Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

I emerged through the forest thick with salal, and suddenly the sand was around me. A veil of gray mist hung over the vast expanse of coastal dunes, casting the scene in a pale, eerie light.



Somewhere in the distance an ATV rumbled, but this place – this small slice of the 50-mile Oregon Dunes, accessible by the John Dellenback Trailhead – is reserved for quiet wandering, where footsteps are muffled by the sand, and all sense of Earthly recognition is lost on an otherworldly plane.



My camera, armed with a telephoto lens, bobbed rhythmically at my side, as my feet sunk deep into the dunes. The summer sun hid behind the clouds, but still my eyes strained against the glare on the sand, peering out from beneath the brim of my hat.



Maybe the clouds will break up. Maybe it will rain. Maybe this gray makes for better pictures anyway.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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A tough climb got to me to the top of the first, tallest dune in the area. From its peak I spotted a pair of hikers walking my direction in the distance. It's usually nice to talk to strangers on the trail, but out here you'd have to go out of your way for a conversation. To the northwest I spotted a wooden post painted blue – the first of many markers that lead from the forest to the beach – and slowly made my way toward it.



There are several Oregon landscapes that look alien, so different from our typical experience, or else so similar to those depicted on other planets in the movies. As it happens, science fiction writer Frank Herbert first imagined the alien worlds of his classic novel, "Dune," while on a tour of the Oregon Dunes, marveling at how the ever-shifting sands could "swallow whole cities, lakes, rivers, highways."



Like the ocean, the movement of sand dunes is an expression of the wind. When storms roll in from the Pacific, the wind picks up sand and carries it away, building up and tearing down hills, blowing into the forest, covering grasses, rearranging the beach. Even the smallest gust changes something, ensuring a landscape that's always in flux.



This was my first time hiking the ever-shifting dunes, and instinctively, cautiously, I followed in the footsteps left before me. There's no set trail here, which allows hikers to wander, but in such a strange and empty expanse, I felt a sense of trepidation moving forward – and judging by the closely-gathered footprints in the sand, most of the other hikers felt the same.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Life in the dunes seemed to be scarce. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was just hidden from human view. A few gulls passed overhead. A larger bird circled in the distance. An aberration in the sand caught my attention, and upon closer inspection I saw it was a small grasshopper, camouflaged perfectly and practically invisible.



What else lies hidden in this alien world? What else can't I see?



I followed the wooden posts until I reached the trees on the western edge of the dunes. Signs pointed me into the forest, thick with sitka spruce and scrubby underbrush. Next to the trail, salal grew thick with dark berries, beside plants that sprouted strange, black pods. The sandy path gave way to a wooden boardwalk, running under the thick canopy.



Before long the trail emerged at the foredune, and just beyond I could hear the ocean roar. I climbed to the top and skipped down the other side, energized by the familiar sight of the Pacific. But as I approached the beach I paused: This, too, was an alien world. The surf was oddly choppy, the tide spilling erratically over small barriers of sand. As waves churned, the color was a vibrant blue, a strange but beautiful contrast to the wall of gray that stretched past the horizon.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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The stark scene filled my soul with wild wonder, my spirit elated and struck silent in awe. I wanted to unleash a howl to the wind, but before I could, I heard voices behind me. I spun to find a couple snuggled up in the sand, and they noticed me too, so I nodded, then walked up the beach to give us all a little space.



The beach on this part of the dunes is protected as nesting habitat for the snowy plover, a tiny shorebird that always travels in flocks, plunging its beak into freshly-wet sand and scurrying away when the water rolls in. The birds build their nests in bare patches of sand, which can easily be missed and trampled underfoot. Out here, long stretches of the beach are roped off, allowing the plovers a place to thrive.



As I walked, a dozen snowy plovers skittered and pecked at the beach, presumably digging up sand fleas and worms. They sensed my footsteps as I approached for a photo, and quickly flew off down the beach. I shrugged and turned back to the ocean, still awash in tumble and roar.



I could stand here all day just watching the surf. But it feels like it's time to go.

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Back over the foredune and into the forest, down the boardwalk under the trees, out into the expanse of sand, the gray curtain still clung to the sky, obscuring the horizon in mist. The sweeping forms of the dunes – smooth curves that dropped off sharply at odd angles – looked different than they did only an hour earlier. The alien world had been refreshed, and once again I felt disoriented and walked cautiously.

Soon enough the footprints returned, their tightly-gathered pattern a safe haven from uncertainty. But as I started to follow them back, a frustration nagged at the nape of my neck.

Suddenly my feet began to move on their own, directed by some independent force of resolve. Why follow the footprints in the sand, when I could blaze my own path through this place? There were no boundaries, but surely I was capable of finding my way back. Trusting in instinct, I freed myself from caution and let my feet go. They took me up the edge of an untouched dune, then galloped down into a basin of sand. They plodded up a steep hill, and at the top my own trail of bootprints was the only one there.

Before me lay nothing but sand, fresh and untouched and shifting subtly in the wind. Beyond it were the trees and a trail that took me back. I smiled playfully and turned away from the path, running down the dunes on my own.

--Jamie Hale | jhale@oregonian.com |

@HaleJamesB

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

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