As we exited the ferry and turned toward Astoria the landscape on either side of the road was the lush green we were becoming accustomed to. On that day the rain forest that this area is designated as lives up to it's name. In one stretch thick fog trapped between the hills and forest on either side of the road made navigation almost impossible.
The town of Astoria is situated close to where the Columbia River empties into the Pacific ocean. It is lovely and historic. The downtown area and ports are on flat land at the rivers edge, a hill above holds residential neighborhoods. Large, ocean going ships sit in a line in the river waiting to load or unload their cargo. A high bridge, necessary so that the large ships can pass under it, spans the river.
In the drizzle and rain we browsed through the numerous antique shops in search of treasures. I picked up a small religious volume, part of a set, I have a collection of antique and vintage books, the other volumes of this particular set have ended up who knows where. The inscription inside is a Christmas message from a father to his child. It is dated December 1957, the year I was born. It resides with me now.
We strolled thorough streets lined with exuberant jazz age facades. We lunched in a restaurant, masked and socially distant, Oregon's covid mitigations were stringent, a month behind what we had become accustomed to at home, or the more carefree attitude we experienced in rural Washington, that gave us an excellent view of the row of ships waiting their turn to conduct their business before venturing off to their next destination. We drove out to a state park closer to the river's mouth before heading back, traversing the high bridge, the sharp drop of the roadway as the you near Washington's river shore making the crossing a small adventure in itself.
The road hugged the shore before it moved, once again, into the deep, dense wonder land of green, taking us back to our hotel where a good night's rest waited before the wedding festivities the next day.
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