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| Bandon Beach, Oregon, December sunset |
My friend and fellow children’s book author Caroline Hatton went on this trip in December 2021 and took the photos in this post. Caroline is a frequent contributor to The Intrepid Tourist. I thank her for sharing her interesting travels!
As the moon and sun move across the sky, all the water on Earth surrenders to their pull, strongest when they come the closest and all three celestial bodies are aligned. This causes the highest annual tides, casually called king tides, around the turn of the year.
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December 2021 tide height predictions in feet at Bandon, Oregon. Credit: NOAA (red dot added for targeted tide) |
That morning, my husband and I drove from our home in Eugene, Oregon, westward toward the Pacific Ocean. With every passing minute, the tide was rising, surging eastward, as if to rendezvous with us. My foot eagerly, literally, pressed west on the gas pedal.
By then I had learned online about the Oregon King Tides Project, a citizen science program collecting photos to anticipate damage by sea water rising due to global warming. But I would leave documentation of vulnerable spots to locals familiar with them, and focus instead on admiring the natural spectacle.
Googling “Oregon waves” I had found a video of “wave explosions” at Shore Acres State Park, a good viewing spot on our way to Bandon. We got there an hour before high tide. To keep our distance from others during the Covid-19 pandemic, we stood in a wide space between two of the few photographers at the ready with their tripods.
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| December 2021 king tide at Shore Acres State Park, Oregon |
The sun was shining, the sky was clear blue, and the ocean was… very calm. Nature reminded us that a high tide (high water level) doesn’t guarantee high surf (large waves), more likely on windy or stormy days. We watched seawater wash quietly over reefs. Friendly strangers, who were there on past dates, were happy to show off on their smart phones their old photos of huge wave explosions.
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| Tafoni (eroded sandstone). Perfect hole sizes for storing anything from a kumquat to a grapefruit. |
After the king tide hit its peak without much splashing, we strolled through a rocky area to marvel at tafoni--not an Italian dessert, but a weird sandstone structure resulting from erosion by ocean waves.
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Barking, stinky California Sea Lions (Zalophus californianus), Aug. 2021 |
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| Rough-Skinned Newt (Taricha granulosa) ~5 inches/ ~12 cm long |
Instead we drove south to the Bandon Marsh National Wildlife Refuge at the Coquille River estuary, a salt marsh where migrating birds feast and rest in spring and fall. We didn’t see any birds, but we successfully avoided stepping on rough-skinned newts (Taricha granulosa) crawling in slow motion across the grassy trail. The shiny little darlings ooze tetrodotoxin, a poison that can kill a human, so it’s best not to lick them!
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Myrtlewood (Umbellularia californica), native to this region |
In Bandon, we walked along the beach in the vivifying cold. The sun, sinking through light clouds, put on a glorious show for us and the handful of photographers planted in the sand beside their tripods. (See photo at the top of this post.)
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Face Rock. See the nose, lips, and chin profile down the right edge. |
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On the Humbug Mountain Trail |
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View from the Humbug Mountain Trail |
The lollipop-shaped trail (3 mi/ ~ 5 km total walking distance) took us through morning fog, which dissipated at the top (1748 ft/ ~533 m) to reveal a panoramic view of the coast under a sunny blue sky.
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Humbug Mountain (in the middle), the highest peak above the Oregon coast |
All text and photos, copyright Caroline Arnold. www.theintrepidtourist.blogspot.com
