Astoria

Astoria

¶ Don't ask me why I thought Astoria Oregon was on the coast, I just did. I made reservations with the singular thought of wanting to be near the sea and take in some of the sights of the small city with a strict budget. My disappointment rested deep as the bus turned inland. I got off a couple blocks away from the south Columbia River bank realizing I will not be in the presence of the Pacific Ocean winter waves or contending with beach sand in the two and half days carved out for this trip. Instead, I walked a lot along the wide river. Listened to the splashing and pulsating pull of water around slick moss and algae covered rotting timber beams jutting above the cerulean surface. Woke early the morning after Winter Solstice and made the cold trek up the steep hillside to the Column. The quiet road lined in pines, lower branches covered in shawls of velvet moss, and leafless trees dusted in soft lichen poofs and strands. At the top of one hundred sixty-four stairs I left the fog behind, a low opaque gray shroud over the town, and showed my face to the rising sun. Any other moment in the year I am hard pressed to get up at dawn, but not this morning where, for the first time in a long while, the sunrise and my wakefulness are in agreement. I met the light and brisk cyan sky. From this height, the expanse of the sea glittered beyond the mouth of the river and disappeared into the horizon. On the descent, I grinned, having experienced the ocean after all.