Day 14: Bridges, Bird Dogs, Bed Bugs.

I’m heading to Astoria, Oregon today, but before I forget - I realized I never mentioned the scariest bridge crossing of my life yesterday - The Astoria-Megler Bridge. When I first crossed it from Oregon into Washington, I must have blocked it out from fear and a bit of PTSD. And now, here I was, about to face it again—this time hopefully conquering the fear.

Before leaving Long Beach, though, I had to experience what the town is famous for: driving on the sand. Long Beach, WA is the longest drivable beach in the world. It was fun, but I won’t lie—I was a bit nervous since I’d read stories of cars getting stuck and people having to beg for help in local Facebook groups. I wasn’t about to let that ruin my road trip. So I drove out onto the sand, snapped some photos, and kept it short. If only it had been sunny—it was overcast and the sand blended into the horizon, almost like driving in a blank canvas of gray.

Then came the moment of truth: the bridge. At 4 miles long, stretching across the Columbia River, it looked completely shrouded in fog. From a distance I couldn’t even see it, just the faint lines of trucks disappearing into the mist. I pulled over for a few last photos—half jokingly, half seriously thinking they might be my “final photos” in case I didn’t make it. I even posed Max on some rocks by the water, though of course he refused to look at the camera.

I finally mustered up the courage and got on the bridge. I kept my eyes forward, pressing ahead. About halfway through, the fog suddenly lifted like a curtain, revealing the river and the expanse of steel around me. Just like that, the fear broke. I made it across, safe and proud.

Astoria greeted me with a mix of charm and grit. My hotel was at the far edge of town with incredible views, but when I pulled in, I realized it was basically a converted Motel 6 dressed in fresh white paint. The staff were friendly and took pride in their jobs, which gave me some hope. But once I stepped into my room, my heart sank. Clean, yes—but funky smelling, outdated, and with that unmistakable “Motel 6” vibe. The shower and toilet greeted me right at the door, followed by a separate bedroom with old furniture and a spongy bed that instantly made me worry about bedbugs.

Then I remembered something I’d ordered from Amazon during my Beaverton stay: a one-person pop up tent. I had bought it to use as a decoy at camp sites since car camping is not allowed. Tonight, I decided, I would pitch the tent right on top of the bed and sleep inside it. Call it OCD, call it survival mode—but it made me feel safe from whatever might be lurking.

Before retreating for the night, Max and I explored downtown Astoria. The museum was closed (and not dog-friendly anyway), but the town had an eclectic vibe—bars mixed with quirky museums, art shops, and touristy boutiques. For dinner, I went to a seafood spot on the waterfront. It felt a bit like Disneyland food—touristy, polished, but not quite authentic.

What made the evening special, though, was the older man who sat at the table next to us. He looked past retirement age but said he worked on cargo ships, stationed in Astoria until February before heading off to Guam. His dream, he told me, was to one day own a sailboat and travel the world. I told him maybe this is the year to make it happen. He took a liking to Max, calling him a “bird dog” and reminiscing about his days hunting birds with dogs just like him.

It was a strange but comforting chat—one of those conversations that only happen on the road. That night, I climbed into my little tent pitched on the motel bed and drifted to sleep, dreaming of a better place to stay tomorrow.