Home > Uncategorized > Drive to Bullard’s Beach a little underwhelming at the end

Drive to Bullard’s Beach a little underwhelming at the end

Cape Perpetua

August 19/Day 33. The drive down the coast is as spectacular as I expected, passing rocky points, secluded crescent beaches and towering forests of spruce. There are countless state parks and scenic viewpoints along Route 101, so many that I finally gave up trying to visit them all. Fishing villages and tiny hamlets dot the shore. My favorite is Yachats (pronounced YA-hots) which boasts only 635 residents.  Picturesque old houses sit haphazardly among the pines on a hillside that spills down toward a small harbor, where a few businesses that deal mostly with the tourist trade make the most of the short summer.

The drive reminds me of a book so good you never want it to end. But all to soon I’m at Bullard’s Beach, my destination. I’ll be honest and say that compared to my last few campgrounds this one can’t compete—although it’s attractive enough, Glacier and Beverly Beach are hard acts to follow. The beach is about a mile from the campground, so soon after I get myself parked and the camper set up I grab my bike to go and take a look. There are supposed to be a number of rock islands offshore covered with seals.

Fog menaces village at Brays Point

It turns out the trail I have to follow is made of deep loose sand and not only is riding the bike out of the question, it’s almost impossible to push it down the path. Determined, I persevere, thinking I’ll ride it on the packed sand at the beach. Once I finally struggle the whole way to the beach, it turns out the sea is at high tide and between the edge of the surf and the dunes is nothing but more loose sand. Also, once on the beach, what had been a sunny and mild day in the campground is suddenly foggy, cold and windy. There’s nothing to do but turn around and plow my bike back to the campground. It seems the cold damp weather on the beach is not unusual this time of the year in Oregon.

As luck would have it, I’m camped next to three generations of the Giggle Family. I can’t see them well through the thick brush between our campsites but I can certainly hear them. It’s as though they’ve developed a secret language that’s composed of giggles, titters, chortles, cackles and snickers. I can rarely make out what their talking about (actually it seems to be nothing at all) but they’re in a constant state of hilarity. One man—I believe he’s grandpa—has an irritating soprano voice through which he giggles as he speaks; nothing is said in a straight tone. Another, a fat woman, just never stops with her cackling. I’m pretty sure they’re not smoking that silly weed, because I’m downwind

Mile-long trail to the beach that nearly conquered me

from them and I could smell it. But I guess it takes all kinds. Glad they’re having a good time at whatever it is they’re doing.

They remind me of the Yeller Family I camped next to for two nights in Glacier. They constantly screamed at each other with an intonation that implied, “You idiot!” It reverberated through the campground so resoundingly that I was embarrassed for them. Probably kept the bears away though.

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