart from two very fierce-looking lesbians, the staff are earth-motherly and twinkly good fun. The other customers seem inquisitive and intelligent. A same-sex female couple in their seventies tell me how much they enjoy visiting England when one of them delivers an annual lecture at Oxford, followed by a few days in the Lake District, Yorkshire or Scotland.
I was going to end this post by advising that there is little point in going further on US101. After Yachats, there are a few good stretches and it’s all really very nice but not terribly exciting. Gentle, rolling hills, tidy-looking farms, dairy herds grazing the fields and prosperous towns. Tillamook and their architecturally-adventurous creamery, open to visitors and serving breakfast and lunch, is the pick of these.
Eventually, each conurbation stretches out to meet the next and with it, the kind of drab, dreary drivers who pollute roads on a Sunday the world over. The last fifty miles of Oregon are tedious in the extreme and while the hyper-automated ‘Inn at 515 15th’ in Astoria might have no staff, it does have a hot shower and a memory foam mattress so is OK by me.
It’s also only a few feet from the Fort George Brewery from whose terrace I can survey the town and the mighty Columbia River. The landmark building of the Astoria Hotel is preposterously crenellated and dominates the view.
It turns out Astoria was everything I hoped Monterrey and Cannery Row would be but knew wouldn’t. It wears its history as a port openly and has managed to blend the old and new. Critically, it remains a working town rather than an over-curated visitor destination and home to the super-rich the way Monterrey, neighbouring Carmel and Pebble Beach are.
The Silver Salmon Grille looks like it dates from the 1940s and the radio broadcast they are playing suggests the signals have been swirling around in the ether since then. The dining room could have been set-dressed for a Hollywood film of the era; half-panelled with dark wood below the dado-rail and faded prints above it; uncomfortable. leather seats with faded flowers on the tables. I have three oyster ‘’shooters’: a single mollusc in a shot glass, with lemon, rosemary and a spicy tomato sauce. To follow is a piece of the legendary, Colombia River salmon, blackened with garlic mash and steamed broccoli. It might be a world away from molecular gastronomy simple is sometimes all you need or want.
Back at the Fort Brewing Company, this is the other side of Astoria. The funky, post-industrial rejuvenation that all these places need. The architecture is solid and dignified, the beer is great and the welcome genuine, open-hearted and warm. Right now, I’d say this is the place to stop and turn around, assuming you’re returning a car or bike to San Francisco but I’ve not been to Forks or Seattle yet.
I like Oregon. It’s straightforward, honest and dependable and as a motorcycling destination, it’s top of the list so far, despite the weather. The people are friendly but a little more reserved than elsewhere. All in all, it’s the most European state I’ve visited.
I was in the Californian desert a week ago and now, a 1,000 miles further north and soon to go into Canada. The whole experience is flashing past faster than I thought.
