Two miles west of US 101, down a heavily wooded, two lane road, lies the southwest Washington town of Bay Center. At the place where the road runs into Willapa Bay sits Bay Center's sole eatery, the Blue Heron Inn. And on a wall inside the Blue Heron Inn -- in the front room with the three tables, not the capacious bar in back -- hangs a poster depicting the life cycle of various species of salmon.

Of course, Bay Center isn't known for salmon; it's known (to those who know it at all) for oysters, as is practically every other town on Willapa Bay. The life cycle of the oyster doesn't make for a colorful, action-packed poster, though, so I guess they put up the salmon one to keep the tourists happy. Although Bay Center isn't much known for tourists, either.

To us, Bay Center is known as the place Marsha and I camped one early spring night a few years ago, following a too-long, rain-drenched drive around the Olympic Peninsula and an afternoon hike in the Hoh Rain Forest. This is the kind of country where roadside stores sell packets of Spotted Owl Helper, and the prevailing vehicle is a mud-coated, tractor-tired pickup truck with a bumper sticker that says, "Earth First -- We'll Log The Other Planets Later." We had run out of enthusiasm, daylight and rain just as we got to the sign exhorting campers to go two miles west down the two lane road, and so that's where we ended up for the night.

Despite our Travel Guide's notation not to miss the Oyster Omelet at the Blue Heron for breakfast in the morning, we had managed to resist, instead contenting ourselves with cups of camp stove coffee before hitting the road back home to southern California and more sedate fare like Duck Sausage & Goat Cheeze Pizza Wraps (or whatever the fashion was that season). But the Blue Heron Inn always stuck in the back of my mind.

Now that we live in southwest Washington ourselves, that memory unstuck itself one morning, and lodged firmly in my right prefrontal lobe. It was one of those rare days when we woke up early, declared some time off for ourselves, and decided to take a drive to the seashore in our 122S. The Blue Heron for lunch it would be, then.

A fifteen mile sprint up I-5 from Vancouver took us to State Route 4. On our map, most of SR 4's seventy-five mile run to the coast is marked with little "scenic route" dots; first, though, we'd have to go through the Columbia River port of Longview, described in our book as industrial and unremarkable. Indeed, the drive through Longview begins by passing wood pulp works, bargain used car lots and the like; the Chinese restaurant with the '40s Ford high on a pole out front doing only a small amount towards establishing the place as a leading cultural center. A bit further on, though, the view from the road changes completely: on the left, an upscale residential neighborhood; on the right, a mile-long, immaculately manicured park right out of Mary Poppins. Spanning the park's stream is another of Longview's surprises: a whimsical suspension bridge scaled solely for the use of squirrels.

Since we moved up here, my failure to navigate where I intend to go has become the rule, not the exception. I tell you, it's not my fault! I can't help it that they put a fork in the road without any trace of a sign. Opting to bear right and not to cross the opposing lane (my theory being that, in the absence of instructions, it's best to stay on the road one's already on), we ended up going some miles away from the coast on SR 4 before coming to a sign telling us we were eastbound -- the first indication that I'd strayed again -- then a bit further yet before coming to a sensible place to turn around.

"Dollars for squirrel bridges; not one penny for signs so stupid Californian immigrants can find their way." (Famous Cascadian slogan.)

Once heading properly westwards once more, SR 4 earns every one of its scenic route dots. The highway loosely parallels the north bank of the Columbia River to the ocean, alternately hugging sheer cliffs, climbing through forest groves in the hills that separate the Willamette Valley from the coast, running through farmland past once-grand, now crumbling barns, and slowing only slightly when traversing practically non-existent, but terribly historic, hamlets. Passing lanes are conveniently provided on the longer upgrades, making it easy to get around slow logging trucks ( and on downgrades, not getting run over by suddenly-maniacally-fast logging trucks is a great excuse for indulging in sporty driving).

The weather remained cool, frequent brief rain squalls suddenly materializing out of an otherwise sunny sky. Perfect conditions, and a perfect road, for making all that ipd stuff in the Amazon's suspension and motor earn its keep clearing all traces of cobwebs from the driver's noggin.

This sort of work had me toggling the Overdrive rocker switch on and off every minute or so. After a half hour of this, the OD became more and more reluctant to engage, normally a sign of worn internal seals unable to cope with hot, thinning oil. It never dropped out of OD on its own and didn't seem to present any threat to our eventual return home under our own power, so we pressed onwards (some of you will remember our transmission woes from earlier episodes of this series). This development put something of a damper on the proceedings, and I was relieved when we finally intersected with US 101, turning northwards for twenty miles without having to toggle off the green light a single time.

And so we came to the Blue Heron Inn just in time for lunch, and sat at one of the three tables in the front room. Marsha perused the menu. I already knew what I wanted -- and it wasn't an oyster omelet.

Let me explain that the days when my favorite bedtime snack was a sharp cheddar and dry salami sandwich (washed down with a big glass of whole milk) are long gone. We eat healthy food at home -- Marsha's myriad variations on what we call "vegetable mass" are very tasty, and we have discovered that the vegetarian Boca Burger actually resembles ground beef much more than it resembles reconstituted walnut shells -- the result being that my blood pressure and cholesterol have both dropped fifty points over the years. On special occasions, though, there's no substitute for the real thing. Lunch at the Blue Heron qualified as a special occasion.

I am conducting a survey of Chili Burgers of the Northwest. In my opinion, an honest chili burger should be first of all imposing in size, and the ingredients should be traditional, non-gourmet, find them anywhere in 1955 type stuff, offered in well-balanced proportions open-face on a plate, with chopped onions in a small Dixie cup on the side. The best I've found is at Waddle's Coffee Shop ("Walk In, Waddle Out"), right by the I-5 bridge on Portland's Hayden Island -- a chili burger with tremendous personal integrity. The accompanying fries are fine and the cole slaw is refreshingly light on mayonnaise.

Notice to anyone attending the VSA Portland meet: Waddle's is within easy walking / waddling distance of the Doubletree Hotel where that event will be hosted, so start dieting now in preparation.

Anyway, back at the Blue Heron, Marsha settled on the Clam Fritter Platter and we ordered up. About the time I knew the salmon poster well enough that it would have been impolite not to invite it over to the house for dinner, two gargantuan plates landed on our table. If Waddle's chili burger is a 10, I'd give the Blue Heron's an overall 8. The fries could have been crisper and the whole thing tended a little towards the tepid end of the temperature spectrum, but the sheer hugeness of the portions nudged the grade back upwards. After consuming three-quarters of it and downing two cups of coffee, I was ready to jump on an oyster boat and go spend a long day doing whatever it is oystermen do on Willapa Bay.

Instead, after a quick under-hood check on the Amazon and some peering under the car, which revealed only that there was nothing unusual to be seen on or around the recalcitrant OD unit, we left Bay Center and headed out on the next stage of our tour.