The central Oregon coast is hundreds of miles of the greenest greenwood, threaded by the arteries of thick rivers. It’s lush with Sitka spruce, cedars, and an almost impenetrable understory of ferns, creeping buttercups, salal, huckleberries, wax myrtle and wild rhododendrons. The marshland around the river mouths teems with flora and animal life; mosses grow everywhere, decorating the trees with soul patches and beards of luxe velvet whiskers.
The beaches and dunes (oh, those dunes, those rolling goldeny mountains of sand) are timeless stretches of forever, wave-worn tidal expanses littered with shattered clamshells like so much broken china, and cluttered along their wind-carved faces with driftwood, crab molts and sand dollars.
Here there is space to breathe; to stretch out and run, or ride a bike or horse for miles without seeing another soul but that of a snowy plover.
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