Jun 16, 2025 15 min read Oregon Coast Trail

Hiking The Oregon Coast Trail, Day 9: The Tracks To Tillamook

The trail becomes pure magic after another detour brings a brush with serendipity. But the second half of today's hike along the railroad tracks is harrowing and tests my courage.

A railroad trestle over one of the many sloughs in the marshland.

The Oregon Coast Trail guidebook presents a trio of options for getting across Tillamook Bay and picking up the trail. Depending on variables like tides, times, and weather, you can hire a boat ferry service to transport you from the port of Garibaldi to Bayocean Spit. Or you can walk nearly 19 miles on the road to reach Cape Meares; the majority of those miles are along the shoulder of Highway 101. The third option is a mixture of road walking and bus transit, but that would bypass Cape Meares, which I was looking forward to.

(Beyond the anticipation of hiking another magical, forested headland, I prefer to avoid "cheating the trail" whenever possible.)

My original plan was a riff on that third option, albeit a bit convoluted. I would walk the two highway miles to Garibaldi, then catch the NW Connector bus to Tillamook, and finally take a taxi from Tillamook to Cape Meares to resume the journey south.

Option D: None Of The Above

Kimber's AirBNB has a glorious hot tub on a deck that overlooks the channel leading to Tillamook Bay. As I was soaking in said glorious hot tub on a rest day, I spotted a woman in the distance hiking south along the railroad tracks. She wore a blue long-sleeve shirt and had a lime green rain cover wrapped around her backpack.

Was she also hiking the OCT? She must be!

The tracks she walked are the same ones I noticed in the city of Rockaway Beach during a zero day. The same line a tourist train had been running back and forth on every couple hours during Easter weekend.

But today, the tracks are quiet. Maybe it's time to call another audible.

I do a cursory search about the train and pluck out some key details: it's operated through a non-profit called the Oregon Coast Scenic Railroad which offers a "coastal excursion along the scenic Tillamook Bay." And it doesn't run on weekdays until their summer schedule kicks in at the end of May.

I'm going to take this mystery hiker's lead and follow the railroad tracks all the way to Tillamook. And when I get there, I'm stopping at the Tillamook Creamery and wolfing down several scoops of Marionberry Pie ice cream!

After double-checking their operations calendar to ensure no train is running today, I wrap up some final prep and scarf down a breakfast of pancakes and eggs.

As I shoulder my pack, that familiar swell of anticipation and anxiety rises in my chest. There’s a noticeable euphoria too, stirred up by the thought of truly ditching the guidebook and carving my own path today. And those dark clouds dominating the sky over the bay can't suppress my excitement.

The Three Graces

Within minutes I'm trekking forward along the tracks, crunching through the gravel rail bed and sneaking glimpses of the still channel through gaps in the tall pile of volcanic rock to my right that serves as a storm wall.

Admittedly, the loose and chunky ballast isn't the most pleasant surface to walk on. I alternate between that and traversing inside the rails, trying to land each step on the wooden ties. One thing is certain: it's a far superior alternative to nervously walking down Highway 101 with trucks and RVs screaming past every few seconds.

Eventually the tracks start to curve between the bay on my right and the headland on my left. The storm wall gradually recedes to present a view of The Three Graces.

The Three Graces are a trio of basalt rock stacks, named after the Greek goddesses of joy, beauty, and abundance. (Euphrosyne, Aglaea, and Thalia respectively.) When the tidewaters are low, they reveal little marine worlds within the tide pools at their bases.

Seeing The Three Graces feels like another brush with serendipity; another blessing springing from another detour. Had I chosen the highway route, I wouldn't have seen them at all.

"Mermaids Are Real"

A bit further down the tracks, a massive rock formation closer to the shoreline rises out of the water. It's rough and craggy, colored in shades of brown and grey and mossy green, with a hollowed out center that's wide and tall enough for two people to walk through. Trees and vegetation spring out from it, covering most of the surface. The contrast of it against the shallow water and stone shore is stunning!

Within another half mile of walking, the clouds start sprinkling down rain, and I mildly curse at myself for not covering up my pack before setting out. I duck under a pair of trees to fish out my rain cover from the front gear pouch. As I set my pack on the ground, a flash of color jumps into my field of vision.

Resting on the ground is a cockle shell in perfect condition. It's been painted with a bright gradient ranging from deep turquoise to vibrant purples, and a hint of pink on its ribbed outer edge. The color scheme reminds of the horizon moments after the sun has escaped from a cloudy coastal sunset.

It begs a closer look, so I pick it up and flip it over. On the inside, written in playful hand-painted black letters, is a message: "Mermaids are REAL." Above the message there are three orange fish. Three of them.

Who painted this? Who placed it here and when? Am I the first person to see it? Would I have even spotted it if the rain had waited until later to start drenching me? I doubt I'll ever uncover those answers, but it doesn't matter. This trail, the Oregon coast itself, is pure magic and I love it so much!

A palpable sense of joy surges inside of me from this abundance of beautiful but unplanned discoveries during the last two days of hiking.

Joy. Abundance. Beauty. The symbolic virtues that The Three Graces represent...

They say the trail provides, but this is deeper than that. I know it sounds new age-y, but I interpret this as an encouraging nod from the universe. Some kind of mystical affirmation of the lessons I'm continuously being taught on this adventure. I'm struggling to articulate exactly what these lessons are because the messages are in a language I've just started studying. They're encrypted, but they're as visible as signal flares in a midnight sky.

I flip the shell back over and place it exactly where I found it, hoping it will eventually brighten someone else's day with the same amounts of wonder and joy.

The rain starts coming down a bit harder as I shoulder my pack and continue south along the railroad tracks.

The tracks run through the center of Garibaldi and lead right to the Oregon Coast Scenic Railroad yard. A relic leaps out of the scenery. It's a weathered red caboose standing on a short rail segment. Its paint is peeling away in what resembles long vertical scars, and its salt-bitten body is rusting into obscurity.

This poor thing looks like it has endured decades of coastal storms. The cupola that peeks over the roofline must have a thousand stories to tell, but the frosted windows on the western side look like tired eyes that are too old and weary to speak any of them out loud.

It's a piece of history that's eerie and, to me, tinged with sadness and neglect.

Ghost Tracks?

As the railway curves gently north past the edge of Garibaldi and then east around Miami Cove, the condition of the track starts changing. Degrading. At first the change is subtle. Weeds and patches of grass sprout up through the railbed. The occasional branch lies across the track. Here and there, the edges of the railroad ties are warped or cracked or broken off.

As the track heads south toward Bay City, though, the subtle changes become more dramatic. Nature is reclaiming the gravel-strewn railbed and shoulders, a thin coat of pine needles and tree debris coating the man-made surface. To put it plainly, it looks more like a young forest floor than an active railway.

This definitely doesn't resemble an active railway, even a seasonal one.

Further along, the sporadic patches of green sprouting from near the track have morphed into large tufts of grass growing above and around the rails. In some areas, the rails barely protrude a couple inches above the surface of the ground.

Could the track have fallen into such disrepair since last summer? Could a series of winter and early spring storms done this? No answer is forthcoming because I have no basis for comparison; no experience with railroad tracks beyond traveling them inside of an Amtrak train.

The gradually degrading state of the track stirs my curiosity more than my anxiety. At the same time, it also bolsters my confidence that there's absolutely no train running on these tracks today. I can quit looking over my shoulder and quit nursing that marginal – but nevertheless present – fear.

By the time I reach Bay City, I'm only a few miles from Tillamook. I can practically taste the ice cream hitting my tongue. But for now, it's a boring tuna wrap next to a gently curving beach along the edge of the bay. And it's a stunner! The shore is a mix of course sand, pebbles, and an unusually high number of crushed Pacific oyster shells. The bay itself is tinted a soft blue-gray under the partly cloudy sky. It's just so peaceful, so still.

The same can't be said of the highway as I return to the tracks to pick up my uncharted trail. I've been hiking for about 6 miles today, and my feet are weary from alternating between awkwardly spaced wooden ties and chunky gravel. I briefly consider finally leaving the tracks and taking the road, but the traffic is nonstop, and my reservations about walking down a busy highway on a narrow shoulder haven't subsided.

I stubbornly stick to the plan, determined to see this course through all the way to Tillamook.

Between Bay View and Tillamook, the railway cuts through expansive marshlands.

Soon, the tracks curve out a fair distance from the highway and cut through an expansive and soggy marshland. This kind of stillness feels different. There's no wind rushing through the trees, no roar of ocean surf. Just the inaudible rustling of tall grass and the quiet curves of sloughs winding through all the dense green.

I wouldn't have enjoyed any of this scenery today if I stuck to the guidebook.

My reflective mood gets shattered when the track reaches a wide waterway and becomes a railroad trestle. To say this gives me pause would be a massive understatement. The fear gets amplified when I see two of the hardwood ties over the water appear to be partially rotted and missing.

The worst possible scenario plays out in my head like a video loop plucked from a nightmare: I get about halfway over the bridge, and as I gingerly step onto one of the old hardwood ties, I hear a sickening wet "crack" as it frees itself from the spike and falls into the water below, with me right behind it...

An alternate take streams into my imagination, like some twisted comic relief, depicting me falling into the gap and getting wedged tight thanks to the bulk of my backpack, cartoonishly squirming as I try to free myself.

Compounding all of this is a fact I may not have divulged yet: I have a nearly paralyzing fear of heights. Especially when exposure is involved. Put me on a granite cliff at Taft Point in Yosemite, protected by railing? I'll walk up and peer over the edge. Put me near that same cliff without any protection, and I'll belly crawl nervously up to the edge without making it far enough to even peek my head over the edge.

From the tracks, I try to trace a viable path through the thick, wet marshland to the highway in the distance, but it seems futile. Some mixture of common sense and heightened fear conjures up scenarios where I'm sucked into a sinkhole, or get stuck in a channel that was obscured by grass or algae. Maybe some kind of water snake takes me out. Are cottonmouths a thing in Oregon? What about other venomous snakes? I have no clue.

Hell, what if I climb down, swim across this slough, and try to navigate the marshland from there? The tall trees on the other side obscuring most of the terrain from view instantly squashes that idea.

I start spiraling and call Kimber, whose confidence calms me down. With a reassuring tone she says "that bridge is strong enough to support a train, surely it's strong enough for you and your pack. Just take it slow and steady."

If I still smoked, this would be the perfect time for a cigarette. Instead, I start whistling an impromptu melody as I step forward at a snail's pace. My whistling is shaky, and I must look ridiculous taking these baby steps, but no one except me is around to judge. I whistle the tune repeatedly, as if each note is pulling me forward across this void.

As I'm walking I cautiously poke the ties in front of me with my hiking poles, half-expecting any one of them to loosen and plummet into the water below. These ties are spaced apart just enough for my foot to slip through the gap if I have a misstep.

Then about halfway across, one of the wooden ties is completely gone. Pardon the pun, but it stops me in my tracks. I'm frozen with fear, because the gap requires either an unnaturally long stride forward for my short and stocky frame – or a small leap. I keep whistling. I try to avoid looking down past the missing tie and into the water below. With every ounce of courage I have, I take a small jump forward and exhale some of the pent-up fear when my feet land.

My adrenalin is pegged, and I pick up the pace. Just a touch. Just enough to get me across this thing a few seconds sooner.

After what feels like the most terrifying half-hour of my life (even if it was only 3 or 4 minutes in reality), I'm across and putting my feet back on the earth, with heaps of relief washing over me.

Ten minutes later, I encounter another rail bridge over the water and my heart sinks. It's the same exact scenario: no certain path through the soggy marshland, the same rotting and weathered ties. Do trains seriously cross these with any semblance of safety?

But I've been granted the slightest touch of confidence now. I tell myself that I'm sure-footed. I remind myself that I've negotiated more challenging, more technical terrain than this.

I start whistling...

I Literally Walked 87 Miles For This

The track eventually curves closer to the road, and with mountainous piles of gratitude I'm able to avoid a third sketchy rail bridge crossing by simply taking an old private road 40 yards to the unexpected comfort of the asphalt. I never imagined feeling so excited to see that busy highway again!

I pass diners and feed stores and hypermarkets. Being back in civilization after the last hours of isolation feels jarring, but not necessarily unwelcome. Suddenly, there it is, and it looks like a delicious sanctuary – the sweet reward at the end of today's supremely magical but slightly harrowing detour.

Tillamook Creamery.

A massive blue industrial building with "Tillamook" written across it in orange cursive letters dominates my vision. In front of it, surrounded by a manicured green lawn, stands a preserved black and red sailboat named "Morning Star" with a pair of tall stainless steel containers rising up from its deck.

I snap a few photos and rush inside, practically salivating at the thought of a double-scoop of fresh Marionberry Pie ice cream on a waffle cone. Within minutes I've devouring it and it's the most delicious, satisfying, creamy ice cream I've ever had. Then I get to work on the huge pile of cheese curds.

I can truthfully say that I've hiked 87 miles for this!