I was visiting Astoria about a month ago when a friend of mine bought me the book “A Little Piece of Astoria”, by Matt Love. Unfortunately, I didn’t begin to read it until I returned to Portland and quickly became disappointed that I had waited as it was filled with the kinds of unusual things I enjoy stumbling upon when exploring a place. So, the first thing I did on my next trip was to break open the book and start writing down the list of unusual places I needed to see.

 

On this morning, I had originally planned to ride my bike south out of Astoria and over to Fort Stevens. That was before I got to the chapter on the Big O Saloon in Olney and the dilapidated mini golf course referred to in the book as Jeffers Garden Inn. As I sat in 3 Cups Coffee, I began to re-chart my route through the Lewis and Clark river valley. Matt’s adventures and perspective were enough like mine that I easily yielded to an itinerary put together from the book.

 

It was thanks to his book I found 3 Cups and the nearby Fisherman’s Memorial, but I was surprised to see that he had omitted the Workers Tavern next door or the Portway across the street. I guess you have to keep a few things to yourself so you don’t have all kinds of tourists like me taking over your favorite haunts. I’m particularly bad at this as I can’t help but share the peculiar discoveries I make.

 

I finished my Earl Gray tea, hopped on my bike and made my way around the western point of the city before turning south over the quiet Young’s River Bridge. The morning was the perfect temperature for riding in nothing more than a t-shirt, and I shared the road with very few others. On occasion, I had to check my map to make sure I didn’t miss a turn. I’ll share that I never read a biking guide or talk to others about the bike routes I choose. I simply plot out a logical course, taking me along what looks to be the most geographically interesting terrain. Occasionally, I will plot it using Google maps to see if it selects the route I want, and often I have days like this when it isn’t possible to discern from the map whether it will be a dirt road or private property. Today, both turned out to be the case, and I had to backtrack a couple miles before I found a road the was paved and did not have a private property sign at the beginning of it. My favorite was a couple weeks back when I came across a sign reading, “Come on up. Security camera is on. Traps are set. Guns loaded.”

 

I did end up going down one gravel roads a ways where I ran into a couple walking their dogs. This proved to be fortuitous on two accounts. For one, they told me that the gravel road remained gravel the entire time. The second bit of good fortune came as we discussed the better paved option. They told me I’d go up a short hill, followed by a long downhill, after which I should look for a sign for Young’s River falls. Without this advice I would have blown past the little brown sign pointing to the falls at a bend in the road.

 

I decided I’d ride up the road a couple minutes to see how far it was to the signed spectacle. The turnaround for the parking lot came into view immediately, and as I crested the hill, I set my eyes upon a waterfall I would never have expected to see this far from the Gorge. Without hesitation, I locked my bike, grabbed my camera and headed down for a closer look at the falls. As I reached the base, I was amazed to find that I was the only one there on a warm Saturday morning. I took a couple pictures of the falls and the mirrored reflection of the trees in the stream running below. It surprised me that this was not one of the things I’d read about in Matt’s book. Perhaps this was another of those things he was keeping to himself. Perhaps I needed to finish the book to find out.

 

I continued on Young’s River road, crossing the river by the same name a few miles further before beginning the ascent to Olney. I could tell I was close because at the top of the hill I saw a collection of buildings, and by collection, I mean two, which is twice as many as I’d seen clustered together at any other point on my ride. When the road ended, I took a left towards where the highway sign indicated I would find Olney, though there was no number of miles given, unlike all the other towns listed. I guess that’s because about 500 feet later I was in the town of Olney. In fact I almost overshot it. There was a sign for a saloon out front, but it did not say “The Big O Saloon”, and I didn’t want to ride all this way just to go to the wrong saloon.

 

As soon as I walked in the door, I knew I had the right place: logging theme, country music, ample antlers, and a guy sitting at the bar with a t-shirt that read, “Big O Saloon”. I never know what to do in these kinds of establishments filled with big lumber jack types and a guy wearing a motorcycle jacket with a confederate flag underneath which read, “try burning this asshole”. I mean, am I welcome here? Would I want this guy walking into my favorite watering hole? Well, aside from the steroid raised motorcyclist, everyone else seemed kind of local and friendly, and I eventually breathed a sigh of relief when the motorcyclist left with his girlfriend. As he pulled away on his Harley Davidson, I noticed his license plate was from British Columbia. How odd for a supporter of the Confederacy.

 

I ordered a BLT and an iced tea, since it was clear I was going to stand out anyway, and I didn’t want to head out riding again after consuming a ½ pound of beef. While I was waiting for my sandwich, I wanted to pull out the book and re-read the chapter on the Big O, but I didn’t really know how the proprietors felt about Matt’s bringing outside attention to their local bar, so I kept it pocketed and spent the time instead admiring the decor of license plates and signs like, “Cowboys, check your guns at the bar”. There was also a sign promoting the women’s coast roller derby team and a raffle for a fish cooler.
After my lunch, I headed out the door and noticed how funny it looked to have my bike wheel right next to an old waggon wheel that made up the railing for the porch of the bar. I took the picture and hopped back on my iron horse to pedal back to Astoria. Thanks to Matt for adding to my adventures in Astoria.