Some of my earliest memories of visiting the Oregon Coast are with my dad’s mother, who we called Grandma Julie.

A daughter of Norwegian and Swedish immigrants, she grew up in Aberdeen, Washington, in the 1920s and 1930s. Family photographs show her fishing as a teenager on Lake Quinault and digging her feet into the sand at Ocean Shores, a little girl with a bowl haircut and a wide grin.

We’re not so different. Few times were happier for me as a child than running free by the ocean.

I’m still taken back to that feeling in the smell of wood burning as evening comes on

in Cannon Beach, and I insist the aroma changes, if ever so slightly, from one coastal city to another.

Well into her eighties, Grandma Julie would arrive at Sea-Tac Airport from Davis, California, and we would visit rhododendron gardens, ride ferries or make our way out to the coast.

My parents and I would drive, not fly, to visit relatives in California, staking out the route and where to stop along the way. 

The coast road became a symbol both of refuge and grand adventure.

To have the chance to live along the Oregon Coast Highway, to write, photograph and illustrate life where the Columbia River flows into the Pacific Ocean, has been a gift. 

But the road doesn’t end here.

This week’s edition of Coast Weekend is my last as editor. For the past three years I’ve been at The Astorian, I owe thanks to this community for welcoming me and trusting me to tell its stories. 

After this week, please continue to send press releases, tips and other information to editor@discoverourcoast.com. It’s been an honor, thank you.