He left the deserted beach behind, traversing a lily-covered bog as he ventured towards town, seeking the simple comfort of a hotdog from Costco. Little did he know, membership was the ticket to that savory delight, and the stone-faced sentinel at the door wasn’t budging. A faceless fortress of commerce, this part of Warrenton was devoid of character, could have been plucked from any city’s belly. Big box stores loomed like concrete giants, interspersed with fast-food joints that churned out cheap eats for the pavement-bound masses.
But just three miles away, the soul of the ocean beckoned. Swiftly, he returned to the rugged coast, abandoning the notion of shoes for the rest of his thirteen-mile barefoot hike from Gearhart to the Wreck of the Peter Iredale. No rush, no destination. A solitary wanderer embraced by the salty breeze. His meeting in Fort Stevens fell into the abyss of no-shows, leaving him to roam time’s vast canvas, unfettered by obligations.
Under a canopy of stars, he chose a spot on the untouched sand, claiming it as his sanctuary for the night. A nomadic soul, forever drifting, leaving no footprints behind, and weaving his enigmatic tale into the very fabric of the universe.
#OregonCoast #wandering