It was the first day we’d left Portland since we moved here six months ago. No planes or overnight bags. Just a quick jaunt to the North Oregon coast. A chance to breech the urban boundaries and safely burst our COVID bubble.
My heart thumped gently as we drove past Beaverton and entered the the novel straight-aways of Highway 26. My wife, Susan, was at the wheel. Our Boston terrier, Lilly, cuddled in my lap.
Cat Stevens’ The Wind whistled through our car speakers as we bumped elevation; the open road slinking into curves, meadows yielding to the gentle heft of The Tualatin Mountains. The broad sky narrowed as we pierced stands of mixed conifer and dogwood that formed the road’s corridor.
The sky gradually broadened once more after we took the left fork of 26 south to Cannon Beach. Docked in the town’s center, we followed a thin stream of locals down to the shore, a makeshift backpack slung over my shoulders. A tiny sand canyon slithered from the mouth of a runoff pipe to the beach, the flow that carved it deceptively strong.
Lilly lifted her nose to scan the briny air just as we hit the sands. Her breaths slowed. Her eyes fell to half mast, then closed. We stood beside her as she savored the scents. No rush for what came next.
Several steps around a 12-foot dune, the monolithic Haystack Rock and its smaller sentries swelled above the receded tide. Lilly, who hates getting her feet wet, trotted — then galloped — upon the moist sands as we edged closer to this sea altar with its teeming tide pools.
Upon spotting a live sand crab, Lilly dove into a classic play-bow. As the crab burrowed beneath the surface, Lilly spun a complete circle, then cocked her head and watched as the remaining sand crater bubbled and filled.
Dogs romped everywhere. A few streaked past us off-leash as we walked. We kept close tabs on Lilly, treating her for every non-reactive encounter and distracting her when she grew anxious, which was seldom.
After a picnic lunch, we took the north tyne of Highway 26 to Seaside. Camped on a driftwood log near the skirt of Tillamok Head, Lilly splayed out like a frog. She pulled herself along the sand, again activating her nasal radar and closing her eyes. Another play bow. That was enough for me.
I dashed with Lilly, still on leash, until we both reached a full sprint. A maniacal grin stretched across her face. Her paws barely touched the sand. We switched directions, again reaching top speed. Susan cheered us on. No other dogs as far as we could see. I wanted more than anything to unclip her leash, watch her bolt ahead leaving me in the dust. As her responsible parent, I knew better.
Running with Lilly, I was transported to that first day my unshod feet trod upon wet sand. I giggled as the grains pushed through the webbing between my tiny toes and spilled over my feet.
At the precise moment I ran with Lilly on the North Oregon coast, I turned sixty-five — and became as a child again.