A ship heads up Coquille River in Bandon. 

As I gaze out my patio door at the Bandon Table Rock Motel, drinking in the crystalline blue skies and the serene sight and sound of ocean waves, I feel terrible for all you suckers in the smoke. I even stood before the waves, thinking of you, taking several deep breaths, and filling my lungs with negative ions, while emptying them of toxic smoke particles.

Every proper adventure contains a mix of good, bad and ugly smoke — at least in this case. When we departed the Rogue Valley for healthier skies, we felt confident that, as we motored north, our breathing would become less laborious.

No.

As we neared Roseburg, Giovanni filled with smoke and there was no escape. I made the Sutherlin exit in record time where things began to improve and I could see the lines in the road. In Elkton, we could detect the pleasing scent of vegetation that wasn’t on fire. We love stopping for lunch at Tomaselli’s Pastry Mill and Café. Their food is fresh and delicious, the baked goods irresistible, and the service is grand. We both took the Blue Bayou Burger, since I’m learning the Linda Ronstadt version on my bass, “Lady Blue.”

We agreed that it was the best burger we’ve had in a very long time. Vacation is a time for splurging and clearing the throat cavity with hearty food and baked goods. I bought an elk claw. No, not a bear claw. Now, I know what you’re thinking. I know that elk do not have claws. These were maple bars with toasted, slivered almonds on top. Oh, my. I took the last one and felt little remorse.

On our way down 101 from delivering artwork to Earthworks Gallery in Yachats, I was forced to suffer the ubiquitous 40-mph Subaru driver, then meandered through a rock shop with a dragon fountain, dragon keychains, dragon desk sets, and other dragon fare, while artist Lane Hall hunted through raw agates for the perfect specimens.

Next came the three moronic, intoxicated (?) motorcycle riders who very nearly fulfilled their death wish ‘neath the wheels of Giovanni the Honda. Just after loading up on ice cream at BJ’s in Florence, home of the famous 1970 exploding whale (by all means, Google this one), I noticed the lead moron weaving back and forth behind me in the rearview. I thought he was just having a fun ride. Did you see “Every Which Way But Loose” with Clint Eastwood? Remember the bikers? Then, the world stopped for construction at the same time Huey, Dewey and Louie used the bike lane to go around and stop in front of us.

Apparently, the beer could wait no longer to make its exit, so the lead guy gets off his bike, walks to the side of the road and, yes, you guessed it. Then, Rider No. 3, the smallest of the trio and a follower in every sense, followed. OK, merely disgusting to this point. Once we were finally on our way, head goof pulls into a right-turn lane as we heaved a solid sigh of relief. The other two start to follow suit, then the front man changes his mind and veers back into traffic. I expected No. 2 to follow but he just stops in the middle of 101. I had a line of cars behind me. It took all of Giovanni’s braking effort to prevent a complete flattening. We were finally able to pass and proceed to beautiful Bandon, though my adrenalin rush remained for miles.

Bandon is beautiful, but my hair resembles a steel wool pad. There’s a downside to everything.

Before I sign off, I want to commend the horde of astute readers who graciously informed my editor of the misinformation in last week’s column. You are, indeed, paying attention. After living among deer for nearly 40 years, I should know that white-tailed deer do not reside in our area, even if their tails are white when lifted. My humble apologies to the black-tailed deer population and their defenders. I meant no slight.