We stood out in a field with eyes gazing up waiting for the display to start.  Subtle and then striking, more incredible than fireworks and continuous.  Light dancing, streaking, shifting across the sky.  Our eyes not quite able to take in the color present.  Yet we stood in awe, looking up and around, not wanting to miss anything.  Our normal bedtime routines passed as we stood in the dark field marveling that we could see such a sight as this.  

Like so many mornings when we stay at Cannon Beach, I quietly dressed, grabbed my camera and slipped out the door of our room.  Out on the beach, I kicked off my shoes, leaving them near the stairs and wandered passed Ecola Creek. When we first stayed here, I ran with the speaker's wife.  While she was jumping and skipping the rest of the day, I was in pain slowly walking up and down the stairs, over to the dining hall.  I was early 30s she was early 60s.  Lately though, instead of reaching for my running shoes, instead I reach for my camera since I never know what will inspire me on my daily walk to Haystack Rock.  This particular morning, I was treated to a usual sight for me.  I hear that this is a common occurrence for the residence of the town as the herd of elk will strip gardens and landscaping on their way oceanside.  In the predawn hours, I noticed a stag step tentatively out from a group of tall evergreens lining a street.  Nose in the air and swinging his head back and forth searching for signs of danger. Moving slowly down the sandy dune, the rest of the heard emerged.  He stopped as if he was a crossing guard while the cows and their calves meandered towards the waves.  The young practiced their fighting skills on their hind legs. They moved slowly and the stag, on guard.  Suddenly a cow breaks from the heard with her calf trying to keep up. The stag gives chase, passing and then turning her back towards his herd.  Tries again and again and each time, he gives chase, trying to keep them together.  Slowly they  worked their way to the tall wild grass growing on the dunes and disappeared.  Later towards evening, they made their way back across the beach while families flew kites, children splashed in the water and wood was being stacked for late night bonfires. But there was something magical and almost personal watching them in the early morning hours that made getting out of bed worth it.















 

 The warm salt air whipped through my hair as I gazed out at the never-ending expanse of the deep blue sea. The sun shone down on us, illuminating the undulating waves as they lapped against the hull of the boat. We sailed on, the wind filling our sails and propelling us forward.

As we settled into our spots in the cockpit, our captain regaled us with tales of sailing and the wonders of the ocean. Suddenly, he spotted something in the distance – a smooth trail of blue, a tell-tale sign of a majestic creature. We tacked back and forth, scanning the horizon for any signs of movement.

And then, in the distance, we saw it - a massive blue or fin whale, its sleek body blending perfectly with the deep blue of the water. As it crested and dove, we watched in amazement, marveling at the grace and power of this gentle giant. We tried to keep up, tacking and jibing in an attempt to follow the whale's path.

Each time we thought we had lost sight of it, it would surface again, spouting water from its blowhole and then disappearing beneath the waves once more. It was a game of cat and mouse, with the whale always staying one step ahead of us.

As we turned back towards our course, I couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment and relaxation wash over me. This was what sailing was all about - taking the time to slow down, soak in the beauty of the ocean, and let our journey unfold naturally.

There was something truly liberating about being out on the water with no real time schedule, no deadlines to meet or appointments to keep. We were free to explore, discover, and experience things spontaneously, just like we had with the blue or fin whale.

As we set sail for our original destination, I found myself eagerly anticipating whatever the ocean had in store for us next. Perhaps we would spot a pod of dolphins playing in the waves or catch sight of a school of brightly colored fish darting beneath the surface.

Whatever the future held, I knew that we were in good hands with our skilled captain and that the journey itself would be just as rewarding as the destination. With the wind at our backs and the endless expanse of the ocean before us, I felt a sense of peace and contentment settle over me. This was the beauty of sailing - a chance to disconnect from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and truly connect with the natural world around us.

For almost 22 years, I have driven past this bridge.  I glance at it, not really thinking about it.  Generally I gauge the water level by the sandbar and log jam around the piling of the bridge.  However, lately our small town has embraced this bridge as a sort of icon of the town.  They created a new park with playground equipment for kids and one of the items is a bridge with the name Metallica Bridge on it.  A new brewery opened up and they had large wooden bridge wall art designed after this bridge. Kids have long painted graffiti on the metal part above the pilon but within a week or so someone comes along to cover it up and repaint Metallica on it.  Doing a little research I have learned that the railroad came through in 1893 and soon after a bridge for vehicle traffic replaced the ferry system.  Sometime later this bridge was built as a pass through bridge, meaning that it can turn on gears to allow boat traffic to move  up river.  It hasn't turned since the 1980s when work was done on it.  In the late 80's around 1986 or 1987 the Metallica graffiti first appeared on the bridge after some local youth attended a concert.  Since then the graffiti has been painted over with other messages but always returns and has become a symbol of our town.

 The miles rolled by, scenery blurring out the window. A podcast playing loudly, the windows rolled down.  The gentle snores of the dog curled up on the backseat.  We sat next to each other up front, quietly, letting our thoughts go with the passing trees. At the curve in the road up a head, I noticed what appeared as two furry ears and then a large head came into focus.  John braked sending the dog forward off of her preferred seat as what I had originally assumed was a dog with a hiker.  I sucked in my breath realizing it was much wilder than a dog and definitely not a hiker.  Its large brown furry body leaped into the road mere feet in front of our vehicle. My hands automatically grabbed my camera that had been nestled in my lap. Bringing it to my face I took shot after shot automatically adjusting it as we watched this surprisingly quick brown mass of a bear cross the road and plow into the brambles of bushes and trees on the opposite side.  The twigs snapping with the speed and weight of the bear until it could no longer be seen but instead the noise of its movement betraying its presence until that too was gone.  We sat in the middle of the road with smiles on our face and eyes wide open with the gift we were given.  Never I seen a bear up close like that in the wild as we drove along.  Looking down at the camera, I grinned at the photos that I had on my camera but also wishing that bear would have turned around and looked back so I could have a shot at it's face. 

I spent about two weeks crossing the country with my boy and now it was time to head in a different direction leaving him to his next adventure of A school for the Coast Guard. It was a trip of a life time and one that I treasure.  While we didn't explore San Francisco nor did we end up golfing on our last day it was relaxing.  I have been beyond blessed by this time and realize that it is probably a once in a lifetime opportunity for me. 


 

Our cross country trip lead us right past the Bonneville Salt Flats, sight of the US speed record for cars.  We pulled over at the rest area along with other travelers along I-80 from Salt Lake City to Wendover.  The smoke from the forest fires in California had drifted over the mountains creating a soft smudge of the horizon. The sun baked the salt into a a crust creating hexagonal cracks along the salt floor but from a distant is looks smooth yet almost alien since vegetation can't grow in this landscape.  Arid, dessert, and flat.  We walked out onto the crusted surface and took photos with everyone else but there was more to do here than just take photos.  A few miles west on the interstate is the turn off for the Bonneville Salt Flats racing course.  We gassed up and drove right onto the flats.  Getting out of the car, I watched as he raced away reaching speeds I didn't even want to think about.  Breaking hard and whipping around to face another direction. Living where we do, the kids didn't have a lot of experience with driving in the snow.  And still there is about a week of icy roads and snow each year.  I always felt it was important to know what to do if they were driving and started to feel like they were slipping out of control.  So their dad would take them to spin brodies and learn how to correct without over correcting.  Then on their own they would go drifting.  Well that "practice" was evident out on the salt flats.  Hmmm.  They learned that lesson well.