Every time I am in the vicinity of Mt Neahkahnie on the North Oregon Coast, I am compelled to stop at Oswald West State Park. How can I not, knowing it's named for the governor who wrote and steered to passage an ingenious 66-word bill in 1913 that declared the beaches a public highway, and thus in the public trust forever? With that bill, West inaugurated a unique relationship between a state's citizenry and a specific natural resource (our beaches) that is virtually unparalleled in the country. Years later, writing about the bill's passage, West wrote, "No local selfish interest, through politics or otherwise shall impair this great birthright of our people."
Oregon's great birthright is its ocean beaches — publicly owned ocean beaches.
At the park I also dig the existential vibe evaporating off the surfers who dominate the scene, the towering hemlocks and cedars, and that people have to hike a considerable distance to reach the beach.
Together, these qualities push Oswald West State Park into the top ten list of Coolest Oregon places.
But what makes this park number one for me is a certain obscure writing attraction that, I declare here, should be visited by every citizen of Oregon, especially any writer.
The attraction is called the Matt Kramer Memorial and it amounts to a plaque tucked away on the route to Cape Falcon. It is so utterly remote and unpretentious that it took me two hours to locate it after I learned of its existence several years ago from a footnote in a book purchased at garage sale.
The plaque, which overlooks Short Sand Beach, reads:
"The people of Oregon hereby express their gratitude to Matt Kramer of the Associated Press, whose clear and incisive newspaper articles were instrumental in gaining public support for passing of the 1967 Beach Bill."
Just who was Matt Kramer?
He was veteran reporter covering the Capitol beat and the 1967 session of the Oregon Legislature. His dispatches on the early, near-fatal legislative fate of the "Beach Bill" that appeared in newspapers around the state helped keep the bill in the public eye and secure its eventual passage. Indeed, my research indicates that one story in particular Kramer wrote during the May 1967 death rattle of the bill may be the main reason Oregon has open beaches without fences and security guards wearing headsets.
One journalist. Meager pay. God-awful boring hearings in a legislative subcommittee. No environmental pros from Portland feeding Kramer canned goods. No received wisdom from television or talk radio. Kramer just wrote some straight news of the clarifying inverted pyramid type extinct in contemporary American newspapers. The man simply wrote 40,000-50,000 words in five months (I've read them all) and his sentences awakened a sleeping giant — the people of Oregon — to the shocking news that their publicly-owned beaches in the dry sands areas were imperiled by privatization.
My favorite Kramer sentence is:
There has been a public outcry to preserve the beaches since some private owners began claiming the beach down to the high tide line and began barring the public.
Clear and incisive. Just like the plaque says. And with his sentences and stories — Matt Kramer made Oregon history.
Looking down to the 75 surfers below the memorial, taking in the Pacific Ocean, looking north to Cape Falcon, I always feel ethereal when I realize the state erected a plaque to a journalist for his work on behalf of protecting Oregon's beaches. It would be all I could ever dream of achieving from the writing life. I really would take it over any possible literary award that might ever come my way.
Every journalism school student from an Oregon university should visit the Matt Kramer Memorial as a requirement to graduate. This spring, I plan on taking my Newport High School journalism students there to lay hands on the plaque and pledge fealty to the power of reporting the news without bias and agenda. We'll bring some tools and trim back the foliage around the plant. It's the least we can do. Then we'll jog down the path and hit Short Sand beach and play with wild abandon — for free.