Splish-Splashing My Way to Ona Beach

Ona Beach, about two miles south of where I live on the Oregon coast, was barely recognizable yesterday, with flooded trails, fallen trees, and other trees that had been chopped off up high so they looked telephone poles or maybe totem poles.

On this rare day without rain, snow, or ice, I needed out, but where was the trail to the beach? It always floods at the northern end. I once tried to convince my dog Annie to wade through the water with me. Being wiser than I, she refused. Now the only way to move forward through the picnic area was to follow the edge of Beaver Creek, my sneakers slapping wet grass.

The creek was wide, gray-green, and still, its edges spilling over. Would I be able to make it to the beach? And why were the trees chopped off like that?

So many memories are attached to this place, my own and the memories of my character PD in my Beaver Creek novels.

Fred and I kayaked here. We played badminton on the grass at an aquarium picnic where nobody brought paper plates so we ate off the lids of our potluck containers. Years later, I sat on a bench here weeping after a visit to Fred in the nursing home while Annie chewed on a bone she found in the barbecue pit.

PD kayaked here, too. She got caught by a sneaker wave. She found jewelry that had traveled across the ocean from the tsunami that hit Japan in 2011. She met Ranger Dave here. It was her place to relax when life got too crazy.

Determined to get my walk in for the day, I kept moving toward the ocean and eventually came to a passable trail, crossed the bridge and emerged on the beach, where a congregation of gulls was having a meeting. Sand, sea, and sky were all shades of pale gray. Driftwood and puffs of foam littered the black-streaked sand. The beach had shrunk to a small half-moon.

I was not alone. An older couple played with their Jack Russell terrier along the edge of the water. A younger woman struggled with a giant white dog who had his own ideas about which way to go. Two women passed with three big dogs. My heart ached for my own dog, who passed away in September. We had some good times here.

Clearly the past weeks of stormy weather had taken a toll on Ona Beach, part of Brian Booth State Park. High water, wind, rain, and ice had thrashed it. I learned later that the chopped trees were part of a late 2023 effort to remove dying trees before they fell. They were cut at varying heights with slanted tops in the hope of creating places for birds to roost.

Closed up in my house while ice froze the streets, rain streaked the windows, and wind blew the cover off my hot tub, I did not see the changes happening down the road. Changes are part of life. No place is exempt. I look forward to a day when the sun shines on thick green grass, all the fallen trees and branches have been cleared away, dogs and children run along dry paths to the beach, and gulls perch atop the chopped tree trunks, laughing.

Have you gotten out in nature to see what changes have occurred this winter? Please tell us about it in the comments.

Author: Sue Fagalde Lick

writer/musician California native, Oregon resident Author of Freelancing for Newspapers, Shoes Full of Sand, Azorean Dreams, Stories Grandma Never Told, Childless by Marriage, Now Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer's, and the Up Beaver Creek novel series. Most recently, I have published three poetry chapbooks, Gravel Road Ahead, The Widow at the Piano: Confessions of a Distracted Catholic, and Blue Chip Stamp Guitar, plus a full-length collection Dining Al Fresco with My Dog. I have published hundreds of articles, plus essays, fiction and poetry. I'm also pretty good at singing and playing guitar and piano. View all posts by Sue Fagalde Lick