Winchester Bay, OR
The first question I’m asked, after I explain my quixotic journey, is usually: ”no hitching?” I reply by dancing my fingers along an imaginary road to demonstrate the series of footsteps that lead back to Port Angeles, WA.
The second question I’m asked, after I explain my quixotic journey, is usually: ”why’d you come this time of year?”. Meaning, of course, ”don’t you know how much it rains in Oregon in the fall?”
The first big winter storm blew in off the Pacific the day before, and I decided to hole up in a Winchester motel. When it was still coming down sideways the next morning, I figured I could do with a rest day, but 15 minutes after I swiped my credit card, the sky was blue. I wandered around the small fishing village lamenting a lost day of walking, wishing that the rain would come just justify my decision; I had motel buyer’s remorse bad. You know how it can be when you really, really hang on to something and won’t let it go all year.