I drove a long way to a place that helped save my life, a disheveled RV Park that rests within ear shot of the ocean and named after a dead Indian tribe.
In 2016 I found it by sheer chance, while I had lit out for the unknown territory after my life blew up. I somehow found this place, met Earl and Carolyn, Wendy and Kevin, Gary and Linda, the Sea Star, Turkey’s, secret beaches, Gold Beach Books, the Rogue River, the residents of the RV park, and began to rebuild an identity and forge a new sense of purpose. Sometimes can’t even believed it happened. Had it not, well, I probably wouldn’t be around. I met new people who had an interest in my rehabilitation, while people I thought were my friends did not care. Funny how crisis brings that out.
I rallied here. I wrote well. I amassed the greatest collection of beaverwood in the history of the world. I built 500 driftwood forts. I became the Shiner Kid on a construction site. I planted thousands of trees in a wrecked watershed. I took magic mushrooms for the first time and communed with chipmunks. I took my fiction in an entirely new direction. I took one of the great loves of my life on a trip along the Elk River. I found an interesting and unique voice for my Oregon writing. I also started a podcast and explored that creative format.
All of that was ending when my stepmother died and duty called me to take care of my father. I answered that call.
So I came here for one last check in, to say thanks, to meditate on my time here. I know a book of some kind is emerging from my experience on the Southern Oregon Coast, and it will somehow merge with my new experience in Portland with the homeless community. I was thinking about that on the drive down from Portland, when I was watching elk, and meandering in the fog of Pistol River. I have no idea when I will start that book.
I also have no idea if I will ever return to the park. It seems that time is truly over.