A canopy of skyscraper Sitka Spruce reaches across the road toward each other as if I entered a calm, silent cathedral as I wind uphill through the thick rain forest heading to the tip of Cape Arago.
Emerging from its cover the rocky ridges along Oregon’s rugged coast offer scintillating views of the Pacific Ocean. As I pedal south the foggy mist sweeps across the road at an angle from my rear — the bone-chilling 50 degrees offers a feel that I wouldn’t experience in back Tennessee until, oh, probably November, maybe even December.
Having spent the past two months bathed in primarily triple digit temps of the Western deserts, my efforts to keep warm distract me from realizing I’m actually enjoying the warming benefits of a tailwind.
The beauty of this vista helps me forget that this is the middle of summer, not the onset of a long, hard winter. I chug up the hill to Simpson Reef.
The fog blows across the parking lot as I pull in. Nothing to see. Plenty to hear. Seals. Sea Lions. And whatever else, barking and roaring and honking in the mist.
Occasionally a break in the fog allows me to see some rocks about 300 yards out and the outline of a Seal or Sea Lion. Who knows?
Continuing to the tip of the Cape, ooh, man, does the wind howl.
The 2.25-mile Cape Pack Trail, that winds on the inner side of the Cape, although pretty rough in spots, offers a fun respite. Trails dot the edges of the ridge that aren’t marked as either open nor closed to bikes, so, to me, they’re open for business (as long as I see tire marks, I feel I’m fine). It’s a blast.
I eventually turn around and head north. That’s when the headwind hits. Brrr. Super Brrr. I ride into Charleston. The cars line along the highway. The draw bridge is up. Some fishing boat heads out to sea.
So I turn toward the marina, where a fleet of fishing boats are still in dock. I want to snag some real tastes of the local cuisine. I’m lured toward a place called Fisherman’s Wharf, where the sign proclaims the Crab Cooker is always on. That sounds good to me, although I wonder about the reasoning of keeping it on all the time.
It’s literally on the dock, so you have to walk down a galley. A few people watch some fishermen getting their boat ready to head out. The fisherdude saws some big old frozen fish into chunks. I mean, big fish. Size of a surfboard fish.
I know they’re getting ready to head out because someone asks the woman at the counter if she has any halibut. She says, no, they’re heading out to get some. They’d be back on Wednesday, so Thursday there will be halibut.
It’s a cool shop with live crabs, tons of fish, shells and other cool things. I’ll bring the girls back. I’m looking at a Fisherman’s Crab Cocktail, which is just cooled cooked crab, but it’s chilled. I don’t need anything chilled. I need something hot.
So I ride back to Charleston’s main drag, and stop at High Tide. Nice place. I’m a bit taken back — even if the sign outside proclaimed its chowder to be famous and homemade — to see the prices.
I can’t see myself digging into 9 bucks of chowder under any circumstances. I notice that nothing on the menu is fried. No french fries, even. Chips and salsa with everything. Cool. That scores points on the logic meter. Suddenly it sounds like this the cost of good cookin’, not a clever sign.
I start with a cup of chowder, figuring if it sucks I can sneak out and head on, no strings attached. If it’s good, we’ll check out another local delicacy. In the blink of an eye, I’m scooping into It the best clam chowder I’ve ever tasted. I actually think about tackling a Superbowl.
Instead, I figure I’ll try something new, something you just can’t find anywhere else. Check it out. Grilled Shrimp and Cheese sandwich. Now there’s something to talk about.
I’m reminded of the Po Boy I got down in Gulf Shores, Mississippi years ago. Damn, fattening as hell, but one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten. Imagine two big handfuls of shrimp dumped in a big French roll, crunchy crust outside and super soft inside. That was the Po Boy. Simple. Super.
So I go for the sandwich again, thinking it might be a pinch pricey.
Again, score!
It’s on big chunks of sour dough, grilled just right, with enough cheese to tuck those little shrimp in for the night. The homemade salsa tastes great. The spicy warmth gets my juices flowing.
On the ride back, I stop at the store to get tomato sauce for chili. I planned on spaghetti and meatballs, but the chance to cook meaningful chili in the summer feels impossible to pass up.
A few hours later we sit bundled up in every layer we can find at our campfire, eating chili and sipping hot chocolate enjoying a refreshing Oregon Coast break from our summer in the sun.
Time to ride.
