Recap: First Five Days

In case you missed it, here's the story so far...

Day 1: San Diego to Paso Robles

San Diego to Ventura
Ventura to Santa Barbara
Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo
San Luis Obispo to Paso Robles

Day 2: Paso Robles to Bodega Bay

Paso Robles to Prunedale
Prunedale to Mountain View
Mountain View to Point Reyes Station
Point Reyes Station to Valley Ford
Valley Ford to Bodega Bay

Day 3: Bodega Bay to Eureka

Bodega Bay to Sea Ranch
Sea Ranch to Point Arena
Point Arena to Fort Bragg
Fort Bragg to Leggett
Leggett to Eureka

Day 4: Eureka to Newport

Eureka to Crescent City
Crescent City to Harris State Beach
Harris State Beach to Port Orford
Port Orford to Umpqua River Lighthouse
Umpqua River Lighthouse to Heceta Head Lighthouse
Heceta Head Lighthouse to Newport

Day 5: Newport to Forks

Newport to Pacific City
Pacific City to Tillamook
Tillamook to Astoria
Astoria to Aberdeen
Aberdeen to Kalaloch Lodge
Kalaloch Lodge to Forks

I hope you are enjoying the journey. Feel free to say hey...

Bodega Bay to Sea Ranch

Sea Ranch Lodge, Sea Ranch, California

I wake up thinking of Dexter Fowler. It's a little after 5 a.m., and I need to make a few final tweaks before filing my article on the Rockies' enigmatic center fielder. This I do while seated on the linoleum floor of our cottage in Bodega Bay. There's nothing special about writing while seated on linoleum, I'm just operating within the parameters of the room.

Today we will see the first of many Pacific Coast lighthouses. As usual, I am eager to get an early start and so wake Sandra once Fowler is no longer my problem.

Breakfast options in town are limited. We walk to a corner store just beyond the Sandpiper and ponder various pastries before leaving with only a cup of Jeremiah's Pick French Roast coffee in hand.

It is just before 8 a.m. and the motel office isn't yet open, so we deposit our room key in the drop box and return to the road. Large predatory birds soar overhead. The scent of saltwater and pine permeates the air.

Why doesn't Barney like hats? It's a question we'll never answer.

We drive through Salt Point State Park but do not stop. We miss Stewarts Point, with its general store on the west side of the highway and its post office on the east side. We miss Jenner and Fort Ross, we miss Kruse Rhododendron Natural Reserve.

What we miss in stops we make up for in views from the road. After an hour and a half of winding along cliffs overlooking the ocean, we stop at Sea Ranch Lodge. The benefits of this establishment are that it is here and it claims to serve brunch.

The smartly dressed woman at reception is having a hard time. This seems like the sort of place whose customers might give the woman at reception a hard time.

An anonymous online reviewer laments the absence of in-room televisions and poor cell phone service. Why someone would come here to watch TV or talk on the phone remains, like Barney's aversion to hats, one of life's great mysteries.

Blue Point Grill, within the lodge, is a different story. We are greeted with a smile and guided to a table whose sweeping panoramic views of the coast nearly overwhelm.

Sandra orders Eggs Benedict, I get corned beef hash. Both taste delicious. This might be a function of our hunger, the view, and our being in no hurry to get anywhere. Or, the food might just be good.

Time and responsibility are distant concepts, barely perceptible from this perspective. They continue to exist, of course, but don't seem real. It's a nice feeling to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Even baseball has faded into the background. I've already forgotten about the Fowler article. I'm aware that Kevin Youkilis was traded and that the Padres beat the Mariners in their latest Vedder Cup match, but breakfast and the ocean view keep me from caring.

Not all of baseball has faded, though. Long-time Padres bullpen coach Darrel Akerfelds died yesterday after a lengthy battle with cancer. Although I never knew him, I knew people who did, and all spoke well of the man.

The temperature today is in the mid-50s. The sky is laden with thick clouds, providing a superficially apt metaphor for Akerfelds' passing. Occasionally the sun peaks through; given what I've heard about him, this seems an even better metaphor.

Valley Ford to Bodega Bay

View from cottage porch, Bodega Bay, California

There is no one at the motel office desk. There is only a hand-drawn sign:

MANAGER IS OUTSIDE AROUND BACK ON ACCOUNT OF NICE WEATHER

We walk around back and are greeted by a woman who appears to be in her fifties. She is smoking a cigarette and could be a character from Golden Girls. Her voice is Bea Arthur, but her disposition is Betty White.

A basset hound toddles at her ankle as she moves about the yard.

“That's Barney,” she says by way of introduction. “He won't bite.”

I reach down and offer the back of my hand, a non-threatening gesture. Barney responds with a disapproving bark.

“It's the hat. He doesn't like hats.”

My Portland Beavers cap has become ubiquitous on this trip. If Barney doesn't like my hat, he doesn't like me. This is his territory, so I respect the decision.

After checking into our cottage, I ask about dinner options. Barney's mom has a few suggestions, the easiest of which is the Sandpiper next door.

“You'd better hurry, though. It's open till 8, but sometimes they close up early.”

There are places closer to downtown, but those involve driving. She does mention one restaurant just down the hill that might work.

“Can we walk there?”

“Well, I wouldn't recommend it. Especially if she's getting dressed up. But if you do, head down this road here, take the second right, then cut through the fence...”

I nod my head. It sounds complicated.

“But I wouldn't recommend it.”

Sandra and I settle into our cottage, which overlooks the water and is as old school as its keeper. It's a tiny room with tile floors and a wooden porch that we share with our neighbors.

Bodega Bay's population is shrinking. The 2010 census had it at 1,077, well down from 1,423 in 2000. Much of Alfred Hitchock's The Birds was filmed here. Originally settled by the Russians in the early-19^th century and called Port Rumyantsev, it is now a quiet town that feels far removed from everything. When non-Californians think of California, they do not think of a place like this, although the same can be said about most of the state.

After a brief respite, we stroll to the Sandpiper. Sandra has flat bread with pesto, goat cheese, and bay shrimp. I have fish and chips, and a Lagunitas IPA. We share a bowl of clam chowder. We are seated at a window overlooking the bay, next to a table full of commercial fishermen talking about the day's haul and dreams of a brighter future.

Back at the cottage, we open the half-empty bottle of Merlot we'd bought in Paso Robles and sip it in plastic cups while gazing at the water below from the porch. One of the many advantages of summer is that the further north we travel, the later the sun sets. We are rewarded with the gentle hues of twilight, what Sandra calls “Parrish time” after the palette favored by famed painter Maxfield Parrish.

It has been a long second day. Hard to believe that tomorrow night we still won't be out of California. But we'll worry about that after getting some sleep.