If you have ever visited Suttle Lake Lodge in the summertime, you know the enigmatic energy that reverberates there. As spring turns to summer and the kids get out of school, the quiet stillness of the Deschutes National Forest begins to teem with overwhelming life. Portlanders flock to the shores to rest, retreat, and recreate far away from the pressures of the city. Barefoot kids buy soft serve with soggy dollar bills at the boathouse. Dogs splash off the docks and swallowtails float wistfully past patrons sitting in awe of sparkling lakeside glowy sunsets, sipping cocktails on the deck. It’s the kind of vacation spot reminiscent of nostalgic 1960’s postcards.

I will forever remember the Summer of 2023 I spent wiping tables, announcing food orders over the intercom, and hand-squeezing gallons of lemonade on the shores of Suttle Lake. That summer, it was the backdrop for beautiful friendships formed between me and two twin twenty-something girls, Chloe & Kelly, who were from Idaho. They’d stop by after housekeeping shifts in search of grapefruits and shift meals and we’d make quippy conversation by the register while they waited for their food orders. One afternoon, as we lamented over the stress of busy season lake life (groan!), we dreamed of our own respite from our summer jobs. I worked nights, they worked days, so hangouts beyond the confines of these register-side trysts were few and far between. Until one day, by the grace of God, we discovered all three of us were off on the same Tuesday.

A beach escape plan was set into action. We’d head west as soon as I finished serving Monday night, find a camp spot, and spend the next day exploring Heceta Head. At 11 p.m. the next day, I gathered my camping gear, changed into pajamas, and hopped into the backseat of Kelly’s car. As we drove through the darkness, free from the parameters of appropriate work conversation, we shared more intimate details of our lives and experiences. Chloe, a friendly, exuberant, curly-headed brunette, shared how she’d left her conservative small town in Idaho after high school and had been working seasonal jobs and traveling ever since. Kelly, a thoughtful, quiet, and somewhat awkward illustrator, joined her in Oregon shortly after she graduated from Boise State with a degree in fine arts. We drove for three hours until finally we arrived at Sutton Campground in Florence. Exhausted, yet invigorated by our newfound freedom, we crept apologetically to the first available campsite, killed the engine, and set up camp, whispering and giggling as we put stakes in their oversized childhood tent.

The next morning, we woke to find ourselves surrounded by mossy trees, ferns, and a babbling brook. “What luck!” we delighted at our late-night campsite selection. As lovely as it was, we had limited time and our sights were set on the Hobbit Beach hike that day. We quickly made coffee, got dressed, and drove out towards Heceta Head.

Shortly after leaving our campsite, “Wide Open Spaces” by The Chicks playing on the stereo, I caught my first-ever glimpses of the Oregon coast. Hailing from northern California, I’d seen beautiful coastlines, but not like this. The dramatic cliffsides and lush green forest instantly transported me into a fairytale land I’d only previously imagined in books and movies. I was shocked into a state of child-like wonder that stayed with me all day and has not left my memory since. Chloe and Kelly, fellow Oregon coast first-timers, were equally entranced, “oohing” and “awing” at the twisting vistas. “Rooom to make her big mistaaakes,” I sang as I rolled down the window and stretched my hand out towards the endless expanse of ocean disappearing over the horizon. “She knows the high staaakes.”

When we arrived at Heceta Head we paid for parking and, anxious to begin our adventure, started off on our hike towards the lighthouse. We stopped for ice cream at the gift shop and poked around the garden at the Heceta Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast. Sitting on the picnic bench overlooking the ocean, our late-night road trip conversation continued as we shared more about our lives and experiences. Once we finished our ice creams, we pressed on. When we arrived at Heceta Lighthouse, we ogled at the geometric prisms of glass and hiked up to get a better view. In awe of the majesty of the vintage light head, we continued our hike. The more distance we made from the lighthouse, the fewer people we saw, until finally it felt as if the forest was ours.

Under sitka spruce tree cover we felt safe, protected, and free to share our personal life stories. Kelly shared vulnerably about having felt outcast as a queer artist in her small conservative Idahoan town and her longing for a community of like-minded creatives. Chloe gushed over her many travel flings stretching through Central and South America, but feared she’d never be able to commit to any one location or man. I echoed their fears of never knowing when or where I’d “land” and find my place. I’d spent seven years teaching full-time, but when the pandemic hit, I was overcome with an overwhelming urge to abandon convention and begin a life of freedom and adventure. Only to find parts of convention I missed tremendously—predictability, stability, and the illusion of certainty, just to name a few. I shared with them regrets I’d never spoken out loud to anyone.

It occurred to me how wonderful that the three of us all ended up here, exploring the Oregon coast for the first time together. There we were, three girls uncertain of our place in the world, mere strangers a month prior, sharing our innermost secrets and fears.

There’s always been an instant bond I make with people when I’m traveling. When away from home, it’s as if people enter a liminal state in which the brevity of encounters inspires intimacy unmatched by even long-time friends. I suppose, part of my initial desire to begin full-time travel came from a desire to live in that liminal state for a while. While traveling, I attract open-minded, kind hearts that are accepting of all the shameful parts of me I’ve banished. Kelly and Chloe, I can now confirm, were two of those special souls.

We rested in quiet shared understanding for the last quarter mile of the hike as conversation faded and peaceful anticipation for the beach mounted. Elevation dropped and the forest shape-shifted from tall trees to short shrubs. We continued until, finally, an opening in the brush revealed a bright spot of beach on the other side. True to its name, we climbed out of the bushy Hobbit hole and found ourselves on an expansive sandy beach stretching for what felt like miles in either direction.

Reinvigorated, we dropped our backpacks, stripped down to our swimsuits and ran to the ocean. We danced and played and giggled up and down the wet sand, delighted by the expansive beauty and the freedom our little cove incited. An indescribable urge to sprint as fast as I could in one direction came over me… I took off—the cold, wet, sand cushioning the balls of my feet as I went. Until finally I abruptly stopped. Breathing deeply with my hands on my hips, my eyes wide with wonder, I turned towards the ocean, and sat in the sand. Feet straight out in front of me, waves tickled the bottoms of my feet.

I cupped handfuls of heavy wet sand in my hands and turned to my left, smiling. I thought for sure one of my friends had followed me down the beach and I would be able to share in this moment of overwhelming awe and beauty, but no one was there. Suddenly, I was completely alone. I had sprinted so far up the beach that Chloe and Kelly were mere pins in the distance, their laughter muffled and dull. Disappointed, the corners of my mouth fell heavy as my breathing steadied and I stared out into the ocean. I sat with myself for a moment until a clear message came over me: “This is all for you.” A tear came to my eye as I realized the tremendous joy I am capable of when I allow myself to be fully free. The message deepened, “This beauty, this freedom, this expansiveness, this joy… I know you want to share it with the world, but for right now, in this moment, it is all for you.”

Up to this point, so much of my pursuit of beauty and creative expression had been centered around sharing my experiences and perspectives with other people. I wanted to witness the full depth of beauty of the world so as to share it. I thought that if others could just see the world how I saw it, maybe there would be less suffering and more peace.

In the years since this experience, I have continued to document and share my life ritualistically with others. I have been gifted this vision and ability to express myself through creative outlets like writing, photography, and film. But… if I am creating so as to satiate others’ need to experience beauty and untampered joy… then I am missing the whole point.

Shortly before I quit teaching, I read an article titled, “Five Regrets of the Dying.” In it Bronnie Ware, a hospice nurse, wrote about the most common regrets people on their deathbeds experience. “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me,” “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard,” and “I wish I had let myself be happier,” were the top three that have always stuck with me. That day at Hobbit Beach, devoid of familiar contexts that trap us in fixed identities, Chloe, Kelly, and I spoke the same language of love and acceptance. With their loving guidance, I finally released my need to prove myself to others and began allowing myself to experience my life for me.

And so I encourage you, dear reader, to find liminal spaces that feel open. Share yourself with people who feel free. And in whatever capacity you can, sprint down the beach, take a moment to pause and soak in the beauty of this present moment. And remember: It is all for you.

When she’s not writing, Marissa McBride is sharing her thoughts and connecting with people on Youtube—and she’d love for you to join her there! Find her at: https://www.youtube.com/@marissakmcbride

Wide Open Spaces: Friendships, Coastline Visits, and Realizations at Hobbit Beach

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