Soapstone, Clatsop County, and Getting Locked Out

Clatsop County, Oregon:

Soapstone:

An artsy rustic retreat in the heart of a prehistoric magical forest.

Arriving in Clatsop County after a day of driving, we were tired, it was dark, and it was raining. I hadn’t wanted to arrive after dark, for I knew it was going to be a bit off the beaten track—and I have eyes that love pitch black but hate shiny lights headed in my direction. When we arrived, the temperature was dropping rapidly. We exited the vehicle and left bags and such inside. We got inside, dried off, looked around for a few minutes. It was quirky, pretty, and we found a couple of lights. It was a quick walkabout, but we knew we were in for a treat when we walked up to the tower in the cabin and noticed it was surrounded by windows on all sides. Something to look forward to when the big shiny ball in the sky comes back out.

We needed dry clothes, so the next step was to get everything out of the car. I went. I was barefoot and thought it would only be a couple of seconds. There was no grace in this maneuver, however; there’s never any grace in my movement—it’s a jerky, spastic motion that suggests everything is done purely on spur-of-the-moment reaction. She followed. I had not grabbed car keys. I had not grabbed house keys. Neither did she.

The rear side of Soapstone. A human can fit in the tiny kitchen window. Not the center tiny window, the little one next to it.

…And a click was heard.

The moment that sound was heard, four eyes met with each other to share a look of acknowledgment that the situation had just taken a quick and sharp southerly turn. Phones were in the house. Car was locked—with the car keys in the locked house. I was barefoot, in shorts and a t-shirt, and the temperature was at the freezing point. There were no people around, and even if there had been, we wouldn’t have had a clue where to find them.

Typically I don’t like to enter situations where the chance of death rises above ten percent, and we had just passed that and doubled it. It was time to act.

I gave myself thirty minutes before busting a car window and starting the car with the extra key in the glove compartment. I scanned the perimeter of the Airbnb for “weak spots”—areas I could get in without harming anything on the property. Happy to report, the place is very safe… unless you have a squiggly person or a talented climber. She was able to summon the skill of a thousand home invasion enthusiasts, and with little more than twenty scrapes and zero damage done to the residence, we were back in.

My plan had been to scale the wall and flip over the rail on the second floor and walk in through the terrace door that I had opened the first time through. Considering the moisture levels, temperature, bare feet, and the fact that while I was checking the rail for “durability,” it seemed like it’d be a coin flip if it held… I climbed down. Thankfully, we never had to try it.

The wood-burning stove in the living room was the best thing that has ever happened in my life for the hour or so we sat there warming up after breaching the hull. We could relax.

It takes a few minutes to get yourself acquainted with Soapstone. It is a very quirky layout, with the master bedroom not even attached, and a bathroom also not attached—but with a nice outdoor walkway leading to the main house. Once inside the main cabin, you walk through the kitchen to find a few little nooks you can hide in to read or write. Through the kitchen windows, you see a large outdoor seating area overlooking a running river. You go down one step and find yourself in a cozy living room without a TV.

Soapstone is a fancy rustic retreat meant for creative or romantic escapes; you don’t need no television for that. What’s upstairs?You find a nice extra bedroom with two full beds, then you see a door. Through the door, you’ll exit to the upstairs credenza (I don’t even know what that really is, but it sounds about right, so I’ll use it with 100% confidence). That’s where I tried to flip. Cool. Walk back inside, giggling a little over the fact that the railing very well may not have supported the weight of Some Guy.There’s a ladder!!!! Yes!

The ladder leads you to that weird design you see on the building in one of the attached images. It’s pretty sweet! Nice views. Good work, builder people.

Early morning, after the fiasco involving the potential hypothermic demise of yours truly, a walk was needed—to not wake a sleeping person I had not known, yet, sleeps like a log (currently typing like a madman while she sleeps little more than 3 feet away, and the sounds of “gentle” snores are currently drowning out the sound of a person typing like Helen Keller just got ahold of a computer for the first time. Earbuds on.)

A path was found. Flammable herbal stick, coffee, warmth from proper apparel, and a bright waking sun were my ammo on this walk. I’m just some guy, and I know not a lot, but it is very hard not to believe in a god during those moments in life. There shouldn’t be perfect moments like that. If another person had walked up at that moment, I would have run. Some guy just weeping for seemingly no reason at all… not the vibe I try to spread.

In reality, I felt so unbelievably guilty for how angry I get at life. I hate it sometimes. There is no reason for it. None of this matters. That path screamed that at me like I was some greedy little brat complaining about being bored while sitting amongst every toy known to mankind. The colors on the trees, moss, ferns, and the morning sky will prove to you instantly that life is, in fact, very beautiful. It was a twenty-minute or so hike through the paths on the property, and it is well worth it to check it out.

After spending some time in the woods remembering that I am little more than an ungrateful schmuck, I returned to the big fancy rustic cabin in the woods with a renewed sense of positivity. Tiptoeing across the foyer and crashing into the kitchen, more coffee was made.

So, I’ll be honest—I’m not sure what else we did there. Flammable herbal sticks… We went to a very good local seafood joint that night. I was all paranoid because I thought we were like fifty miles from anything. We weren’t. I had just taken a backroad to the place. Soapstone is only ten minutes or so from local eateries and trinkets and things.

Soon, the next morning, it was time to depart Soapstone for a lovely cottage near the sea. It was going to be Thanksgiving in a couple of days, and it needed to happen somewhere cool, yet not too romantic. The relationship was pushing a few weeks old, plus Thanksgiving isn’t really one of those “wow” holidays for romance.

Okay—honestly, I wanted it to kill on the romance factor. But not in an obvious kind of way.

You’ll see…