Who says you can't drive the Oregon coast in one day? Barely 9 hours after I had landed, our stomaches heavy with breakfast, Craig, Josh and I loaded our gear into a Buick Rendezvous (or as the National agent called it, a "Ron Davis") and hit the road. We drove northwards along the scenic Columbia River to Astoria, Oregon where the river meets the Pacific. Astoria marks the western end of the Lewis & Clark trail, so it was perhaps fitting that it was here we began our own trail southward.

As expected, the Oregon coast was sagging wet under the "mono-cloud" that hangs over the Pacific Northwest from October through May. In some ways, this added to the beauty and authenticity of the landscape. The coast, as we discovered, is a varied muddle -- from soft clumps of beach accented by startling rocks jutting out of the tide, to dense forests of trees and fog, to wide open farmlands of cows whose milk fuels the Tilamook cheese industry. Sideroads from Highway 101 curl along steep bluffs held up by trees blown inland by brutal ocean winds. This Oregon coast was beautiful in its raw harshness.

Using one of our guidebooks, Josh had uncovered an out-of-the-way microbrewery called the Pelican Pub just 20 miles off the 101 on Cape Kiwanda. It would be our lunch stop. Pelican Pub sits on the beach overlooking the imposing Haystack Rock. The award-winning beer on tap had strange names like Doryman's Dark Ale, Tsunami Stout, and Kiwanda Creme Ale. After finally being seated (who would have imagined a 20-minute wait in a town of 1,027!) we toasted our 6 hours of driving to the Creme Ale and watched natives fete a wedding outside in the misty rain. The bride didn't seem too pleased... for the first few beers anyway.

We had a lot of mileage ahead of us yet and the Buick "Ron Davis" was up for it. Truth is, Buick's first attempt at an SUV is a decent success. I was impressed. It looks better than its ungainly cousin, the Pontiac Aztek, and drives better than the minivan chassis it's built on. It's not the road-hugging Japanese car I'm used to, but the more boat-like cushioned ride that you'd expect from a Buick. Fine for the open road, not great for whipping around corners through the National Redwood Forest or along the winds of Route 1.

There are only two states that strictly forbid self-service gas pumping. When we stopped in a small town to fill the tank, we learned that Oregon is one of them. The "pump jockeys" are friendly and gossiped willingly about the people that had been coming through that day. The pump next to ours, for example, had filled nearly $300 worth of gas -- apparently a construction crew coming through. Our tank brimming with petrol, the pump jockey wished us well and we sped back onto 101 South.

As the night began to creep over the eastern horizon, we started to consider our options for the night. Being men from Colorado, we did have a reputation to uphold -- our intention was to camp in the forest. But the impulse for creature comforts must have been pumping through our veins after sitting in an air-conditioned car all day. Craig had seen a motel offering rooms "from $34.99" and the decision was essentially made for us. I negotiated with the manager at the Oregon Trail Lodge to give us a double room (with extra towels!) for only $36.

It was my first night in a motel -- this place would probably not even qualify for a 1-star rating on Priceline (and I've stayed in 3-stars for less thanks to the latter). We must have been quite a site: sleeping inside our sleeping bags on the beds, preferring not to subject ourselves to whatever might be lurking in the sheets. The walls were thin and hollow and the lock on the door would inspire only enough confidence to lock out even the most determined gerbils. Heat ticked loudly from a ceiling box in the "master" bedroom. In the morning, the shower water was hot (but "tasted funny" according to Craig). We had survived this adventure.

Now Brookings, Oregon, is only 30 minutes from the California border.