Sometimes you have to risk the rapids by yourself

Going alone can be challenging but worth the effort

I don’t need to go white water rafting or climb Mount Kilimanjaro to have an adventure. I just need to drive the Oregon coast in November. 

I survived to write this post, so that’s something. We in the Pacific Northwest have been receiving daily warnings: bomb cyclone, atmospheric river, high winds, high surf, high water (high everything including whoever is smoking pot near my hotel room tonight). Where I live, it wasn’t any worse than an average storm, but folks to the north and south were hammered by wild weather. Meanwhile, it was time for my Thanksgiving pilgrimage to California. I had a choice of snow on I-5 or rain on the coast. I chose rain.

Getting me out of my house is like detaching a giant suction cup. I don’t want to go away. I want to stay home with all my stuff just the way I like it. But there are no people in my house. There are no new experiences in my house. What is in my house is endless responsibilities, endless robocalls, endless hours unable to look away from my various screens, and endless feeling like no matter what I do I will never catch up. 

That big sucking sound you might have heard yesterday was me detaching from my house and driving away. I’m not supposed to tell people I’m not home, but hey, bad guys, my neighbor with all the guns will not hesitate to shoot you if you approach my house. No matter who you voted for. 

As I drove south, the weather was . . . colorful. Hard rain, soft rain, sprinkles, sunshine, sunshine with sideways rain . . . Near Seal Rock, I saw a rainbow patch over the ocean. That had to be a good omen.

Detached from my screens, I started noticing things, like the dark blue water along the horizon and the icy green closer in, the different shades of trees and leaves everywhere, and the glorious rock formations in the surf. I noticed the colorful names of things. Kissing Rock. Hug Creek. Thor’s Well. 

As I ventured beyond familiar territory, I kept noticing, noticing, noticing. My mind was buzzing with ideas, most of which I recorded on my voice recorder. Separating myself from my house opened the door. With no one else to interrupt the flow, the ideas just kept coming. 

By the time I stopped for lunch in Gold Beach, this trip was starting to feel less like open heart surgery and more like a vacation. Here I was in a seaside restaurant enjoying the biggest glass of iced tea ever, along fresh tuna, and oh well, tasteless French fries. I brought a book, but I didn’t want to read. I wanted to look around, absorb, and savor. I lingered over my lunch, then bought Christmas presents in the gift shop, where I had a great conversation with the owner, and walked to my car in the sunshine, thinking life is good. 

I’m not sure what it says about me that my favorite part of most trips is the journey between here and there when I have no other obligations than to get to that night’s destination, in this case Eureka, California.

This is where we get to the white-water rafting. Highway 101, aka the Coast Highway, winds along the ocean for many miles then dips inland through the redwoods. Lovely, you say. Not so much when big highway signs warn, “Extreme Weather. Avoid all unnecessary travel.” What? Today? Here? And then the rain started falling so hard I couldn’t see. In places, the road was flooded, and my tires didn’t want to grip the road.

Oh, that extreme weather. 

I was surrounded by log trucks and RVs splashing more water at me, and it felt like I was driving blind through a river. While my stereo blasted the songs from “Le Miserable,” a message flashing in my car told me it couldn’t help with navigation because it couldn’t see either. But what can you do? Stop and let the weather pound you indefinitely? Cause a crash  trying to turn around when it’s just as bad behind you? No, you have to go forward and hope it gets better. 

I shouted, “Hallelujah!” when I saw the freeway after six hours of two-lane roads and minimal visibility. Twenty miles north of Eureka, I stopped at a beautiful rest stop with a short trail to an ocean view, then set my GPS for the Best Western on Fifth Street.  

It was still raining. I took my daily walk anyway. It’s colorful here, too, in the should-you-be-walking-alone-in-this-neighborhood sense. I pulled up my hood and trudged on, looking as ruffled as the homeless folks I passed. Except that I had teeth and I did not have a shopping cart. I walked past dozens of low-budget hotels and rundown shops and looped back to the Best Western and dinner at Kristina’s. 

You could have fed four people on my shrimp and avocado salad. One of the problems with dining alone: no sharing.  

But I was not lonely. Not at all.

I am so glad I broke the suction that held me at home. Before I left, I was so stressed that I felt sick. I thought I might have to cancel my trip. Once I hit the road, I felt fine.

The rest of the drive should be easier, but you never know. One Thanksgiving, when I was almost to Dad’s house, I ran into a bicycle that had fallen off someone’s vehicle in the middle of the 680 freeway. Tore my tires to bits. God knows how I got across four lanes of traffic to the side to call AAA. Stuff happens. 

Can I do this alone? Yes, I can.  And I can do it my way in my time, which means breaking the trip into several days, turning it into half writing and music retreat. I’m thinking seriously about not doing the Thanksgiving trip next year because it’s not the holiday that matters as much as seeing the people I love. Why, after twenty-eight years of this Oregon-Bay Area commute, did I have to drive through a river to figure that out? 

Most of my adventures are more internal than external. Sometimes setting up a lunch date is as challenging as climbing a mountain. Throwing a party would be like hiking the Appalachian trail. In the snow. And staying alive through Bay Area traffic will be like rowing the gnarliest rapids. Sometimes you have to break the suction and do it, even if you have to do it alone.

Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you for being here.

What is your most challenging adventure? 

Photo copyright 2024 Sue Fagalde Lick

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How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available now at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.