Coffeehouse Chronicles ...from Oregon’s Narrowest Roads

Keith Saffo was no help whatsoever

Good morning, Chroniclers. 

Well, we’ve officially made it to Coos Bay, and whoo‑whee!!!  —Was that last leg a challenge or what? That final stretch had everything: suspense, confusion, terror, and one well‑meaning hose jockey named Shannon Saffo who managed to lob a verbal hand grenade into an otherwise calm morning. 

Saffo called me early and issued what he clearly thought was a helpful warning. “Don’t take Route 38S.” That was it. No context. No explanation. Just enough information to send the Professor straight into a full academic panic. 

“38S? 38S? We’re not taking the 38. We’re nowhere near the 38. According to my calculations, we’re only taking the 42.” Aaron insisted. Charts were mentally unfurled, maps recalculated, and the cab filled with the unmistakable sound of a man trying to solve a problem that didn’t actually exist.

It took a few minutes—and a fair amount of deep breathing—to calm the Professor down. “Okay, Prof,” I said, slipping into my best crisis‑management voice, “let’s just take a breath here. We’re going to take Route 42. We’re not worrying about Route 38. We are sticking to the original plan.” 

That seemed to help, at least enough to prevent further imaginary detours from being plotted. Of course, once stability was restored, I did what any reasonable person would do: I called Saffo back and informed him that I didn’t appreciate him confusing me and spinning the Professor up like a carnival ride. We weren’t even going to be anywhere near the road he was warning us about. In the background, clear as a bell, was Wendy’s tiny soprano chiming in with the voice of reason: “They’re not gonna take Route 38. Don’t confuse them. Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Wendy, once again unseen but entirely correct.

What we did not fully appreciate—what none of us truly understood until we were committed—was that Oregon Route 42 would be 74 miles of winding roads, narrow lanes, blinking yellow lights, small towns, and logging villages stitched together by asphalt that looked like it had been poured by hand. 

The only thing scarier than the trail of increasingly irritated road ragers trapped behind us, unable to pass because most of the route was single‑lane, was what awaited us in the opposite direction. Logging trucks. Massive, orange, timber‑laden beasts barreling toward us at speed, apparently engaged in a long‑standing game of Chicken to see just how close they could get without our mirrors actually kissing. We were piloting roughly 65,000 pounds of moving house, and these truckers came at us like jousting knights, each pass leaving the Professor gripping the wheel tighter and tighter.

Aaron white- knuckles the trip trough the canyon like a pro!

After two solid hours of Oregon’s Route 42—two hours that felt longer in dog years—the sight of US 101 was nothing short of calming, welcoming, and borderline spiritual. We rolled in just about thirty minutes before our friends, the Freemans and the Halls, and when we saw each other, there were hugs, laughter, and the immediate trading of war stories about how we had all survived Route 42. As you can imagine, it took several hours before the color returned to the Professor’s knuckles, which had remained a troubling shade of white long after the danger had passed.

McCroc wants no part of "Itty bitty" roads

Later, when Aaron and I relayed the tale to Commander McCroc, the effect was immediate and audible. As Aaron described orange logging trucks, filled with timber, barreling toward us from the opposite direction like medieval cavalry, I could hear the Commander’s teeth chattering over the phone. The Commander is not a fan of two‑lane highways. At all. He prefers the open, predictable embrace of the Dwight D. Eisenhower Interstate Highway System and maintains that Route 66 and its many cousins are relics of a barbaric past that should be demolished for the good of civilization. The idea of Route 42 alone was enough to send him into visible distress, and we agreed it was best not to elaborate further.

By the time evening rolled around, we made the collective decision to opt out of dinner with our friends, the Williamsons. The thought of getting behind the wheel again—even for a half‑mile jaunt through town—was simply too much for Aaron and me to contemplate. Trauma is real, Chroniclers. Instead, we settled in for tacos with Yoko and Aaron, which felt like exactly the right speed for the night. Dodger game in, doors closed, keys set aside, and that was about all the adventuring we could muster.

Mid‑coffee, Commander McCroc called again. No greeting. No pleasantries. Just one question: “Are you on an interstate?” When told no, the line went quiet, followed by a click. Presumably, the Commander was drafting another strongly worded position paper on road widths and national infrastructure. 

Well, that’s it for Day One. I promise pictures are coming, along with photographic evidence of the frivolity unfolding here in Oregon. 

Until next time, Chroniclers, you know what to do: Drink ‘em if you got ‘em.

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