Whale of a Morning
Mother Nature elegantly frames her messages like a master novelist or clever filmmaker. At least that's the inkling I sense while driving along Highway 126, heading for the coast.
Rolling past Fern Ridge Lake, a red-tailed hawk skims over the roadway, just past the empty osprey nest that will lure a young couple preparing to start a family as spring springs.
Yet today, a gentle snowfall frosts the tops of fir branches lining the roads of the Coastal Range — a reminder that winter lingers.
Once past Mapleton, the Siuslaw River combines with the soft morning light and swirling haze to remind me that this unquestionably stands as my favorite stretch of any of Oregon's rivers — until I find myself along the banks of the McKenzie or Middle Fork or Umpqua or Santiam or Crooked, when the same feeling oozes from inside.
Along the Siuslaw, the stillness sometimes clutches my essence so deep inside I realize how shallow I live at other times in my life. This is one of those instances.
A couple of king fishers perch on the utility wire, scanning the ripple-less river for signs of breakfast.
Just a few miles outside of Florence, a bald eagle soars out of the north, leans just enough east to fly straight over me and give me a spectacular view as if leading the way to a grand adventure.
The sunshine in Florence catches me a bit off guard, even more so as I turn north on Highway 101 and face a pitch-blue sky ahead. Snow flies wildly on a stiff breeze off the Pacific, so much so that you can see tire marks in the icy accumulation on the climb leading up to the rocky edges of Haceta Head.
The weather, upon Mother Nature's command, seems to challenge my resolve, testing exactly how much I want to pay my respects. As the lively images of my journey cascade through my mind, I realize nothing will keep me from my destination.
I'm not the kind of guy who wants to run out and see a dead whale for the sake of seeing something dead, or something big. When I heard the news this morning, that a fin whale washed ashore at Haceta Head, I felt drawn to go. To, and this might sound rather strange, pay my respects.
Strange, I say, since I've never attended the memorial service of someone I didn't know personally.
I've often wondered, as I've watched from afar, what would move a person to feel the urge to pay tribute of someone who did not have an immediate impact on his or her life.
I wonder no more.
Reports say that the whale, which usually stays far from the coastal waters, was spotted on Saturday and under duress. It eventually died, and washed up on the beach in the rocky inlet down from the picturesque lighthouse.
As I emerge from the 101 tunnel, onto the Cape Creek bridge, I can't see any signs of exactly where the whale might be down below. I turn down Cape Creek Road, into the park (strangely enough, I later see the southbound entrance is closed off with orange tape and markers, but not the northbound entrance).
Once I pull beneath the historic bridge, the view hits me square on. An image I'll not soon forget.
It takes a while to realize the engine is still running and the truck is still in gear. And even longer for me to pry myself out of the truck. I'm not sure everything that races through my mind actually registers, as I stand weak-kneed looking at the belly of the whale.
The grooves of its underside strike me as one giant fingerprint, so distinctive and detailed. Its back and tail appear battered and bruised from, no doubt, the beating the surf and rocks administered as the tides of nature carried it to its final resting place.
I only hope that the damage had been inflicted post-mortem, although an expert did theorize it probably had been hit by a prop blade.
Once out of the truck, though, a strange thing happens. As I take some photographs and video, the whale comes alive, in many ways, for me.
In gauging its size, I realize it's about as long as city bus. It suddenly acquires movement. Instead of lumbering like a bus down the street, the whale's sleek design appears perfect for slicing through ocean swells.
I can see the ocean blue well up just before its tail bursts from the sleepy deep, and majestically disappears again as it follows a rolling dive with a thrust to rocket this massive vessel to the bottom of the sea.
Its mouth agape, I can imagine the huge volume of water and creatures it sucks in as it feeds in lively deep-sea beds. I see it among its peers, who glance through the murky waters and recognize it from its belly pleats.
As much as it fascinates me, the sheer power of its life seem to dwarf everything that surrounds it. Just as quickly as its spirit consumes me, it begs for peace.
My Black Lab and I drive up a mile or so, to the Lighthouse and Hobbit Beach trailheads. We hike the half-mile jaunt down to the beach, and have it all to ourselves, for as far as the eye can see.
The clouds darken again, and a squall rushes through, dumping snow and hail on us as we study the wildly churning ocean. There's no telling how many fin whales, not to mention other creatures, live large beneath the surface. Why, I wonder, has Mother Nature brought this life to our attention — my attention?
After hiking up, then down, the beach, we squat for a while, soaking in the experience.
In just a matter of minutes, the snow clouds blow away and sun pokes through the clouds.
The previously ominous ocean now sparkles.
Full circle.
Mother Nature framing her gospel.
Taking us in cycles.
Around and around and around.
Dark and light.
Cold and warm.
Death and life.