The Woman on the Ferry: Chapter 18
Into the Wild
Dear Readers, Welcome to my draft of chapter 18 of The Woman on the Ferry: A Journey of 1,000 Miles to Redefine Success and Discover Joy. If you haven’t yet, you can read the Introduction for free here.
Week 18: Into the Wild
Week 18 of my 1,000-mile quest, spanning September 15 to 21, saw me transition from the misty Oregon coast to the rugged wilderness of the Rogue River. I found myself navigating not just challenging trails, but also my own preconceptions about age, work, and purpose. This week's adventures, from a heart-wrenching encounter with a dying bird to the exhilarating exploration of the Wild Rogue Wilderness, became catalysts for deep introspection. Each step along the Rogue River Trail, each moment of solitude in the absence of cell service, and each unexpected interaction with fellow travelers contributed to a growing realization: the path ahead might look very different from the one I'd imagined, and that prospect was both thrilling and liberating.
The Bird on the Shore
My week began with what had become my ritual - a walk along the beach, just beyond Twin Rocks before turning back. On my return, a black garbage bag lying on the shore caught my eye. I faced a dilemma: pick it up and carry a wet, sandy bag for over a mile, or leave it, marring the beautiful beach scene. Could I really expect someone else to deal with it? With a sigh, I made my choice and picked up the bag.
This small act of environmental stewardship would lead to a more profound encounter. Just a bit further along, I spotted a bird lying in the sand, clearly in distress. As I approached, it allowed me to touch it - a sign of its vulnerability. While its wings had dried, the underside was soaked. I imagined it had ventured too close to the water, exhausting itself in the struggle to reach shore.
Using the recently collected garbage bag, I gently scooped up the bird. My plan was to seek help from the county park staff, hoping they could connect me with a local bird rehabilitator. As I carried this fragile creature, I tried to provide warmth and comfort, one hand resting protectively on top. I wanted to convey, somehow, that I was trying my best to help.
The bird's rapid heartbeat against my palm was a poignant reminder of its fragility. As we reached the pavement, it lifted its head, meeting my gaze. I found myself instinctively soothing it, promising it would be alright. But nature had other plans. The heartbeat I'd been so acutely aware of suddenly stopped, and the warmth faded from the small body.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized what had happened. Finding a quiet spot under a tree, I gently laid the bird to rest. Though the outcome wasn't what I'd hoped for, I found solace in knowing that this creature hadn't died alone on the cold sand. In its final moments, it had known care and comfort. Isn't that, after all, what any of us might hope for at the end?
This unexpected encounter left me contemplating the delicate balance of life and our role in the natural world. What had started as a simple act of picking up litter had become a profound reminder of our interconnectedness with all living things.
Coastal Adventures
Monday found me on the Cape Lookout trail, prepared for a muddy adventure. Wearing my oldest high-top hikers, I encountered a trail that lived up to its reputation - a maze of mud and gnarled tree roots. The path was bustling with fellow hikers, all of us exchanging knowing glances and comparing our mud-caked shoes as we passed. This was certainly no trail for the fastidious, but the breathtaking views made every muddy step worthwhile.
With mud still clinging to my boots, I felt the pull of further exploration. Heading south on the highway, I followed an intriguing sign for Sand Lake Recreation Area. This spontaneous detour embodied one of my favorite aspects of travel - stumbling upon hidden gems almost by accident.
Sand Lake proved to be a delightful surprise, offering a sensory puzzle that reminded me of those childhood picture books where you search for the thing that doesn't belong. As I strolled along the dune, the incongruity struck me - the sound of crashing ocean waves accompanied a serene lake view. Crossing a shallow channel, I found myself on a narrow spit of sand, ocean waves roaring on one side, placid lake waters on the other. It was a surreal and captivating landscape.
Tuesday's weather, however, seemed tailor-made for curling up with a steaming cup of tea and a good book. Persistent drizzle and grey skies dominated the day. Still, I ventured out in the morning, driving a couple of miles to see the Big Cedar. The short boardwalk stroll led to an impressive giant cedar, its massive canopy offering some shelter from the rain. I walked the trail twice, enjoying the respite from the rain, before returning to the campground to add a few more steps to my daily count.
Wednesday marked my final day on the Oregon coast. I bid farewell with two walks along my now-familiar beach route and couldn't resist one last visit to the Tillamook creamery for a final taste of that irresistible marionberry swirl ice cream. While I'd thoroughly enjoyed my coastal sojourn, I found myself eagerly anticipating sunnier days inland. The pull of the road was strong - I was ready to move again, to embrace new landscapes and challenges.
A GPS Misadventure
Thursday marked the beginning of a new adventure, with a planned six-hour journey to Indian Mary Campground in Merlin, Oregon. Little did I know that my trusty RV GPS was about to lead me on a heart-pounding ride.
Following its instructions, I took the Wolf Creek exit, only to watch the two-lane road narrow ominously into a single, nerve-wracking lane. On one side, the river rushed by; on the other, a towering cliff loomed. The absence of oncoming traffic was my only saving grace - there were precious few places to pull over. A grim thought crossed my mind: with the Jeep in tow, backing up wasn't an option. I was committed to this white-knuckle ride, come what may.
The road, if you could call it that, had no shoulders to speak of. Instead, two-foot-deep ditches flanked the narrow strip of asphalt. The stakes were clear - one wrong move, one tire slipping into those ditches, and I'd be in a world of trouble.
This harrowing stretch seemed to stretch on forever. My speed crawled to an average of 20 miles per hour, each mile a test of nerves and driving skill. At mile 17, my GPS cheerfully announced I had arrived at the campground. The only problem? I was smack in the middle of nowhere, not a campground in sight. As I crept past this phantom destination, the GPS blithely instructed me to continue for another 20 miles.
Reaching for my phone, hoping for a second opinion, I was met with another setback - no cell service. I was truly on my own, committed to this unexpected odyssey with no way to check an alternative route.
Finally, I crossed a bridge over the Rogue River, and the road began to widen. The reappearance of a painted center line felt like a small victory. When the campground sign finally came into view, relief washed over me.
At the check-in booth, I recounted my harrowing journey to the ranger. Her shocked exclamation - "You came that way!" - confirmed what I'd begun to suspect: my GPS had chosen the worst route available.
This unexpected adventure served as a stark reminder of the unpredictability of the road, even in our technologically advanced age. It also highlighted the importance of preparation and the ability to stay calm under pressure. While I wouldn't choose to repeat this particular experience, it certainly added an unforgettable chapter to my journey - one that tested my skills, nerves, and ultimately, my resilience.
As I settled into my campsite, the stress of the drive slowly ebbing away, I couldn't help but reflect on how this misadventure mirrored aspects of my larger quest. Sometimes, the path we end up on isn't the one we expected or planned for. But it's in navigating these unexpected challenges that we often discover our true strength and adaptability.