The Oregon Coast

The alarm cut through the dark at 3:45 a.m. in Austin, and I knew the day would start long before the sun. My flight left at six. That thin window of pre-dawn quiet always carried a certain weight — the stillness before momentum. The first-class upgrade helped ease the early sting, and as we rose over Texas and the plains beyond, I found myself studying the changing earth below: the veins of rivers, the shifting colors of Colorado and Idaho, the pale crowns of mountains I’d soon live among in Boulder.

By the time we descended into Seattle, the clouds parted enough for a glimpse of Mount Rainier. Even from thirty thousand feet, it looked like something from another world — massive, serene, ancient. A short hop to Portland later, I stepped off the plane into the damp, pine-scented air of the Pacific Northwest.

I’d booked my Ford Transit camper through Outdoorsy, and the owner met me near the arrivals area — no uniform, just a friendly face and a practical attitude. He walked me through the setup: bed, stove, a small Dometic fridge, and the electrical hookups. I topped off the tank, loaded up on water jugs and bear spray from a roadside general store, and aimed west toward the coast. Within minutes, the scenery changed completely.

Florida had trained my eyes on flat horizons and humid air that clung to the skin, but Oregon was a cathedral of green — towering firs so dense they swallowed the light. The road twisted and narrowed, climbing through mist before dropping me into the coastal fog.

Ecola State Park was my first stop. The trail began at the edge of the beach, surfers walking past with boards under their arms, wetsuits steaming in the chill air. I set off up the path at a jog, lungs burning in the cool marine air. A quarter mile in, I realized I’d left my bear spray in the van and doubled back, laughing at myself. Then, pack adjusted and ready, I climbed again — this time faster.

The trail wound through moss-covered trunks and slick roots, the smell of salt and cedar thick in the air. I saw few others — just a handful of hikers — and soon it was only the sound of my own breath and the faint crash of the ocean below. The incline steepened, but that only pushed me harder. Moving through the woods at speed felt primal, instinctive — as if my body remembered something my mind had forgotten.

At the top, the trees opened to a ledge overlooking the Pacific. The view was everything the early alarm had promised — a wild stretch of coastline, jagged cliffs, and endless gray-blue water. My Garmin Fenix showed my heart rate cresting into the 160s. I drank, rested a minute, then descended with twice the pace. By the time I reached the van, I was soaked in sweat and grinning.

I pointed the Ford Transit toward Cannon Beach. Haystack Rock stood out on the horizon like a monument rising from the sea. The town was busy, parking scarce, but the grocery store came through — bread, peanut butter, rice, apples, yogurt, and ground beef. The essentials of a simple road life. With food stored, I headed south to camp.The campsite sat near Nehalem Bay, quiet and still except for the sound of wind moving through the evergreens. I plugged in the van, heated two cans of chicken noodle soup on the small induction stove, and ate with the windows cracked, the ocean air drifting in. The showers were rough, the facilities bare, but the water was hot — more than enough after a day of travel and climbing. I fell asleep quickly, wrapped in the hum of the coastal night.

The next morning broke cool and gray, the inside of the van at sixty degrees. After twenty years in the humidity of Florida, the chill was a gift. Coffee first — strong, black, made by a little Keurig that somehow felt like luxury in the wild. Then oatmeal, gear packed, and a short drive to the day’s first trail.

The gravel road to the trailhead rattled the van, so I parked below and hiked in. The path was narrow, lush, and alive. Switchbacks came early, steep and frequent, cutting through thick ferns and hanging moss. Every few minutes, the marine layer would break, and sunlight would spear through the fog — gold against gray.

My pace quickened. The trail climbed hard, my breath growing louder in the stillness. A couple with a dog passed me on their way down, smiling knowingly. Near the summit, the trees fell away, revealing a sweeping view of the ocean and the small town I’d left that morning. Steam rose from my shoulders in the cold air. My Garmin Fenix ticked away the climb, my Kuhl pants streaked with mud from scrambling through brush. The cool air reacted against my body heat, and I could feel every pulse of my effort.

The descent was a controlled fall — running, weaving, jumping roots and rocks. My Altra Lone Peaks gripped the mud like claws. By the time I hit the bottom, I was flying.

A peanut butter sandwich and a few swigs of water later, I was off again — this time to a trail hugging the coast. It was muddier, more exposed, and more beautiful. Through breaks in the trees, I could see surfers carving through cold Pacific waves below. The sound of the surf echoed up the cliffs.

At the end, a narrow grassy path opened onto a bluff overlooking the ocean. I sat with my legs hanging over the edge, the horizon stretching into forever. For a moment, everything was still — the wind, the sea, my mind.That rhythm carried for days. Hike, run, eat, rest. Each trail different — some narrow and wild, others smooth and winding. The van became my base camp, my cabin, my companion.

In the evenings, I walked Nehalem Bay’s endless beach, where driftwood lay in tangled piles and the tide carved silver patterns into the sand. Horses trotted by. Broken sand dollars littered the ground like coins from some forgotten shipwreck. I cooked ground beef and rice, simple and satisfying, then showered, watched an episode of something halfheartedly, and fell asleep early.

One morning, I drove north toward Seaside. The trail I’d planned was locked and closed, so I pivoted — laundry first, then on to another hike farther south. That flexibility, that freedom to adapt, was half the joy of traveling alone.

I found myself on the Lewis and Clark Trail, a path as remote as it sounded. The woods were thick and silent except for the ocean’s dull roar somewhere below. I clapped my hands every so often to remind the local wildlife I was there. No bears appeared. The trail climbed steeply, then dropped into overgrown brush. Deciding not to push my luck with daylight, I turned back — satisfied, unbothered.

Later that day, I finally found parking near Haystack Rock. The weather had turned — gray, misting, the kind of gloom that belonged on this coast. The massive sea stack rose from the surf like something mythic. I stood for a while in the rain, jacket zipped — my Marmot shell keeping me dry and warm — just taking it in.My last hike of the trip was a detour — a trail I found by instinct and downloaded map. It began with a steep descent through wet forest, then narrowed into a cliffside ledge. The view below was raw — waves hammering the rock, foam exploding in bursts of white. I followed the trail down to a small beach, its sand dark and cold underfoot.

The climb back up was brutal but satisfying — the kind of slow grind that burns the legs and clears the mind. When I finally reached the van, I stood still for a long minute, listening to my breath fade into the sound of rain on the roof.

That night, the storm rolled in hard. Wind howled through the trees, rain hammered the van. I lay awake for a while, listening. There was comfort in knowing I’d built my own shelter, carried my own provisions, handled everything myself.

By dawn, the rain hadn’t let up. I made coffee, packed my gear, and took the inland route back to Portland — safer, less exposed. The road wound through dark forests and small towns before spilling me into traffic and noise. Civilization always felt louder after silence.

The van owner met me at a gas station near the airport. We exchanged a few words, he checked the vehicle, and that was that. Another flight, another long day home.

But the trip lingered.

It wasn’t just the hikes or the views — it was the solitude, the problem-solving, the rhythm of self-reliance. I’d learned that I felt most alive when moving, climbing, pushing into the unknown. That’s what drew me toward Boulder — the mountains, the challenge, the chance to make that feeling a constant.

The Oregon coast had given me something rare — not adventure for the sake of excitement, but adventure as a kind of peace.