Room 5

I met the owner of the Old Wheeler Hotel, Katie, years ago while I was on assignment for a story about small coastal towns. I had the privilege of staying there for a night as part of my research and loved it all - the hotel, the town, and Katie. After the tragic loss of most of my world in early 2022, she generously offered to have me back for a respite when I could find my way out there. When I did make it, she gave me the keys to room 5 and told me to hold onto them. To come and go as I pleased until the busy season returned to the coast some months later. That hotel immediately became my indefinite home.

Many things helped me survive the months that immediately followed my partner’s untimely passing and the loss of our home. Nature, writing, and perhaps most notably, the love and support of family and friends. I do believe, however, that this particular act of kindness from Katie, was as large a factor as any.

I tend not to entertain much outside the realm of the proven and factual. That includes things like religion, ghosts, astrology, and all forms of woo. That said, I am also agnostic across the board when it comes to such matters. I know that there are things for which no real explanations or answers have yet to be revealed by the methods of man. Accordingly, I try to maintain an open, but skeptical mind.

I say all of that to tell you this - Katie was suffering from significant personal turmoil several years ago when she decided to take a trip down the Oregon coast. On a whim, she stayed at the Old Wheeler Hotel. Then stayed another night, followed by another. Then after those three nights spent in Room 5, she decided to buy the place. 15 years later, she still stays in that room from time to time when life gets a little overwhelming and or some guidance might be needed. Make of that what you will.

There are some obvious reasons for the room’s appeal and ability to offer healing and peace. Not the least of which is the view. The second-floor corner space looks out over what I lovingly refer to as the Nehalem Serengeti. A landscape comprised of the Nehalem River and Bay, Lazarus Island, the Sitka Wetlands, and off in the distance, Neahkahnie Mountain and her adjoining peaks. It is a view that provides instant comfort when I wake, and limitless avenues of thought, contemplation, and inspiration throughout the day and into the evening. My coffee cruises to the public dock after sunrise followed by my wine wanders at sundown, have proven to be the finest regular bookends to a day I’ve experienced yet.

Beyond the natural beauty and tranquility that the area affords, there is something magical about living in a historic hotel. I saw a quote a few years back, well probably a meme, that resonated with me as a person who has spent a lot of time on the road. Goes like this - “I really enjoy just existing in hotels. The long identical hallways. The soulless abstract art. Strange city lights in the window. Six stories off the ground. Strangers chatting in the hall. Nothing in the dresser. No past, but an infinite present.” And I would agree. I love staying in hotels for all the reasons that the quote details. But residing in a hotel, let alone a small, very old one, is an entirely different animal. 

Here, floorboards elongate or contract in order to compensate for ancient and uneven hardwood flooring. It’s a place with so much soul and character that at times, you almost have to work to ignore it. And there is something preternatural about being alone in such a place for the evening when no guests are present. There's a pleasant eeriness that comes with walking the low-lit halls while the creaking floors and antique mirrors tacitly convey my course. They exude mystery and mischief at times but with an undercurrent of good intentions. I very much equate it to spending time in the woods here.

There are distinctive, haunting qualities to coastal parcels of windblown Sitka spruce and shore pine forest. Where one moment I could be walking cautiously through hobbit tunnels cut into thickets of silk tassel, salal, and wax myrtle. Then turn a corner and emerge into a grove of trees so contorted by the elements, it appears as though I might have stumbled upon a forest cauldron dance frozen in time. As if my sudden presence has caused the trees to hold their form until I finish passing through.

Beyond the perspectives, I have found great inspiration here as well. The Oregon coast is regularly battered by wind, rain, and surf. It absorbs some of the most brutal onslaughts that the elements have to offer with reliable, historic consistency. And as long as there have been human memories to detail such things, it has exuded an uncommon beauty and resilience in the face of it all. This place is home to some of the most wondrous and life-affirming landscapes I’ve ever laid eyes on. Perhaps not despite what it goes through, but because of it.

I would wind up calling the small town of Wheeler home for 8 months before finally moving into a more permanent residence. Still on the coast, about a half-hour down the road near the town of Tillamook. At this juncture in my life, it feels somewhere between compelling and critical to be near the elk and the salmon. Where the rivers, mountains, and ocean converge. Where my favorite trees of fragrant needles and flat leaves connect the sand to the soil. Here there is life and abundance that is impossible not to be touched or influenced by. I find beauty, inspiration, meaning, perspective, and purpose every day here. It’s where I belong, for now, anyway. 

Aside from the powers of Mother Nature, I have no idea what may or may not be at play or have a hand in all of this, as I implied earlier. However, I will admit that I feel like I’ve been cared for and helped along on this journey in ways I don’t know and don’t understand. And I don’t have to. What matters is that the journey continues - and it got underway with a simple act of kindness that turned out to be a lifeline, a sanctuary, a home base for healing, and a return to hope. In an unassuming cozy corner in Wheeler, Oregon labeled Room 5.