Goodnight, Moon

Savoring Unexpected Views on the Oregon Coast

Tonight’s sunset over Siletz Bay and the Pacific Ocean

I arrived on the Oregon Coast this week, ready to research a story I’m sure you’ll hear about soon. My hotel, the Looking Glass Inn, sits near the northern edge of Siletz Bay in Lincoln City—where its namesake river drains into the Pacific Ocean; views, whether of the inlet or frothy waves beyond, are all lovely.

Last night, I returned to my room after dinner, changed into sweatpants, turned on the fireplace, and took a seat next to the window—where I’d spend the evening writing a blog post for one of my clients. Everything about it, down to the rain trying to dent my window, felt downright cozy.

Somewhere in there, I gazed outside, peered through the drizzle, and spied a full moon just above the horizon.

Clouds bashfully adorning its edges, almost apologetic about disrupting such a magical moment, the moon absolutely glowed like a streetlight. How it broke through the gray on such a blustery night, I didn’t know—but that made the scene all the more rapturous.

I closed my laptop, trying to be mindful of this surprising sight. I never even bothered to capture it with my phone; the moon might have been the size of a dinner plate, but a photo would do it justice. This was a private, almost sacred, experience that I shared with only a few attentive souls.

I wondered if any hearty beachgoers were seeing this while lounging on a driftwood log; I thought about my fellow guests catching an unexpected glimpse as they closed the curtains in their rooms and fell under a similar spell; I was curious whether servers at Pelican Brewing Company, just across the bay, were caught up in the moon—and if that transcendent sight made the late shift on a slow Monday evening worth it.

Mostly, though, I reveled in the bounty that Mother Nature feeds us at the most unexpected moments. From the rugged Oregon Coast to red-rock formations in southern Utah to the calving glaciers of Alaska and beyond, the natural world is always hard at work, constantly moving, steadily changing, dreaming up new gifts for future generations to unwrap, oblivious to our pinprick of a presence on Earth. How lucky are we, I pondered, to be alive right now? I could visit the Oregon Coast another dozen times in winter and never see the moon, to say nothing of a full moon radiating light like this, a joyous reminder that there’s always a bit of beauty around us—if only we’d close our laptops, put down our phones, and stop to look for it on occasion.

And then I woke up this morning and realized I’d been marveling at a light post all night.

What I’m Excited About Right Now

Flying kites near Heceta Head

If you’re new to this newsletter—or have understandably forgotten all about it since opening the first issue nearly six weeks ago—a quick refresher:

In each issue of this newsletter, I’d love to include the occasional link to my writing—above and beyond what I’ll eventually post to Trails, Tales & Ales. I write a lot of fun travel stories for some awesome clients and publications, and I’d like to share those when I’m especially stoked on a piece.

In this case, I’m thrilled to share a story I wrote for the Oregon Coast Visitors Association about how you (yes, you!) can resolve to be kind to the coast in 2023.

Generally, I’m not a “New Year's resolutions” kind of guy—but this is one I can get behind. In the piece, I offered a few tips for how to respectfully admire the abundance of wildlife along the Oregon Coast, stay safe on your outdoor adventures, and pitch in to help keep the coast clean for visitors in 2024 and beyond. You might even see me at a cleanup event this spring or summer.

Thanks for reading! I’ll try not to wait another six weeks between issues. Sorry about that.

Take care,
Matt