Crossing the Bridge Into a Working Coastline

The road into North Bend always feels like crossing a threshold—the land narrowing, the water pulling closer, until finally, you rise up and over the Conde McCullough Memorial Bridge, a steel giant arching over Coos Bay since 1936. There’s something about that stretch—towering green trusses, the rhythmic hum of tires on steel grates, and then that neon sign blinking “Welcome to North Bend”—a coastal city that works as hard as it waves.

North Bend and its neighbor Coos Bay are Oregon’s working coast, built on timber, shipbuilding, and fishing—industries that shaped the region long before tourism found its way here. These are not polished resort towns.

They are real, gritty, alive with the hum of coastal industry, tugboats, and tides. And I love them for it.

The Escape Tower – A Place Built for Rest

I pulled up to the Escape Tower Airbnb just as the sun dropped into that perfect golden hour glow, casting soft amber light across the harbor and framing the tower like something out of a Wes Anderson film. But what makes this place special isn’t just how it looks—it’s the story behind it.

Created by locals who care deeply about community, wellness, and the power of intentional space, the Escape Tower isn’t just a quirky place to stay—it’s a retreat for the mind and soul. Every detail, from the rooftop observatory to the hot and cold plunge, the organic cotton bedding, the bidet, and even the absence of a TV, is designed to invite you to slow down, breathe deeply, and reconnect—with yourself, with the present moment, and with the natural world just beyond the windows.

You can feel the heart they’ve put into it—a place built not to impress, but to heal.
A quiet sanctuary created by people who know how much we all need more peace.

Books, Records, and That Feeling of Coming Home

Inside, I found shelves lined with books I’ve loved for years—favorites I’d forgotten, somehow waiting for me here. Stacks of vinyl records, a well-loved turntable, and that familiar crackle as the needle dropped. It felt less like checking into an Airbnb, and more like coming home to some version of myself I’d almost lost track of. A version that reads by lamp light and lets music fill the empty spaces.

Bastendorff Beach, Cape Arago, and the Guardians of the Coast

The next morning, we drove out to Bastendorff Beach, where the ocean moved slow and glassy, quiet as breath. Out there, a lone surfer floated like a shadow, a ghost in the water—barely moving, barely real. It felt like the whole beach belonged to him and the sea alone.

In the parking lot, we met a woman who felt like a mirror—a beach bum with a cause, wind in her hair, kindness in her eyes. She knelt to greet Elvis, smiling like she understood exactly why we’d come. On her car, a “Breach the Dams” sticker, sun-faded but fierce. A reminder that the sea and the rivers are one story, and saving one means standing up for them both.

I felt that familiar tug—melancholy and belonging all tangled together—the way this coast always finds the quiet parts of me and calls them home.

Up on the bluff, the Coast Guard station stood still, watching over it all.

And for a moment, I stood there too—part of it, not apart from it.

The Raw Power of Shore Acres

No matter how many times I visit, Shore Acres always pulls me in. But this time, the waves were out to lunch—the sea stretched out calm and glassy, like it was taking a day off from showing off.

I wore my Oregon State Parks Whale Watch hat and my Salty Raven whale watch sweatshirt, standing on the edge, scanning the horizon for movement, for something just out of reach. The sun felt like an old friend, warming my face, softening the air.

I stood there for a long time—not looking for whales, really, but looking for something.
The edge of what’s next, whatever that might be.

And somehow, the quiet felt like permission to just be here, breathing with the sea.

We wandered from the cliffs to the garden, slipping from salt spray into something that felt like a dream in full color. Rhododendrons lit up the pathways like neon signs, bursting pink, red, and electric purple against the deep green. It felt almost tropical, like we’d stepped through a secret doorway into another world.

This was once the Simpson family estate, built by a timber baron who brought this coastal bluff to life with roses, lilies, and manicured paths. The mansion is long gone, but the gardens remain—a legacy of ambition and splendor, proving what’s possible when you dare to shape beauty on the edge of the Pacific.

Today, it’s cared for by a small army of volunteers, people who keep this place blooming season after season. Visitors can help too—by donating, by showing up to pull weeds or plant bulbs, or simply by walking these paths with care and gratitude.

It’s a place that reminds you—even the wildest coast can bloom when someone loves it enough to make it so.

Lunch at Seven Devils – Oysters, Fish, and Pickled Things

For lunch, we landed at Seven Devils Waterfront Alehouse, where I devoured baked oysters and a fresh seafood appetizer plate—smoked cod, tuna, and halibut served with pickled veggies that hit just the right balance of brine and bite. Coastal eating at its absolute finest.

Full-Circle Moment at the Egyptian Theater

I’ve always had a soft spot for historic buildings—the ones that hold stories in their walls, the ones that survive against all odds. So when I first visited the Egyptian Theatre in Coos Bay last November, I felt that familiar tug. I snapped a photo in front of the neon sign, not knowing why I felt so pulled to it… just knowing I had to capture the moment.

Six months later, one of my followers sent me a hand-painted tile from the 1950s, salvaged during the theater’s 2014 restoration—a real piece of its history, now in my hands. It felt like the building itself had reached back to me.

Built in 1925 by Charles Noble, the Egyptian wasn’t just another theater—it was a palace, designed with towering columns, hieroglyphic motifs, and glowing starry skies on the ceiling. It’s seen decades of performers, moviegoers, and dreamers, surviving fires, closure, and near demolition.

But she’s still here—because of the volunteers.
Locals who refused to let her crumble.
People who gave their time, their hands, and their hearts to bring her back to life.

Standing outside again, looking up at the marquee, I realized that places like this don’t survive by accident. They survive because people fight for them—people who know that some things are worth saving.

The Port, the Prefontaine Mural, and a City That Moves

On our way back, we stopped by the Steve Prefontaine mural, honoring Coos Bay’s most legendary athlete—a small-town kid who ran his way onto the world stage. Born and raised here, Pre put Marshfield High School on the map long before he became a record-breaking runner at the University of Oregon. His spirit still lingers on these streets, reminding visitors that world-class dreams are born in places just like this.

Just a few blocks away, you can hear the steady pulse of Oregon’s largest deep-draft coastal port—a working waterfront that’s been moving timber, seafood, and freight for over a century. Originally settled as a coal mining and shipbuilding hub in the mid-1800s, Coos Bay grew into one of the Pacific Northwest’s most important timber ports, shipping millions of board feet of lumber to markets around the world.

Today, the Port of Coos Bay remains a major economic engine, supporting shipping, fishing, and rail freight, with the Coos Bay Rail Line connecting the coast to inland Oregon. Fishing fleets still bring in fresh seafood, from Dungeness crab to Pacific cod, while timber and wood products continue to move through the port’s shipping terminals.

Coos Bay isn’t just a coastal town—it’s a vital link in Oregon’s economy, a living, working harbor that has shaped the state’s industry, identity, and culture for generations. Standing there, looking up at Pre’s mural and out across the port, it’s clear that this city is still moving, still building, and still playing a big role in the story of the Oregon Coast.

One Last Rooftop Sunset – Vintage Finds and Big Sky Dreams

Los Andes Mt. Hood Blanket (and this view)

Back at the tower, I spread out my finds from Vintage 101, one of my favorite rituals anytime I pass through a small town. Rural Oregon is full of forgotten treasures, and I love nothing more than digging through old racks and dusty bins, hunting for pieces that feel like they carry memory.

This time, I found a California Thunderbirds hat, the kind that instantly made me think of two legacies—the Thunderbird of Native legend, a powerful sky spirit said to bring thunder and rain, and the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds, the precision pilots who fill the skies with sound and speed. With Memorial Day just around the corner, it felt like the perfect piece to honor both myths and memory, sky and service.

I paired it with a 1970s JC Penney varsity sweater, worn soft with time, and a stack of Pat Metheny jazz albums—the kind of music that feels like water, moving in and out of melody like waves on the shore. Next to them, a swanky Harrods ashtray, the kind of thing you’d picture on a glass table in some smoky, velvet-lined lounge, adding just the right touch of retro charm.

But the thing that caught my breath the most was a strand of Indigenous-made beads, shaped like whale eyes—or evil eyes, depending on who’s telling the story. Here on the coast, whales have long been keepers of mystery and medicine, appearing in legends as messengers, protectors, and guides through rough waters. The beads glinted like tiny oceans in my hands, a quiet reminder of the deeper stories woven into this coastline, long before ships and sawmills arrived.

Sitting there, surrounded by these objects—sky, sea, song, and story—I felt like I’d gathered little pieces of Oregon’s past, carrying them forward into whatever comes next.

The night closed on the rooftop, but not before we celebrated something I’d planned for weeks—Elvis’ 5th birthday, my adventure dog and constant shadow. I packed his favorite treats and spread out my Los Andes Shop Mt. Hood blanket—my new go-to travel companion, soft and steady beneath us as we watched the day give way to night.

From the rooftop, the view stretched wide—the timber stacks rising like monuments, the steady hum of the mills, the soft blink of the airport lights as small planes came and went over the bay. Standing there, you feel like you’re floating in the in-between, part of the sky, the sea, and the slow, breathing rhythm of a town that works with its hands and dreams with its whole heart.

This place is soulful and industrious. It’s not trying to impress you with polish or perfection. It stands on hard-earned pride—built on timber, salt air, and the people who’ve kept it alive through every tide and turn.

I ended the night with one more hot and cold plunge cycle—a shock to the system in the best way. Cold water sharpens you. Hot water soothes you. Together, they wake you up in ways you didn’t know you needed. Standing barefoot under the stars, skin tingling, breath steady, I felt lighter, clearer, and more alive than I had in weeks.

We stayed on the rooftop until the wind picked up and the night folded in, knowing this wasn’t just another coastal getaway.
This was the soul of the working coast—industrious, alive, and full of quiet power.
And it’s a place I’ll carry with me, long after I’m gone.