Change of plans, comrades. Maryhill will have to wait, the desert gods can rest easy for another month. The coast is calling now, and there’s no ignoring the roar of the Pacific when it starts clawing at the back of your skull. This weekend we’re turning the wheel west, chasing fog and salt and whatever cosmic joke hides between Ona Beach and Heceta Head.

Ona will be the first stop, a stretch of wet sand where the world feels reset. The tide pulls and the sky presses down, heavy with that gray Oregon melancholy that photographers crave and sane men avoid. It’s the kind of place where your thoughts start to drift toward the absurd, the beautiful, and the slightly dangerous. Perfect conditions.

From there, we’ll wind down the coast through Cape Perpetua, that jagged altar of stone and chaos where the ocean hammers the cliffs like it’s trying to erase the continent. The wind there doesn’t whisper, it shrieks. Salt burns your lips. The whole place feels alive, ancient, and half-mad. We’ll stand on the edge with cameras in hand, waiting for the sea to perform one of its old tricks.

And finally, Heceta Head Lighthouse, the last sentinel before darkness. A white tower staring down eternity, its beam slicing through fog like a cosmic metronome. The ghosts out there don’t bother hiding, they linger in the mist, humming with the tide. Perfect spot to end a day, or lose a mind.

So that’s the new plan: a pilgrimage through wind and water, trading desert silence for the manic symphony of the Oregon Coast. The gear’s packed, the batteries charged, and the road’s waiting. Whatever we find out there, light, madness, or something holy. I’ll make sure it’s caught through the lens and burned into memory.