It's a steep and winding climb to the Otter Crest Scenic Viewpoint that overlooks Cape Foulweather, a site made famous for its beauty, and by Captain James Cook's historic nautical explorations. I journey by road, by car, a means of exploration that will, also, one day be historic.
I journey here in search of a soil in which to plant the stories inside me. I venture into the clouds in the hopes of finding a place to to ground myself.
It was the opening chapter of Barry Lopez's book, Horizon, that inspired me to seek this vista. His eloquent and vulnerable words that described his experiences with this region, and his impressions of historic explorers whose search for opportunities more often than not resulted in the exploitation of animals, land, and other human beings. I have hopes that, perhaps, in literally seeing what Lopez had seen, I might better understand myself as a writer. That I might access some formula to make literary sense of the sea of words inside me.
It was in the late part of the fateful year of 2020 that I discovered Lopez's work, his words and worldly experiences guiding me across hundreds of miles as I created my own adventures on the road. His journeys, his experiences, and his vulnerable offerings of his interpretation of the human experience fueled me as a writer. It was not until two and a half years later that I learned he had passed just weeks after my introduction to his existence. I felt and still feel an indescribable sense of loss that comes with the acceptance that I will never meet this role model in person.
What I sought to gain from such a meeting is not entirely clear. Perhaps I had expectations of inspirational exchanges, shared stories about travel and insights into humanity over coffee and walks in the Oregon woods where he lived, not far from my own home in Portland. Maybe I believed I could syphon some sort of energetic influence, a self-confidence that I might apply to the ever-aspiring, ever-struggling writer that grows within me. Possibly I simply wished to share of myself in the hopes of gaining approval from someone I deeply admired.
Here, 500 feet above the edge of the sea, I cast off these burdensome expectations. They are heavy, and sink easily into the abyss below.
I look out at the horizon. It is not linear. Certainly I could trace a line along it from one endpoint to another, but turn my head, travel another mile or a thousand in any direction, and I will encounter (and create!) another endpoint. And another. Even gazing into the horizon itself I see that it is infinite, that there is no absolute division between ocean and sky, between water and air, between one way or another.
I understand, now, the difference between my aspirations and my admiration. Lopez's perspective of life and humanity were his own, his writing a resource for inspired thinking, an invitation for introspection and growth.
There is no formula to be found here at Otter Crest, no eyes to see out of other than my own. I will continue to share my own vulnerable experiences, offer my own words, and hope that, through them, others may find themselves.
As I have found myself here.
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