Lost in Appalachia

With the advent of GPS I have noticed that many have become dependent on the new technology. On our trip to North Carolina I quickly learned that there are so many roads that even some of the locals rely heavily on GPS to do simple tasks such as driving home. 

As my in-laws drove us around, I studied the roads and paid attention to our location. For a newcomer I wasn't doing too bad, but understood I had a long way to go. I was becoming so confident in my newly acquired skills that at times I was skeptical of their GPS. 

On day four of our adventure we found ourselves in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina near the magnificent cascade of Mingo Falls. It was our last stop of the day. 

Mingo Falls.

The Blue Ridge Mountains, which include the Great Smokies, are a wild and enchanting range. Lying near the border with Tennessee, they are home to a remnant of the Cherokee Indians. With the coming of the Europeans at the time before the Revolution, a large number of Scotch, Irish and Welsh also moved into the area. The rugged isolation led to the molding of a unique culture. 

My sister-in-law drove. I sat in the back seat. We were three hours from her home. The GPS told us to turn right. I thought we should turn left because that's the way we came. Even though I expressed my concern, I decided to swallow my pride and let the GPS guide. After all, I had already been proven wrong once. 

We made the right-hand turn and followed the Raven Fork of the Oconaluftee River. I was curious to see where it would land us. We were already on a small side-road with tall rolling hills all around. 

We followed the GPS like devoted sheep, going deeper into the Carolina backwoods by the minute. We passed the occasional double-wide trailer or perhaps a campground with fishermen. 

Suddenly the GPS told us to turn on to a dead-end road. We thought it was bluffing. But as soon as we passed the turnoff, it told us to pull into another. When we did we saw two dogs and a man. We didn't want to get shot, so we quickly backed out. 

The truth is, we didn't know what we'd find. This neck of the woods is steeped in stereotypical tradition that may or may not be true. We didn't want to find a Deliverance-like scenario, full of shotgun-toting mountain people who were inbred and missing teeth, making moonshine and ready to shoot on sight.⸺ But, I wouldn't have minded coming across a song of dueling banjos played by two old men sitting on a porch.  That would have fascinated me.  

We learned that the GPS was telling us to turn around. So we did. We didn't know if it changed its mind, or if we missed a turn, but now it was telling us to cross the bridge and head onto Bunches Creek Road. 

If we thought we were on a side-road before, well now . . . we were on a side-road of a side road! This new path meandered inside a narrow canyon choked with oak and hickory trees. 

We double-checked the GPS, zooming it out to see where the road led. Sure enough, it eventually led us to Soco Road. But did we trust it? 

So we continued our drive. And guess what? The road turned to gravel! 

And it began to climb. 

Lost somewhere in the North Carolina backwoods.

We saw it coming on the GPS. Switchbacks with sharp hair-pin curves, drawn out like a long, long snake. I will admit that my wife and I were enjoying the adventure, but my sister-in-law⸺who was our chauffeur⸺was a bit on the nervous side. She said her stomach had begun to churn. 

At least it wasn't dark. Not yet. We had a couple more hours. I thought of several scenarios. The road could become washed away. Or perhaps we could come across a gate blocking the road. ⸺I remember hunting elk as a boy with my father and getting lost for several hours in the dark. Finally we found the main road, but it was blocked by a fence! Dad didn't hesitate to take out wire-cutters and snip our way through! 

Now, here in North Carolina, at least the road stayed in good condition. The tread on our tires was as good as new. We had four-wheel drive if needed. But the road was only wide enough for one vehicle. Good thing we didn't see another soul. 

By the time we climbed the switchback we sat at nearly 5,000 feet. That's pretty high for the Eastern United States. When the pathway straightened out, we came to a paved road at last! This was the famed Blue Ridge Parkway. 

We weren't completely out of the woods yet, but at least we were on pavement. Now we knew our road wouldn't piddle out and become an obscure logging track. 

Big Witch Tunnel.

Within one minute we passed through the Big Witch Tunnel⸺perhaps a bad omen for a group of paranoid travelers! But we survived. 

Two more tunnels and a couple overlooks and soon we came to a “T.” The GPS told us to turn left . . . onto Soco Road! 

At last we had made it. I guess the GPS knew where it was taking us all along, but I still doubt it was the quickest route. Perhaps it was the best choice after all, because it gave us one more adventurous story to tell. ♠

 

The crew.

 

Coos Bay, Oregon

The name is derived from the Coos Indians that lived in the area when the first white settlers arrived. The Coos lived in villages and used the land to hunt, fish and gather. Their neighbors were the Siuslauan, Kalapuyan, and Umpqua. 

One of the first European explorers to pass through was Jedediah Smith. Tragedy struck in 1828 as his party was moving northward into Oregon. Just twenty miles north of present-day Coos Bay was the site of the Umpqua Massacre. Escalating mistrust and violence led members of the Coquille tribe to kill all but four of Smith's party, he being one of the lucky few who survived. The Smith River, a tributary of the Umpqua, is named in his honor. 

Smith River near site of Umpqua Massacre.

The first permanent European settlers came to the bay in 1853, giving it the name Marshfield. Early settlers were very isolated from the rest of the world as any inland route would have required a trek through dense timber and over rivers. The ocean was the “easy” route to travel. 

Naturally, the sea has always been a source of income. The main industries today are fishing, timber, agriculture and tourism. After years of being fascinated by the name of the town, I was now excited to visit for myself and see what Coos Bay had to offer. 

Contrary to my previous notions, the city is not on the coast. Highway 101 comes from the south moving inland after Bandon. Greenery is everywhere, the road sometimes becoming a corridor of tall douglas-fir on both sides of the pavement. Our pathway followed a river that eventually widened into a body of water big enough for large ships. This was Coos Bay. 

Coos Bay Boardwalk.

Docked boats in Coos Bay.

Next to the bay was a boardwalk. On the boardwalk was a seafood market advertising clam chowder. There was also a ship museum showcasing several vessels. 

We ate at a local eatery off the 101 called Sharkbites. Due to Covid-19 restrictions we weren't allowed to eat inside, but instead ate at a picnic table along the bay. I ate fish and chips, which included tarter sauce and a lemony coleslaw. 

Steve Prefontaine, a 1972 Olympian, was born and raised in Coos Bay, Oregon. He tragically died at age 24, just before '76 Olympics.

Jenna and I stopped at the Marshfield Pioneer Cemetery. (The former town of Marshfield was renamed Coos Bay in the 1930's.) The cemetery appeared to be locked up at all entrance points, but we found a gate with a padlock that wasn't fastened. So we entered. 

The cemetery lies on a hill overlooking part of town. It was chosen purposefully to be above the high water table. It is next to the high school. Nearly all the headstones were hewn from the same gray rock, which seems to have preserved well the inscriptions. 

Marshfield Cemetery looking over Coos Bay.

It was interesting that headstone after headstone was toppled or broken is some form or another. After an extensive examination of the cemetery, I determined that at some point it must have been severely vandalized. There was no way that such a large amount of headstones just happened to break. 

Many of the graves dated back to the late 1800's. The earliest I found was 1873, belonging to Emma Morse Golden. It is probable that she was disinterred from another location and reinterred in Marshfield since the cemetery was only founded in 1888. 

Cemetery on a hill in Coos Bay, Oregon.

I was interested to find several death dates from the fall of 1909. One of them belonged to Peter Gustaf Larson, a Swedish-born logger who died in a tragic accident at Smith's Basin, about five miles in the interior from the Coos River. His story is related from Find A Grave: 

“He was acting as hook tender when a large log being drawn by the donkey engine slipped and came sliding back down the incline, striking Mr. Larson and crushing one leg from the thigh to the ankle in a horrible manner. The log also struck another man, the force of which threw him forty feet into a brush pile, but he escaped without injury and assisted in caring for Mr. Larson. 

“The poor fellow was carried by men of the camp through the narrow slashing to the roadway, a distance of nearly five miles. Here he was loaded into a wagon and hurried on to the river where a passing boat was hailed. A phone message brought Dr. Mingus who met them on their way in and administered stimulants. It was late when they arrived and the injured man was placed in the General Hospital at Marshfield. Every attention was given him, but the terrible pain proved too great a shock for his system to stand, and he gradually grew weaker until death relieved him of his suffering at about midnight.” 

Grave of Peter Gustaf Larson.

The following morning, under a misty and overcast sky, we took a drive west of Coos Bay to a small town called Charleston. My goal was to find a particular oyster farm. We turned off onto a dirt road and passed what looked to me like a boat graveyard. All sizes and shapes of ships sat on dry ground, many covered in rust and others in workable condition. We drove around with curiosity but didn't stay long because we felt like we were trespassing. 

Rusty ship near South Slough.

Not far from there I found the place I was looking for⸺Qualman Oyster Farms. I will admit that I know nothing about oysters, nor have I eaten any except the kind that come in a can. So here I didn't know what to expect. 

The oyster farm was located on the east side of South Slough. A “slough” is a common geographical term here, and the nearest I can tell, it seems to be a body of water that rises and falls with the tide, creating a swampy environment. Perhaps one hour it is a river or lake, and the next it is a muddy mess. 

We noticed that near the farm stood heaps of oyster shells. They piled shells like we pile gravel or dirt. “What could they be using that for?” I wondered. 

Piles of oyster shells.

We found a small storefront and parked on the graveled drive. While the family stayed in the van, I went inside to find our options. I didn't know if I'd find a store, a restaurant, or something else. 

I quickly learned that this was not a store, at least not in the traditional sense. They only sold one thing and that was oysters. The lady up front was very friendly. If we had a nearby home where we could have taken the oysters to cook them, I would have bought some. But, we didn't. 

I asked her about the pile of shells outside and she told me they were for reseeding. They own 235 acres of prime oyster beds, most of them in the South Slough, and produce 4,000 to 6,000 gallons of fresh oysters every year. She gave me a brochure to read and unfortunately we went on our way with nothing else to see or do at the oyster farm. 

Davey Jones Locker in Charleston, Oregon, just outside Coos Bay.

We drove over South Slough on a bridge, then to a small cluster of stores. We walked inside a shop called Davey Jones Locker and found a tiny store with all the necessities for fishing as well as a scant selection of food. 

Across the street at Chuck's Seafood they sold oysters and other seafood by the bucket. We bought a small cup of clam chowder and a stick of smoked salmon. The lady said they just pulled it out of the smoker last night. Both were the best I had ever had. The chowder was creamy and buttery with extremely tender chunks of clam. 

It was time to move on as we had to travel further up the coast. We drove back towards Coos Bay where we rejoined the 101. We navigated our way onto a causeway that crossed the bay and then onto terrain lined with forest and occasional boggy ground. Soon we crossed another bridge near the confluence of the Umpqua and Smith Rivers. ♠

 

Salmon stick and clam chowder.

 

Magallanes Bay and Grilled Fish

We rode to Playa Magallanes on horseback over a trail that passed through thick jungle and a stunning Caribbean coastline. We didn't intend on halting our journey so soon, but we asked our guides to continue without us. We were staying here. 

Magallanes Beach is in a small cove on the outskirts of town. There was no fine white sand on this rough shoreline. A half-dozen trees provided shade and a pile of stacked chairs had a sign that read “For rent.” Beyond the “sandy” part of the beach was scattered trash and washed up piles of coral rock.

Magallanes is not a popular beach and for me that was part of the allure. We spotted two other people lounging quietly in the shade. A small group of Dominicans chilled in the water. 

We rolled out our towels over a ground of dirt and sticks. Jenelle wandered around looking for conch shells. 

I took off my shirt, slipped on water shoes, and donned a pair of goggles. I walked to the water and smoothly slid inside, slithering into the wet interior. It was clear and blue, the same color as larimar. I swam face-down, watching the white sand floor below me. Then I came up for air. 

Magallanes Bay has a sandy strip down the middle where swimming is made easy. But on both sides of the strip are coral reefs where swimming is a bit more delicate. 

After taking a few deep breaths I plunged again into the water and swam on the edge of the reef. Small fish swam in and out of the rocks, close enough I thought I could touch them. A small crab poked his head above a hole in the sand. Seaweed shimmied in the water at the whim of the current. Once again, I came up for air. 

When I went down again I swam over the reef. Suddenly a garden of plants and rocks and bigger fish rose from the bottom. I fought hard to keep my body floating far enough above the reef so as not to touch. I passed bright red corals growing from the rocks. 

For another twenty minutes I explored the bottom of the sea, taking note of anything of interest I could find. Then I walked up out of the water, dripping onto the sand. It didn't take long to dry off in the hot air. I replaced my shirt and shoes and we were ready to go. 

But we didn't have far to go. We walked across the street to a wooden gate made of 2x4's and bamboo sticks. If I hadn't known better, I would have missed it. 

I tried pushing open the gate, but it was blocked by a rock. I peeked inside and found a swarthy black man with a big smile and only one tooth. He came toward us. 

“Are you open?” I asked in Spanish. 

“Sí, sí.” He then call out his wife's name: “¡Tenemos clientes!” 

We were ushered inside their “back yard” where we sat at a table—one of three set up. A dog lay asleep next to us while two ducks searched for bugs on the ground. On the other side of a bamboo fence stood a wooden shack. This was the family home. 

The man's wife came with a red scarf over her hair and asked us if we wanted fish. I said yes, but that my wife wanted chicken. After taking our order, I saw her carry a slimy sea creature back to her shack. 

There are some people in this world that love eating at fancy restaurants, whose skin would crawl at the thought of what we were now doing. Not me. I was in heaven. This was the quintessential dining experience! 

Although our table had a fine red cloth draped over the top, it was still made of plastic and wobbled quite badly. The table sat on the dirt floor and above us a wooden overhang provided shelter in case of rain. We had the entire “restaurant” to ourselves. 

While we waited for our food the husband attempted to fix their ramshackle gate. I couldn't tell what he was doing, but he kept pounding a nail into a piece of wood, then placing it up to the gate. He wore no shirt, but tied a piece of rope around this chest and used it as a tool belt. 

At last our food came! 

My fish came with head, fins and tail still intact. Jenelle had her chicken and in the middle was served a large plate of rice and another of tostones, which are fried plantains. I was told that this very combination was popular on the beaches of the Dominican Republic. 

The fish was seasoned well, smoked and crispy on the outside. Inside was tender and moist. Using a fork I could easily scrape the flesh away from the bones. I ate the scales, meat and fins, but left the head, tail and bones. It was the best-tasting fish I ever had. 

We added a couple dashes of salt to the fried plantains. They were good, too. Crispy on the outside and soft in the middle, with a hint of sweetness. 

As we ate, a small green gecko climbed on the wall behind us. About that same time another dog joined us near the table, but the ducks had wandered off to another part of the yard. 

I left as satisfied as I had ever been. I was in someone's backyard eating fish, just a stone's throw away from the Caribbean Sea. It was worth every Dominican peso spent! ♠