The Oregon Coast is the fifth installment of Finding My Way Home. To view the previous installment, click here. If you wish to start from the beginning, click here. This is the ongoing story of the six years I spent as a vagabond photographer.

During the last few days of my stay in the Columbia Gorge, winter arrives. The prediction is for high winds and up to a foot of snow. The employees and owner of the park scoff at the forecast. “It doesn’t snow down here by the river,” they say. “Maybe up in the hills above the gorge, but not down here.” The high winds come. As I sit in my RV, petrified of the consequences of seventy mile per hour gusts and trees taller than a five-story building, I tell myself if I die, at least I made it this far. After living in terror a day or two, I realize that sitting there worrying has absolutely no effect on whether I will be smashed by a falling tree. Just as in my pre-vagabond life, there are some things I cannot control. And it does snow down by the river, about four inches, which along with the cold temperature and wind, makes the roads icy. Chain controls are in effect. I check with the park manager, knowing I do not have motorhome chains (not that I would want to try and drive the beast on icy roads anyway), and make arrangements to stay extra days if the chain controls aren’t lifted by the time my month is up.

Travel day arrives and the temperature is below freezing. Chains are still required for fifteen or twenty miles heading toward Portland. I pack up and anxiously await the thaw. Finally, they lift the chain controls as the temperature reaches close to forty degrees. I set out, knowing things could change at any minute. To say I am nervous would be an understatement. Hell, to say I’m petrified is probably an understatement! It feels as though this is my only chance to escape, and if it fails, I will be stuck here until spring. As expected, the first fifteen miles or so are white-knuckle territory. I pass what appears to be a deadly accident near Multnomah Falls. A small pickup truck has apparently lost control and is upside down on the median divider. The cab is smashed on the concrete wall and the scene is surrounded by police cars and an ambulance. Soon, the cold and snow transitions to rain. I breathe a sigh of relief. Even though I am in heavy Portland traffic, at least there is no more threat of ice for today. I’m heading for the Oregon coast.

I’ve chosen an RV park in Waldport, Oregon, based on research I did online when looking for places that accept monthly guests, and welcome dogs. I have been in contact with the owners and originally intended this to be my first monthly stay. During the “weather event,” I am in touch with them in case my arrival is delayed. At a stop for lunch in Sutherlin, Oregon, I call to let them know I am on my way via the Alsea Highway. If you’ve never traveled that particular route, I highly recommend it. It’s a beautiful drive, but not if you’re in a hurry. The road is extremely twisty, making travel slow, especially if you’re driving a house. I figure it will take three or four hours and instead it takes more than five.

Not only do the owners, Ben and Becky, keep the office open for me, Ben brings out bright work lights from his garage and sets them up so I can back in to my spot in the dark. The warmth and kindness of their welcome is incredible. The park was called Chinook RV Park when they bought it, but they have since renamed it to Rover’s RV Park because there are too many Chinook RV Parks in the northwest. It’s a great little park, right on the Alsea River, with a terrific off-leash space for dogs. The area is abundant with wildlife, including bald eagles and river otters. Perfect for an aspiring wildlife photographer. I leave them with several of my wildlife images, shot at their park. They, in turn, adorn their website and office with my photography.

It’s November now, and Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. My house was always the gathering place and I took pride in putting on an elaborate spread for my family plus any friends who wanted to come. It was a big production, involving most of an entire week. Now, in a tiny RV kitchen, with only Chris, I feel both relief and sadness. No stress of self-imposed pressure to create the perfect feast, but sadness about the lack of a big gathering. We make ourselves a delicious meal and have store-bought pie for dessert and that’s that. This is the first new Thanksgiving, and I’m spending it on the Oregon Coast.

A few days later, Chris announces that he’s planning to go home soon. I understand, but the news hits me like a ton of bricks. The weather has been dreary and gray for a long time. I think the last time I saw the sun was back in Pasco in September. Now, I’m looking at spending Christmas alone, for the first time in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really a big Christmas person. The year prior, I didn’t even put up a tree. But somehow, the idea of spending it alone feels excruciating. The strength of my emotional reaction shocks me. I’m not religious and I loathe the over-commercialization of the holiday, so why do I care so much about it?

Slowly, over the course of a few telephone conversations with my children and my sister, I conclude it’s the memories I’m worried about. You know how you reminisce during the holidays about holidays past? Maybe it’s how you acquired that special ornament, or the time the cat climbed the Christmas tree, or…whatever. It feels like without a traditional celebration, I’ll somehow lose those memories. After talking this through with my family and with Chris, I realize that I will always have the memories, regardless of having the “things” that remind me of them. Chris agrees to travel with me to Bandon, Oregon and keep me company through Christmas. I’m grateful for his understanding and compassion.

While stationary, the cockpit of the motorhome has inadvertently become a closet of sorts. A storage space for raincoats and shoes and other stuff we don’t want in our main living space. On the morning we are scheduled to leave Waldport, we clear out the area and discover mold has set in due to all the excess moisture. Yuck! I don’t have time to do a proper deep cleaning, so I clean it up the best I can and prepare to drive to Bandon. Now, I have a project (unpleasant as it is) to take my mind off Christmas on the road. This is a life-long pattern. I’ve always been a problem-solver, focusing my attention on whatever problem needs fixing, so as not to have to deal with emotional pain. I feel like I can handle whatever problems come my way in regard to RV-ing. Repairs, breakdowns, financial issues—these are all doable. But, when it comes to mental and emotional challenges, I’m not nearly as strong as I thought.

After deep cleaning the moldy areas and purchasing a dehumidifier to hopefully prevent a recurrence, I’m once again feeling good about my living space. I decide to spend Christmas morning on the beach watching the sun rise. Even as I grieve the traditions and rituals of the past, I feel at peace with the holiday and the new forms of celebration I’m creating. Settling into this life involves learning to navigate the ups and downs of my psyche. You might say I’m growing into this new version of myself.