The Best Worst Weather
Maybe it is the Columbia River's misty bucolic ambiance or the perfectly-plated scotch salmon that lures me back to Astoria, Oregon each year. This "comfortable-in its skin" town of 10,000 seems to open its fertile arms just for me and take me in. This lovely wallflower at the tip of Oregon is the ideal place for this solitary traveler to unwind and get lost for a few days. I liken Astoria to that broken-in pair of jeans draped over my bed, getting more comfortable with each wear. I adore the Oregon coast, especially in the winter months when the crowds are as scarce as the sun breaks. For most trips, I venture to Astoria, Oregon, for my first stop. I then gambol down the coast a bit each day, pulling off the road to find a motel near the ocean to rest and recoup.
Growing up in New England, I am naturally drawn to Astoria, which has the Victorian beauty and charm of its East Coast cousins without the crowds or the stinging price tags. Astoria is a veritable bargain in all aspects. The oldest settlement west of the Rockies is also known as America’s cloudiest city, and this may account for the lack of crowds. The natives, and people like me who love cloudy and stormy weather, are forever grateful for the lack of sun.
Astoria is temperate year-round, almost always in a comfortable zone of 40 to 70 degrees Fahrenheit and has more than 300 frost-free days per year. Conversely, the city also receives 70 inches of rain each year and 240 cloudy days. These numbers have earned the city the dubious distinction by Farmer’s Almanac as one of America’s Worst Weather Cities.
I must be different. To me, it's the inclement weather that makes Astoria beautiful. We have been indoctrinated as a society to believe that “beautiful weather” means heat and bright sun. Nature's magic show of clouds, wind, rain and fog has been stigmatized by the travel industry and sun lovers alike as weather to escape. I could not disagree with more ferocity; to me, the wet and windy elements are what make the Pacific Northwest beautiful. And few places are more quintessentially Northwest than Astoria.
The region’s first city, settled in 1912, sits at the confluence of the Columbia River (the axis on which this region spins) and the mighty Pacific Ocean. The Astoria Bridge can be viewed from most of the city’s vantage points; this wonderful feat of engineering connects Washington to Oregon. My favorite place to stay is Crest Motel. Situated on a bluff overlooking the Columbia River, Crest is economical, tidy and comfortable. The lobby has Pennsylvania Dutch plaques on the doors and a neon blue sign. It’s one of those great American roadside motels you hope never gets supplanted by a national chain. The motel is about three miles east of town, on Oregon’s Highway 30. Wild ivy and blackberry plants envelop the motel grounds, giving the setting an ethereal quality.
It was a cloudy November Sunday when I packed up my vehicle for one of my tri-annual sojourns to Oregon. My desire was to blast through the pavement of I-5, transgress the ugliness of the Longview/Kelso, and then leap across the Columbia River to Oregon. Once I saw the Oregon welcome sign and took a right onto Oregon’s Highway 30, I phoned and asked for a ground floor room. As few people visited Astoria in November, a room was there for me.
Forty-five minutes later, I checked in and asked the desk attendant for restaurant recommendations and any events happening in town. She advised that the outdoor hot tub was open until nine, but I could use it until ten as long as I turned it off. I loved these extra niceties that were often extended to me, the off-season traveler. In fact, Crest has one of the greatest hot tubs around. It’s outdoors, but covered, and you can look over the Columbia River and the Astoria Bridge. I sank into the steaming water, let out a long sigh and looked over the river, feeling a soothing happiness rippling through my body while the cool, wet air above kissed my skin. This first immersion into the tub always signaled the beginning of my vacation. I had looked forward to this plunge for weeks, anticipating the water, the steam, the misty trees and river. But after 25 minutes, I showered and dressed to phone Old Grey Cab for a ride into town.
My driver was a transplant from California, and like me, he adored Astoria. I asked him for a good place to eat and hoist a few pints. He recommended Portway Tavern and their burgers. He said it was chock full of great beer, history and food, as well as being a barometer for the town. A former cabbie myself, I knew I was in the presence of an educated cab driver that loved his work. We talked shop and traded some stories before he dropped me off at Portway.
Portway Tavern, built in 1923, is the oldest watering hole in Astoria. I entered the tavern, grabbed a stool at the bar and ordered food and beer. I noticed a friendly atmosphere and good rock music on the radio. My burger and fries arrived with a second beer, and an Astoria resident started talking about John Fogerty, as one of the artist's songs played on the radio. He told me that he knew John Fogerty and used to jam with him in Eastern Oregon. According to this gentleman, John escaped the city by moving to Troy, Oregon, a small town on the Idaho border. The man lived over the border in Idaho and played in a bar band. He met John at a bar and they soon became friends. He recounted many weekends where John would have keg parties at his house and they would play in the backyard. The man was not boasting or trying to impress anyone with his story. He simply imparted his experience to the patrons of the bar, and I drank it in.
On my third beer, a boisterous and big-boned man entered Portway and asked for a Budweiser bottle. The bar allowed for microbrew lovers and blue-collar types to coexist. The establishment was a mix of old versus new Astoria, and I felt quite comfortable. A female at the bar asked the new visitor if he was from Astoria, and he said that he had just transferred there and worked for a cable TV company. The woman responded, “That makes sense, as not many people would willingly choose to come to Astoria.”
He said, “This place is not bad. It beats Tillamook, where I was working before.” They both proceeded to bash Tillamook for its pungent dairy air.
The woman told the cable guy that in Astoria, “What you see is what you get and it ain’t going to change.” She added, “A lot of people have come here with big ideas and left a year later with their tails between their legs and dreams shattered.”
These Astoria locals painted me a thumbnail sketch of their town and I deferred to them. I left Portway with an early afternoon glow and an education to boot.
Astoria, while captivating and full of potential promise, is also a bit guarded and resilient like its weather-worn residents. The city welcomes new faces and ideas but it will not sacrifice its core for the sake of "progress." Its erstwhile legacy of a pioneering port city acts as a built-in layer of protection, fighting off would-be intruders, and retaining its unique quality and allure. That was the message I received loud and clear from those astute Portway patrons. And that's the Astoria I love.
Portway Tavern, built in 1923, is the oldest watering hole in Astoria. I entered the tavern, grabbed a stool at the bar and ordered food and beer. I noticed a friendly atmosphere and good rock music on the radio. My burger and fries arrived with a second beer, and an Astoria resident started talking about John Fogerty, as one of the artist's songs played on the radio. He told me that he knew John Fogerty and used to jam with him in Eastern Oregon. According to this gentleman, John escaped the city by moving to Troy, Oregon, a small town on the Idaho border. The man lived over the border in Idaho and played in a bar band. He met John at a bar and they soon became friends. He recounted many weekends where John would have keg parties at his house and they would play in the backyard. The man was not boasting or trying to impress anyone with his story. He simply imparted his experience to the patrons of the bar, and I drank it in.
On my third beer, a boisterous and big-boned man entered Portway and asked for a Budweiser bottle. The bar allowed for microbrew lovers and blue-collar types to coexist. The establishment was a mix of old versus new Astoria, and I felt quite comfortable. A female at the bar asked the new visitor if he was from Astoria, and he said that he had just transferred there and worked for a cable TV company. The woman responded, “That makes sense, as not many people would willingly choose to come to Astoria.”
He said, “This place is not bad. It beats Tillamook, where I was working before.” They both proceeded to bash Tillamook for its pungent dairy air.
The woman told the cable guy that in Astoria, “What you see is what you get and it ain’t going to change.” She added, “A lot of people have come here with big ideas and left a year later with their tails between their legs and dreams shattered.”
These Astoria locals painted me a thumbnail sketch of their town and I deferred to them. I left Portway with an early afternoon glow and an education to boot.
Astoria, while captivating and full of potential promise, is also a bit guarded and resilient like its weather-worn residents. The city welcomes new faces and ideas but it will not sacrifice its core for the sake of "progress." Its erstwhile legacy of a pioneering port city acts as a built-in layer of protection, fighting off would-be intruders, and retaining its unique quality and allure. That was the message I received loud and clear from those astute Portway patrons. And that's the Astoria I love.