Seattle had grunge, San Francisco has microchips, but Portland, it seems, is the city with groove. Long overshadowed by its west-coast neighbours, this hip northern corner of Oregon is in full bloom, regularly topping lists of the most bikeable, sustainable and bohemian places to live in the States.
Until now, it has been largely off the radar for British tourists because of a lack of direct flights. But a new Icelandair route this summer has made reaching America’s most progressive city easier than ever, opening a doorway to a part of the west coast often overlooked by international visitors.
Because Portland’s progressive, green approach is spreading into the rest of Oregon, you can now visit much of the state by electric car; in the lush farmlands and volcanic foothills that surround the city, charging stations have been springing up like high-voltage daisies.
My plan was to swap petrol for principles on an electric road trip down the latest eco-route: 363 miles of misty headlands and hidden coves on the Oregon Coast Electric Byway, part of the Pacific Coast Scenic Byway, and one of the most beautiful drives in America.
The route starts in the city, so I spent the first couple of days taking in the organic fare, food carts and microbreweries on every corner, the vintage boutiques and funky galleries, eco-cafés and biscuit bars with queues around the block — there is a blossoming uniqueness on every corner.
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This is a city where anything can happen. I danced with a stranger at a craft beer festival, got lost in the largest independent bookstore in America (five storeys tall and covering an entire city block) and feasted on vegan fine dining served up by tattooed punk chefs. I biked everywhere (there are 330 miles of bike paths in the city), solved the nature of reality with an old hippy at a bar (it’s a song, or maybe a verb, we can’t remember) and found a speakeasy-style joint where cocktails were made at your table by a waiter who was like a magician performing tricks.
There are innovative eco-projects springing up all over: the ReBuilding Centre, which promotes the use of salvaged and reclaimed materials; Trailhead Coffee Roasters, which delivers sustainably sourced coffee by neon, glowing bicycle. Even the bins are solar-powered to compact waste, meaning fewer collections. Portland is America’s emblem of healthy urban living, where eccentricity blossoms and normal is chased out of town — the perfect start to an alternative trip along the coast, then.
First stop was Astoria, 95 miles northwest of Portland: clapboard weather-beaten houses on the banks of the Columbia River, sea salt biting my lips, and the purple mountains of Washington rising on the far side of the choppy shore. The river flows fast and shallow here and has swallowed many souls. I stopped first at the Columbia River Maritime Museum, one of the best nautical museums in the country, which tells the story of the fishermen who risk their lives in search of the first run of salmon and the elite pilots who navigate freighters across the Columbia Bar.
Later, in the wild beach grass and rolling dunes of Fort Stevens State Park — 4,300 acres of empty coast and hiking trails through hemlock forest — I found my own evidence of that sea treachery: the sailing barque Peter Iredale, its iron bones beached in the sand like the dried-out ribcage of an enormous whale. Even in the balm of summer there was wildness and a ripple of aggression. And so there should be. You don’t come to the Pacific Northwest for mild-mannered beaches — you come to see the coast at its most spectacular and raw.
This area is special, too, because it marks the end of one of the world’s great journeys. In 1805 the explorer team, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, commanding the Corps of Discovery, completed their 4,000-mile expedition to navigate a water route from St Louis, Missouri, to the Pacific Ocean, crossing by river for the first time the unexplored vastness of the western United States. At Fort Clatsop, named after the indigenous tribe of the region, I passed their final landing site, now a living museum with costumed rangers, musket displays and a re-creation of their winter camp. Farther south at Ecola State Park, I followed their footsteps across Native American hunting trails to Indian Beach, where they once came to trade with the Clatsop and plunder the blubber of a beached whale.
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As I walked through those steep forests, with headlands floating in fog and sea mist as if suspended in air — a view Clark described as “the grandest my eyes have ever surveyed” — their story, however bold, became dwarfed by the forest itself. In the drenched climate of the Pacific Northwest, nature knows how to flex its muscles. Sitka spruce trees, more than 200ft tall and 15ft thick, dripping in moss like a wet fur coat; ferns, salal and salmonberry clambering for light. It was like seeing the world through the eyes of those early explorers: a rain- forest every bit as lush as its South American cousins.
From there I spent two days buzzing slowly south. At Cannon Beach — a cute seaside town of colourful beach cottages converted to boutique hotels, galleries and restaurants — I waded to the base of Haystack Rock, a 235ft monolith circled by puffins and gulls in the shallows. In the long, wet sheen of low tide the enormous rock spires were reflected in symmetry with the clouds; it was like walking on the sky. At Cape Kiwanda, in Pacific City, a laid-back, little beach town with one of the best surf breaks on the coast, I climbed a 160ft sand dune to watch the sun rise as dory fishermen — a fleet of flat-bottom boats stationed here for more than 100 years — struck out to sea. Thirty minutes to struggle up took 30 seconds to slide down, screaming all the way.
And then I came across the most bizarre tourist attraction I’ve encountered: a working cheese factory with windows to let you see the production line, crowds fighting for a look and hair-netted workers waving like rock stars. I don’t know what it tastes like, but Tillamook is the One Direction of cheese.
For the most part, electric road trips are easy. Charging stations are placed roughly 60 miles apart and I used an app called Plugshare to facilitate payment and direct me to the nearest charging points. There were nuances, though. Speed was my enemy — anything over 60mph and the battery emptied; hills gobbled up charge; putting on the air-conditioning was the equivalent of slashing my petrol tank. It was an adventure too: I felt like an old merchant sailor who must ration his supplies until port, lest he find himself stranded.
At Lincoln City the Electric Coast Scenic Byway carries on for 220 more miles. However, I turned inland, joining the tail end of another electric byway that crosses the wine lands of the Willamette Valley. This is pinot country. Fertile volcanic soil and mild, moist conditions have transformed these former dairy lands into a patchwork quilt of boutique vineyards that are taking on Burgundy and the world. I ambled through a pick’n’mix of small family tasting rooms: Winderlea, or the striking new restaurant at Sokol Blosser, overlooking the sun-blushed vines of the Dundee Hills.
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But the best I had to work for. Barely signposted, two miles up a dirt road, on top of a breezy hill, was J Wrigley Vineyards. Ten years ago John was making wine in his bathtub, then on a whim he bought this farm and planted some grapes. He has been winning awards since. The wine was like liquid silk. What really set it apart, though, was the family atmosphere. Mum made fresh salmon pâté to complement our sips. Dad took me on a tractor tour of the estate.
And that’s the secret. These are small operations and something of that soulful, hand-crafted care comes through in every sip. It was like visiting a down-to-earth Napa Valley, minus the crowds. “This is Oregon,” said Alex Sokol Blosser, second-generation owner of that vineyard. “It’s just how we roll.”
Soon I’d left the wine lands and the lights of Portland were again upon me, my electric road trip winding to an end.
This could change everything, I thought, imagining other classic drives that might one day follow suit: Route 66, the Great River Road, Florida’s Highway 1 through The Keys. Enjoying them, I realised, requires slowing down. Zero carbon equals zero rush. Perhaps that’s also what Portland’s groove is all about.
Somewhere, not far behind, I could picture that wild Oregon coast, pounded by the sea. Spectacular and raw and all the better, I thought, for having seen it emission-free.