Hiking The Oregon Coast Trail, Day 7: If These Trees Could Talk
The otherworldly scenery from Hug Point is still vivid in my memory as I wake up from a night of restful sleep.
I feel supercharged this morning, which I wasn't expecting. I assumed I'd need an extra day to recover from what I've started calling "the incident," but nope! I'm ready to kick some serious ass on the trail.
This positivity and abundance of energy is probably because I'm downright spoiled today – Kimber is sticking near Rockaway Beach for a few days, so I'm blessed with the opportunity to do some day hiking. My pack feels comically light without my bear canister and sleep system, and it's like adding a burst of rocket fuel to my steps.
(Granted, I started the day by drinking a delicious coffee while sitting in an outdoor hot tub overlooking an inlet to Tillamook Bay, so there's that...)
The plan for today's hike is to pick up where I left off at Hug Point, head down the beach a few miles, go around Arch Cape and into the lush rainforest of Oswald West State Park, and end the day at the Neahkahnie Mountain trailhead. The route I plotted seems pretty mellow, with only 1000 feet of elevation and not many steep grades.
I'm hauling ass down this stretch of beach, only stopping to shoot a quick video and marvel at a tree stump (barely) sitting atop a large sandy slope, seemingly balanced on half of what remains of its roots.
After what feels like mere minutes, Arch Cape is towering in front of me so I turn towards my Beach Access 19 exit. After a few steps I spot Kimber, undoubtedly shooting her trademark "overwatch" photos of me hiking. (Yes, dear reader, I am far too lazy to set up a tripod, walk into the distance, then orchestrate some kind of non-genuine candid photo multiple times during a hike.)
The White-Crowned Sparrow
Before I start the short road walk east along Shingle Mill Lane to Arch Cape Creek and ultimately to the trail leading up into the headland, I spot a small bird perched on the beach access sign and silently motion to Kimber to look up.
It's right then that the bird tilts its head up and sings, belting out its unique melody of trills and whistles.
🔊 Sound ON | The White-Crowned Sparrow was a constant companion.
It's the call I've been hearing all day, every day since starting the Oregon Coast Trail! This songbird has been my constant companion. I've heard its song while camping. I've heard it along vast stretches of beach and in densely wooded headlands. I've heard it serenading busy neighborhoods and singing under the moonlight.
I learn that it's a White-crowned Sparrow. Now here it is, only a few feet away. Not remotely bothered by our presence, and singing its little heart out. It's a special moment, and we both soak it in.
Before I started the Oregon Coast Trail, I read that almost 40% of the trail ran alongside the shoulder of Highway 101. According to avid hiker and journalist Bonnie Henderson, the factual number is closer to 10%, especially if you're taking boat ferries across (or busses around) the various bays that interrupt the trail.
I haven't experienced a single section (yet) on the 101, but there has been some neighborhood road walking during these first ~50 miles, and it's been more pleasant than I imagined. They've been quiet roads like this one, lined with trees and carefully manicured yards, and punctuated by forested foothills in the background.
Some pleasant road walking before taking the trail up into Arch Cape and Oswald West State Park
After another stretch of walking that seems to speed by in a flash, I'm among the trees again. And I'm about to cross my first suspension bridge! As I step slowly across, Arch Cape creek trickles by underneath me, and a thick forest invites me in for a closer look.
Spindly spruces stretch into the sky, surrounded by vegetation in dozens of shades of green. There are beautiful Trillium flowers, ferns reaching for sunlight, fungi bursting out of tree bark, moss and mud and lace lichen...
It's overwhelming. I can only describe it as a pleasant assault on my senses.
Suspension bridges, vibrant green vegetation, Trillium, remarkable fungus... it truly feels like an enchanted forest
Treefall. Lots And Lots Of Treefall.
As I journey deeper into the forest, the hike becomes messy. Strenuous. Chaotic. Walking turns into vaulting, climbing, ducking, and crawling as fallen trees litter the trail.
Those sections that sped by in an instant? This one feels like it's stretching into an eternity. I'm basically bushwhacking now, using my FarOut app to trudge forward in the right general direction.
The ground beneath me is so thick and soft, I start fearing that with the next step I might sink into the forest bed and be lost under a canopy of dead branches and tree debris. I keep hiking. Stepping gingerly forward. Trying to reconnect with the trail.
*In Buzz Lightyear voice: "Treefall. Treefall everywhere!"
I wonder what stories these trees might tell if they could talk. Maybe they'd share the severity and unwavering force of the storms that toppled and crushed them. Maybe they'd share tragedies or close calls of hikers that were nearby when it happened. Maybe they would recount the valiant efforts of trail keepers who come here season after season to ensure that people like me can walk through unabated.
Perhaps these trees would simply say they were content with this ending, and they'd lived a long, peaceful life in the most beautiful environment imaginable.
I'm panting at this point, but relieved to glimpse a trace of the trail again. I hurdle the last few obstacles and saunter over to a road crossing with a sigh of relief. The last mile felt like trudging through the land that time forgot, but what I'm walking through now is well-maintained and downright blissful.
No, it's more than blissful. This feels spiritual. I stop multiple times and spend multiple minutes gazing at the Sitka Spruce piercing the sky, and the sunlight that filters through the lace lichen. Everything is still. The entire forest has fallen silent. I hear nothing but a single tree creaking as it gently sways in the mild breeze.
Suddenly everything is perfect. My exhaustion has evaporated. I feel like something powerful and pivotal is blooming inside of me, though I have no clue what it is. What I do know, with instant clarity, is that I need more of this feeling. Much more of this inescapable calm that these trees so effortlessly evoke.
If these trees could talk? I bet they would choose not to. They exist somewhere beyond the limitations of language, yet somehow they're screaming beautiful, inspiring words deep into my soul.
After basking in what feels like an impromptu session of nature's church, I reluctantly peel myself away and start back down the trail.
And without any warning, the trail curves around to a cliff’s edge face and reveals an extraordinary viewpoint of the coastline below. I still haven't recovered from whatever emotional awakening just happened in that thicket of trees (nor do I want to, honestly)...
My breath catches in my throat. I'm crying. I can't identify why, but it's uncontrollable and I have no desire to suppress it. This moment is like some weird baptism of tears and beauty and grief and joy and longing and a thousand other things swirling inside my head like a fire.
As I start descending, I hop across logs placed to form a makeshift path through the mud. I cross creeks. I see surfers heading to the beach. I get temporarily lost. I hear that nonstop, somehow half-cheerful and half-melancholy song of the White-crowned Sparrow.
All of that fades behind some kind of mental curtain.
I just can't stop thinking about those trees...
Previously on the Oregon Coast Trail:
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
Jason Evangelho
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