My last day on the road, alas. I got up and out early, and drove north from Seaside to Astoria, where I had an appointment with the curator (the librarian was on vacation) of the Columbia River Maritime Museum.
But that wasn’t until later in the morning, and in the meantime I wanted to visit the Astoria Column. I’d seen it in the distance any number of times on trips through Astoria, perched up there on its hilltop, but I hadn’t ever actually gone up there. So Kestrel (my car) and I crept up the steep, narrow streets — Astoria is much smaller than San Francisco in every aspect but its hilliness — to the top of the highest – peak may be an overstatement, but you can certainly see forever from up there.
It was eight in the morning, clear as a bell, and the shadows were dramatic. I’d had it in my mind that I was going to climb to the top of the tower, but I should have known better. I always forget about my fear of manmade heights. I don’t mind natural heights. I’ve stood at Glacier Point in Yosemite, 3200 feet above Yosemite Valley, a direct drop below, without a hint of trepidation. But when I visited Chicago I took one look at the then-Sears Tower and said, no way. Absolutely no way.
Then there’s the whole claustrophobia thing, which I do not forget about. I am very uncomfortable inside a plane if I’m not in a window seat, because I need to be able to see out, for instance, and I really do prefer my elevators to be glass, although I can manage regular ones if I have to. But caves don’t bother me, so I guess it’s the manmade thing again. Odd. At any rate, the inside diameter of the Astoria Column is about eight feet across. No windows. 164 steps to the top. I took about ten steps up and could just feel it closing in about me.
So I came back down and decided I would a) be satisfied with the views from the hilltop, which really were spectacular, and b) take my pictures of the column from the outside, which was much more interesting, anyway, with its mural about exploration.
And here’s the photographic evidence.
The Astoria Column, backlit.
Towards the northwest from the base of the column. That’s the Columbia River, and the Astoria-Megler Bridge, which I would cross later that day.
A view of the column and its spiraling mural.
To the southwest from the base of the column — those clouds mark the coastline.
A close-up of the very top of the column.
By the time I was done at the column, it was almost time for my appointment. The Columbia River Maritime Museum is on the waterfront, appropriately enough. It’s a fabulous museum, and I highly recommend it to anyone with even the faintest interest in western or maritime history or boats or lifesaving, or… But today I was there to do research, so I headed back to the library, where I met with the curator.
He was a very nice man, and it was a very nice library, but the library was not his area of expertise. He was persistent, though, and finally produced the main item I was there to see, a thesis written by a student of American Studies at, of all places, the University of Utah, on lighthouses and their keepers on the Oregon coast. She’d done a lot of field work on the coast, and research, and interviews, and one of the three lighthouses she focused on just happened to be Heceta Head. Gold mine. Even though the museum’s copy turned out to be missing its bibliography.
The curator also found me a number of other interesting items, and I had a very productive morning.
But after a beer-battered scallops and chips lunch at the Wet Dog Café, a place I’d eaten at before and loved (and which, unlike Mo’s, more than lived up to my memories of it), it was time to head home.
It was only a three and a half hour drive. But it started with being stopped near the very top of the Astoria-Megler Bridge by bridge repairs. I did mention my fear of manmade heights, right? Well, I managed to distract myself during the wait by taking photos from the car. I bet I’ll never get any from this vantage point ever again.
Stuck at the top of the Astoria-Megler Bridge.
The Columbia River and Washington shore from the top of the bridge.
Down, down, down we go, to Washington.
The very oddly-named rest area near the Washington end of the bridge. I suspect William Clark is the original culprit, but there wasn’t anything there to explain the origin of the name.
When I arrived home, it was to find that the condo hadn’t burned down and that the cats were just fine, and that was the end of this year’s “long” trip. While I had a good, and productive, time, here’s hoping next year’s holds more new territory and lasts longer. Sigh.