A Weekend Trip to Astoria, Oregon
Astoria is an enigma dense with contrasts, packed with fun
Editor’s note: This trip took place in January 2022 when indoor dining was returning and mask mandates were just loosening. Winter and a lingering pandemic absolutely played a role at some of my stops, or lack thereof, and the overall liveliness of the town.
The charm of Astoria is built into its consistency. Its highs and lows seem to net out evenly. It was the first permanent American settlement west of the Rockies and established itself as a major port at the mouth of the Columbia River. This is a central part of an area known as The Columbia Bar, or Graveyard of the Pacific — a stretch of Pacific Northwest Coastline (from Vancouver Island, Canada to Tillamook Bay, Oregon) that’s taken down approximately 2,000 ships through a combination of unpredictable weather, shifting sand bars, and rocky shoreline. That may be part of the reason that Astoria was quickly eclipsed as a major port in the region by Seattle and Portland. Don’t believe me? Check out this recent video just a few miles past the mouth of the Columbia.
While taking a backseat as a major port, Astoria was ravaged by two major fires in the 1880s and again in the 1920s. But during that stretch two major industries, lumber and fishing canneries, took hold. The Bumble Bee Seafoods Company and Astoria Plywood Mill were the focal points and they thrived for decades. But by the 60s those industries, through several factors, including a dwindling of resources and an increase in environmental concerns, saw them diminished greatly. Bumble Bee Seafoods Company left its home of Astoria for California, and the Astoria Plywood Mill slowly shuttered over a two decade span. Following that, Astoria saw an odd film boom from the 80’s and 90’s (Goonies, Free Willy, Kindergarten Cop, and more were filmed here).
Through all of that – over a century’s worth of major events that would almost guarantee booms and busts elsewhere – Astoria has basically had the same population, hovering at, or around, 10,000 people. And over the last two decades as it’s become better known as a legitimate microbrew and arts scene (along with the film nostalgia), it remains at that population level.
The city is long and narrow east to west and lies on a steep hill that basically rolls down to the mouth of the Columbia on the north side and Young’s Bay to the south. The city center is in the flats near the waterfront on the north side while homes creep up the aggressive southern hillside. The city has great views in any direction – rivers, bays, ocean, and mountains connected by sleek bridges as well as Victorian and Craftsman homes that look as good renovated as they do dilapidated and abused from years of rain and wind.
You get a pretty good taste of the city if you only walk down downtown – Exchange or Duane Street - or the main stretch of the Astoria riverwalk. But the small city still has plenty of nuance and hidden gems.
My Saturday run started from the Atomic Motel where I’d woken up to the sounds of a man trying to breathe through a thick mucus he couldn’t hack up. I imagined a shirtless man reaching over his beer belly for a cigarette in hopes that a smoke might clear things up. It was exactly the type of sound I expected from a motel stay, but I’d had hope for the Atomic Motel. It was better than your average roadside motel, with sixties swag that was intentional and updated (not actually remnants from its heyday) and nice touches like morning coffee and keypad locking doors. But it still attracted the same clientele and kept that cigarette smell from a previous era. That said, when two nights with taxes is just $157 the question is not only what did you expect, but what are you complaining about? It was safe and mostly clean, but a place I wouldn’t linger at.
I headed west on 101 / Marine drive, towards Young’s Bay and the back side of the Astoria. This section is rougher than the main strip – industrial, working class bars, fast food, coffee stands – a classic highway bypass. But once you hit the western point and turn south, the businesses dwindle and you have unobstructed views of the bay. It’s calm with the coastal mountains beyond it – Saddle Mountain providing real definition to an otherwise monotonous, minimal range.
I cut back inward at two miles, climbing the backside of the city which is almost exclusively residential. The houses are either quaint or gorgeous, without a lot of middle ground. Being free of businesses, it’s the Astoria you’re not going to see, but it’s worth it. For those who sit and fantasize about packing it up and moving to a small town, or eventually retiring outside of the city, or just daydream on Zillow, this is candy land. It’s all winding roads, misshapen plots of land on steep grades, and quirky ramshackle homes next to mansions. Most are brightly painted in two or three colors that pop, and rarely are any homes of the same color scheme. Enormous Douglas Firs are peppered throughout, all with this lesser seen backside view of Young’s Bay.
Continuing up and east I headed towards the Astoria Column, a tourist attraction that held no meaning for me and was certain to be left off any agenda if not for running. It’s just a 125-foot tower on a hill. But it’s the reason I build a running route around any sights or attractions. If my assumption holds true and it’s nothing interesting, I just continue running. But if it’s intriguing at all, I get a pleasant surprise. This was the latter. Because it’s at the highest point in Astoria, the views in the park are incredible. You see the full cityscape, complete with the Astoria-Megler Bridge, and boats heading out to sea from the Columbia River, as well as the Coastal Range and Young’s Bay.
The tower is free and open to the public. Up top it’s the same views, just 125-feet higher and better. Plus, looking east you can see the Cascades. Mount Rainier and St. Helens poked through that morning. You’re also just above some of the biggest firs in the city, which after hiking among the coastal old growth for 4 years, this provided me a welcome, new perspective. To be right above the trees and see them from the top down gave me new respect for how massive they are. They manage to dwarf you even as you’re looking down on them.
Even better, the Astoria Column has a path (it’s a quick jaunt) through those same trees to the “famous” Cathedral Tree. It is huge, but mainly famous due to the fact you can stand inside of the trunk. It’s good and worthy of gawkers, and the trail is super short from the city side, but I’d take a slightly smaller tree you can’t stand in over one attracting crowds.
The trail throws you onto the north side of the residential slope which I careened down to the city and back onto 101. I went east and eventually found my way into a small neighborhood between the water and the highway by Tongue Point. While it didn’t have the affluence or boast the same charm as the hilltop neighborhoods, it offered a similar juxtaposition where a cute craftsman home might be next to junkyard hoarders. For Astoria’s size, there’s a wide spectrum of wealth, and each neighborhood seems to pack a lot of that variance in it. The house on one corner is hardly a proxy for the next.
My goal was to circle Tongue Point, it’s a densely wooded peninsula that appears to be infrequently trafficked but I ran into the city’s water treatment facility which was completely gated off . *For whatever reason, I wanted to see this little peninsula so bad that even as I was leaving town I tried to drive through only to find another gate. As it turns out, it’s some kind of private Job Corps site.* I turned back and hopped onto the Astoria Riverwalk heading back west towards town.
The Riverwalk east of the main drag is wide open with little foot traffic and a mix of dirt, paved, and wood planked boardwalk to run on. It’s parallel to the track for the Riverside Trolley which was out of service this particular weekend. I had a mile or two of open trail sitting between wetlands and the Columbia. Just before reentering the city center, you hit pier 39. Rogue Brewing has a little pub there and behind it a coffee shop. But the real treat is that it’s the original site of the Hanthorn Cannery which was bought by the CRPA – Columbia River Packer’s Association. Originally, they canned sockeye salmon, but as the runs diminished, the CRPA eventually switched focus to tuna, building out the now famous Bumble Bee Seafood Company.
The building is run by a nonprofit started by former workers to preserve the history and legacy of canning in the region. I didn’t spend more than a couple of minutes in the free museum, but given I was 10 miles into a run, it was well worth the stop to see some old canning equipment and videos of production line workers. Again, it’s a place I wouldn’t have visited had it not been for the run. In front of the pier I watched a seal cresting the water a few times before I continued on my way.
The Riverwalk continues past a large sea lion colony, and then runs parallel to the main drag of the city passing some restaurants, breweries, the maritime museum, and under the exceptional Astoria-Megler Bridge. I was loving the January sunshine and rising temps, knowing how quickly these damp boardwalk planks would turn into black ice with enough cloud cover. The boardwalk goes all the way to the end of town, back to Young’s Bay, but I headed back to my motel. Just over 13 miles of running provided the full outline of the city, along with some quick jaunts further in and out. It was the perfect way to shake off the previous night and get the lay of the land.
I had started my trip the previous day, beginning with a Friday afternoon trail run in Ecola State Park, 30 minutes outside of Astoria. I can’t really express how much this little state park – a patch of old growth that sits on a cliff 1,300 feet above the Pacific Ocean – means to me. I can only say that every picture I’ve ever taken works against me in showing it’s true greatness and diminishes its value. But that’s also the beauty of many natural places, either see it for yourself, or accept you’ll never really know it’s true grandeur.
Every Western Hemlock and Sitka Spruce is a giant in its own right, while the ground is a patchwork of ferns, moss, mud, and fallen, splintered behemoths. They spring new life much faster than they decompose, bringing about an array of grasses, flowers, and fungi. Everything living and dead seems to have a slightly different shade of green, but instead of feeling inundated by a monotonous, single color, it feels more like a vibrant cartoon. The stray yellow or purple of a mushroom or flower stands out if I let my eyes adjust. There’s an incredible stillness here that only a dense forest can provide. But if I step just a few feet off the trail to the cliff’s edge, there are black sand beaches being hammered by the hypnotic Pacific Ocean, slowly pulsing out to the horizon. The fog lingers longer here, not only elevating the quietness in the same way a snowstorm can hush a city, but it brings out the smells of pine and salty ocean breeze to create a soul cleansing scent. It’s subtle but unmistakable. It’s my little slice of perfection despite not being the most magnificent park in any one way.
After running through the mud and trees to my heart’s content, I arrived in Astoria (just 40 minutes away) on an empty stomach, fueled by my runner’s high. It’s a different state when you’ve embraced the outdoors, there’s a giddy magic that compounds the high. It’s a state that teeters on elation, but one that can fade into irritation if it’s not supported in caloric form. I was near Workers Tavern, a bar of much history and delight. It’s been around for nearly a century and is famous for its meat bingo on Sundays (I was sadly not in town to take part in this tradition).
I walked in at 5:30p expecting a thank-god-it’s-Friday happy hour crowd but was welcomed with silence. There were four patrons, one at the bar and three playing video poker. I saddled up to the bar a little deflated but certain a boilermaker of Hamm’s and Buffalo Trace would correct the energy.
“Buffalo Trace?”
The bartender’s look of confusion and disinterest had me questioning myself.
“… It’s a bourbon?”
In the single second of silence that followed those words, I could feel her aversion to me, understanding moments later that I was the only roadblock to her shift ending.
“Maker’s Mark, that’s the equivalent” – A woman’s voice from the kitchen chimed in.
“Yes, Maker’s is fine!” My dumb grin and quick reply were meant to extinguish the idea of me as a headache but she’d made her mind up. I got my drinks and as she clocked out, I overheard that she’d made $70. Not in tips. In total sales. We were indeed still deep in the pandemic.
The woman from the back was now on the clock, and since she knew what Buffalo Trace was, I felt confident in ordering a burger and tots. I asked about the Buddy Board – a white board covered with names and drink orders. It’s simple and amazing. You pay for a drink for a friend, the drink and their name go on the board, and if they come into the bar and can produce a picture of the board (that you sent them) with matching ID, they get their drink. She gave me the hoo-RAH pitch but I was already sold. Adam, your drink is waiting.
She proceeded to make drinks, greet new customers, clean, and start my food in the back. She was personifying the bar I expected. Her worn appearance might have given the impression of someone who’d lived this life for several years too long, but she was all bubbly exuberance. She was the perfect combination of experience without being jaded. The burger was fine and the tots were perfectly crunchy and salty, bringing me back just in time. After another beer I headed out to Portway Tavern, just a few minutes down the street.
When I arrived the bar seats were filled and about half the tables. The fish and chips looked good but the energy was still a bit flaccid and the décor was more reminiscent of a kitschy sailor theme than a true fisherman’s bar. But I’m told it is. And if video poker seemed like a draw at Worker’s, it was a way of life at Portway.
An older, overweight couple sat a couple tables from me, quietly drinking. She slowly started getting up as he asked, “Goin’ in?” “Oh yeah.” She settled down at one of the machines a few feet away, wearing nondescript sweats and a baggy tee. Moments later a young couple came in, they ordered drinks and got cash. She settled down at one machine while he sat at a table behind her. They continued their conversation as she burned through a $20. Then another. And another. As she churned through the bills they continued their friendly conversation, occasionally acknowledging the game with a quick word of advice from him. All the while he diligently gave her more bills. He cashed in a winnings receipt at one point, but it was not filling the hole she’d dug.
While he sat five feet behind, staring at the back of her head, and she stared into the twinkle of the machine, they continued an enthusiastic conversation about a family meet up. I was enthralled with the dynamic but no one else took a second look.
My concentration on them was broken by the voice of an old man who limped in, skinny appendages with a rotund beer belly. It’s the kind of weight gain I’ve always feared for myself, where all the fat goes straight to my gut, further highlighting my long, lanky limbs. His long, scraggily grey hair was pushed back with a beaten baseball hat over it. From the entry he scanned the seats at the video poker and noticed the boyfriend and I both watching the machines.
“Y’all in line?”
Of course he was worried about the wait for video poker. I let him know that there was an open machine in the corner. He gave a half nod and lurched towards the machine. I guess this was a January Friday night at the Portway.
I put away my two drinks before heading off to Triangle Tavern. It was the final dive on the west end of town, which is officially called Uniontown, unchanged by the arts and beer scene that had blossomed on the east side. It’s basically a box under the bridge with a few dark windows, but I appreciated the welcoming sandwich board: “Adult Daycare & Wellness Center.”
It was bright in there, or it felt bright. Not office building bright with unending rows of fluorescent lighting, just bright light hitting me in the wrong places. I felt very exposed. There was a good crowd, though it was not clear if anyone was having a good time. I ordered a beer and sat at the bar. The young ladies next to me were settling up. Twice the girl closest to me produced a credit card, but each card was declined. Her friend extended hers to the bartender, neither friend acknowledging the gesture. I took in the scene unfortunately nothing was keeping me there. I closed out knowing tomorrow would be my bigger day for exploring.
Now that I had toured the city on foot and shaken off the the night cap from the Triangle, I took a shower and stepped back into the welcome January sun heading downtown to eat and drink. Along the way, I walked past a homeless man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. We made eye contact in the way one might to simply acknowledge one another’s presence, but he had a glint in those eyes. As immediately as he was out of my periphery, he screamed. Not words, just one powerful “BAHHH!” I jumped and we made eye contact once more, he looking pretty satisfied.
Fort George was my destination but I popped into Merry Time when I walked past. It felt right to start my counterproductive day drinking with a bloody mary. Inside was a bit kitchsy, with several TVs for sports and ample games – pinball, pool, video poker. The bartenders were friendly with full attire of secondhand clothing. That look where you don’t know what era that dress was made for but you know there’s not another left on the planet. A total mismatch for a sports bar vibe, which was perfect. The bloody mary was solid, but it lacked the full garnish, and if there’s not a salad’s worth of pickled veggies jammed in there, I’m not satisfied.
So on I went. Fort George was slammed as expected at lunch on Saturday. They own a whole city block with the Fort George building housing a pizza restaurant up top and pub downstairs. I chose to dine in the Lovell Taproom, their third location across a courtyard from the main building and offers the pub’s menu. It was the only spot without a wait or children. Listen, I’m fine with other people’s kids but I don’t love that breweries have become the safe haven for young adults with children to gather. I have friends and family that absolutely love this trend, however, I firmly believe you get a babysitter or you shouldn’t bother going drinking. But that’s the beauty of Fort George, enough space for all — the yuppy parents and the curmudgeons like me.
The Lovell Taproom serves beer behind a table with taps and the rest of the space is makeshift too — an open area with high tops surrounded by brewing tanks and equipment. It’s not as comfortable as the two restaurant dining rooms, but it’s lower key. The pizza upstairs is the highlight of their menus. It’s perfectly thin, woodfired crust that’s crispy on the outside while remaining chewy and light at the center. It’s topped with fresh mozzarella and choices like wild mushrooms, mama lils peppers, and hot Italian sausage.
The pub below is quite good, but nothing that stands out to me the way the pizza does. I put away the chicken sandwich, that’s topped evenly with pickle chips, onions, greens, and aioli on a buttered bun. Their beer however, hot damn, I love it. I think Fort George is one of the only places in the PNW that can do New England IPAs just as well as they do west coast IPAs. But they also crank out fine lagers, pilsners, and stouts. And then they still have room to get weird with wild ales and do things like Spruce Budd — a beer brewed with just pilsner malts and handpicked spruce tips from the area, no hops. It’s light and refreshing, and totally unique.
As the lunch crowd died, I swung upstairs for a beer on the patio. With an IPA (I forget which) in hand, the sun peeking through the clouds, and the screams of children now fading down the street, it felt like a warm hug. The appeal was evident. Without coming off as ritzy it has all the ingredients for it — waterfront breezes in an old, urban setting coupled with river and mountain views that feed you an endless stream of cargo ships heading out to sea.
With an afternoon buzz firmly tied on, I walked by the Lower Columbia Bowl. When you’re drinking alone impulses are acted upon immediately. There’s no one to check in with and suddenly you’re just standing at a counter talking to a bowling alley attendant.
“One lane… just for one?”
I realized then that this was an odd look. “Yep. And a beer.”
This cost me $11! $4 for the lane, $3 for the shoes, and $4 for an IPA.
Have you ever bowled alone? I’m guessing not. Judging by the attendant’s reaction, it’s possible I’m the first. Well, it’s wildly satisfying. Sure, I missed the laughs, the banter, the shit talking, and the reveal of who in the group is the gutter-ball chucker. But being alone I whipped balls down that lane at an incredible rate. My single game was probably done in under 10 minutes. No waiting to go through the cycle, for the person ordering drinks to return, or for your ball to return after someone mistakenly threw it. I just hucked with impunity. Bowling, in of itself, is fun because you’re throwing stuff at other stuff. But it is not fun because there’s usually a massive delay between each action. This is not so when you’re alone.
When you take out that delay, there’s a gratification you’ve never felt from bowling. The throw is so satisfying – the weight of the ball, the smack of it dropping onto the wood floor, then that quick glide over the waxy lane, and of course the brilliant crash of the pins. God damn. How is that sound so perfect? It’s so complete, a unified chaos in a singular moment of eruption that cuts to silence and order as quickly as it started. Every time. Getting that sound on repeat successively, solely from your own throws, is a strange little high. I’m so impatient as is, if the lane could have returned the balls sooner, I might have been done before my neighbors noticed me.
I’m probably required to note this is “Chunk’s Bowling Alley” where the opening scene of Goonies is filmed and you can sign a guest book there. I didn’t though, I was too busy rippin’.
I wandered the streets a bit as afternoon became evening, window shopping and looking for a bar to pop into. I ended up exactly where you do when you’re exhausted and uncreative but forging ahead cause the alcohol tells you, “we need more drinks.” I wound up at Buoy Brewing. I love their beer but it’s a step up from Fort George in the family affairs department. This, due to its location on the water with fantastic views, along with a section of glass floor looking down at ever-present sea lions. This is actually super fun, but it makes it family first all day.
It was dark when I left, though only 6 or 7p.m. Even with the sunshine and 50 degree temps during the day, it felt every bit like January in the evening. I bobbed around the boardwalk, debating the next stop and reviewing options on my phone. I felt a traction-less glide between my foot and the boardwalk, the same I’d avoided on my run earlier. Before I knew what was happening, I was laid out on the boardwalk.
Alone and drunk, lying on the ground. Like any rational person, I didn’t think about potential injuries, I simply got up as quickly as I could. If I stand up immediately then maybe no one will notice that I fell, right? Back on my feet I realized there was not a soul to witness this. I only had to be embarrassed for myself. And I was. It was the telltale sign to go home.
Of course, during the short walk back to my motel I thought, really, that fall wasn’t so bad, I’m not actually that drunk, let’s see what’s up at the Workers Tavern. I entered into silence once again and three women talking to the bartender. It seemed like they were closing out or I was crashing the party. My step inside was also a pivot out. I grabbed a couple tall boys at the Shell station and went to my room for the night.
On my run the next day Astoria felt more and more like going back in time. Was this what Seattle or San Francisco was like in their infancy? Astoria had that same claim to an epic waterfront and port, surrounded by forested hills and distant mountains, but instead of growing endlessly, it capped out at 10,000 residents, keeping bits of it frozen in time.
There’s more than enough jammed into this little city to spend a weekend uncovering new gems. Or you can simply watch the day (and boats) roll by, basking in the sun with beers. Either way, you’ll be entertained through every hour of sunlight and free of regret if you don’t do much of anything. Astoria leaves you satisfied however your time is spent. But for me there remains the mystery of uncovering where Astoria percolates after sundown in January, it’ll keep me intrigued and wanting another shot at it. I suspect it will lead me back to Workers Tavern for Sunday meat bingo and maybe, eventually, Annie’s Saloon. Surely a visit to the small town’s sole strip club will cement whether the nightlife is alive and well or if I need to start rethinking my own priorities.
Appreciate you reading and providing that feedback! You’re a real one. I think regardless of length they send it, but it gets cut off.
The most Lynchian place in Oregon (a decidedly Lynchian state). Every trip to Astoria has, for me, yielded strange encounters, dream-like scenarios, bizarre synchronicities that can’t be easily explained…also, Bowpicker has the greatest fish and chips on earth, and I’ve tried many. A beloved destination, thanks for putting it on the map💜