Oregon is the ugliest state in the union. It used to be one of the most beautiful. When I was a teenager, my parents and I used to take long drives along its coast. It seemed to be one long beach state park, with sandy cliffs, blackened driftwood, banks of wild blueberries, and small, isolated fishing hamlets. I remember one blissful week at Christmas, staying in a motel, making friends with a bunch of guys, one of whom read a girly pop star mag. "It's the only way I can find out about the music," he said. He was right; articles about the Kinks, the Beatles, the Stones. BRS -- before Rolling Stone . I remember there was a tiny store in walking distance, with record racks: Patty Page, Perry Como... not a single pop album in the racks. "No call for that kind of thing here," said the old gramps behind the counter.
In 1996, I did the drive again with my parents on my way to Clarion West. Had the state parks become a haven for hippies? Did dope-smuggling boats land at night on the isolated coast? Did the bottom fall out of the Monterey Jack cheese market? For whatever reason, the state parks are gone. In their stead is a chain of what looks like a badly built used car lot, a string of motels built right on noisy roadways, small supermarkets, or gas stations that straggle out from and disguise the old villages. Northern California is far wilder and less spoiled.
The development trails along a great length of coastline with a 35 mph speed limit. If you drive any faster, you will certainly get one or more tickets. If in desperation you turn inland, you are likely to find the stubble-covered hills that resulted from previous decades of tree-felling.
Oregon: fly over it.