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I read somewhere that Oysterville Days would be happening on the coming weekend, and then couldn’t find anything more about it. No one we asked seemed to have heard of it, and Visitor Center staff in Seaview had to dig deep and make a phone call before they could confirm that at least there would be a quilt show Saturday at the old schoolhouse in Oysterville. But that was good enough for us, and we took off mid-morning to check it out. It would also give us an opportunity to explore the northern part of Long Beach Peninsula. On the way, we stopped at the Port of Peninsula in Nahcotta, south of Oysterville. Impossible not to notice were mounds, no, make that mountains of oyster shells ev
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On the way, we stopped at the Port of Peninsula in Nahcotta, south of Oysterville. Impossible not to notice were mounds, no, make that mountains of oyster shells everywhere: in black-netted bags in big tubs within chain-link enclosures, stacked on wooden pallets, and piled high in dump trucks on the parking lot. Soon one of the trucks backed up onto an unloading platform/fueling station. I watched fascinated as it began to dump its load into an already full oyster boat (Carol Ann) below. The three-man operation – driver, dumper, and guy on the boat – continued until the truck was empty and boat a bit lower in the water. The guy on the boat climbed up onto the oyster mound with a hoe and pulled the last shells into his boat. "I’ve never seen so many oysters," I said to a man passing by towards the wharf. "Oh, those aren’t oysters; they’re just the shells." "Shells…?" "Yeah, they dump them onto beds where they want oysters, and the shells attract larvae." "Larvae??? (I realized I was sounding like a complete idiot.) "Oysters go through a larval stage before they become oysters," the patient oyster man explained to me, and proceeded onto the wharf to his boat.
Larvae don’t sound particularly appetizing to me; something insect-like, cottony and alien. According to Merriam-Webster, larva is from the Latin mask, the early form of an animal that at birth or hatching is fundamentally unlike its parent and must metamorphose before assuming the adult character. I learned tadpoles are also technically considered larvae. Oyster larvae are called spat. My oyster education could have been considerably furthered had we stopped at the Willapa Bay Interpretive Center, but instead, our stomachs took precedence as we drove a few miles back to a colorful and inviting hot dog stand we’d passed on the way. Sandy sets up her dog stand in various places, most often a few miles west of Nahcotta on her property on Bay Avenue, which is also Highway 103. The dog stand, pictured here with Sandy, is bright enough by itself, but is impossible to miss in front of the matching red-roofed building with bright yellow siding. Sandy in her red apron matches too, but the winning touch is her hat, in the shape of a hot dog on a bun, squiggly mustard lines atop. We thoroughly enjoyed eating our Polish sausage dogs at the picnic table next to a teapot garden. Teapot garden? That’s right – old teapots and teakettles placed whimsically among bushes and flowers and a glass bottle tree. Don’t ask; just believe it!
Well fed, we continued on until we neared Oysterville. The turnoff was blocked off; no cars allowed in during Oysterville Days. But a big yellow school bus shuttled visitors from the impromptu parking lot in a field to the edge of the old town. Oysterville, on Willapa Bay, sometimes described as a semi-ghost town, is more than 150 years old, incorporated in 1852. Not surprisingly, oysters were the big draw, the tasty but smaller Olympia oysters indigenous to the area. But by the 1890’s, they’d been over-harvested and Oysterville’s boomtown days came to an end. Eventually, larger Japanese Pacific oysters were introduced, further contributing to the smaller oysters’ demise. The bulk of the trade is now in Pacific oysters, though in some areas attempts are being made to re-introduce the as yet not extinct Olympia oyster. Uniquely, Willapa Bay oyster growers own much of the muddy flats and tidelands favored by oysters as habitat and out of which they are harvested. Because oysters are filter-feeders, they are hyper-sensitive to polluted water. Oyster growers have been at the forefront in pushing for development of laws, agencies, and grassroots groups that protect and improve water quality.
As the bus let us off, we walked down Territory Road towards the music. Fiddler and guitar player were combining strains melodiously in a waltz as a few couples danced. Some were dressed in period clothing. Dancing turned out to be the "price" of admission. Somehow Bob managed to sneak past without "paying", but not before taking a rare shot of me "dancing" with a pleasant gentleman from Astoria. Such was our introduction to Oysterville.
Our impression as we proceeded into the historic district was far from ghost-town-like. Most of the houses and buildings were in tip-top shape, with well-groomed gardens and signs telling of their history. (Just under half of Oysterville’s 52 houses are occupied summers.) Clumps of people were gathered around artisans and craftspeople demonstrating their skills at streetside booths. Wood carvers, a blacksmith, cheese and soap makers and ladies at spinning wheels were happy to explain and even invite observers to participate. A team of two horses pulled wagonloads of visitors up and down the streets.
Through reading the signs in front of each home, the school, and church, one is able to piece together Oysterville’s history. One home is named tsako-te-hahsh-eetl, Chinook for "place of red-topped grass/ home of the yellowhammer" (a type of woodpecker). Generations of Chinook people summered here to gather oysters. It was from Chinook leader Nahcati that two white settlers, R. H. Espy and I. A. Clark learned of the succulent oysters. They had him to thank also for saving their lives; lost in a dense fog in Willapa Bay on their way to meet Nahcati, it was only his continuous drumming on a hollow log (he knew they were coming) that led them to land and safety. Espy and Clark knew they’d been shown a good thing and settled down to business, marketing the tasty oysters for shipping largely to gold rush-era San Francisco, where they became a culinary favorite. By 1855, with over 500 residents, all needed businesses and facilities (except, ironically, a bank), Oysterville became Pacific County’s seat. Oyster farmers stored their gold in their mattresses!
The quilt show proved to be a small but nice collection of hand-made quilts in traditional designs hung inside the one-room schoolhouse (which converted from school to community center in 1957). Old photographs of Oysterville residents on schoolhouse walls provide a glimpse into the past. Outside, I learned from a retired ex-Seattlelite living in Oysterville now (population count is an iffy 48) that the peninsula is thick with black bears. Family of his living a bit further up the peninsula spot them almost daily. As human population and housing continue to expand and bears are squeezed, human-bear encounters will likely intensify and could become problematic.
Where the courthouse and jail once stood, a wooden sign informs that on Sunday morning, February 5th, 1893, a day of infamy for Oysterville, South Bend raiders snuck into town, broke into the courthouse, and carried away the county records. South Bend, on the Willapa River on the mainland, as it grew and prospered had apparently been clamoring to take over as county seat. Although a county-wide vote in 1892 favored South Bend, Oysterville was reluctant to give up its title and filed a lawsuit. South Bend’s forceful appropriation/stealing of county records (depending on whose viewpoint you go by) ended the dilemma, and South Bend remains county seat to this day.
Our next stop was Oysterville Sea Farms. The old cannery, also a historic building, farms and sells oysters. At the small shop, you can buy oysters in the shell, opened, canned, or smoked, clams, plus cranberry products and historical books about the area. Bob was chicken, but I had to try an oyster shooter. It came in a little cup with some cocktail sauce. The oyster itself tasted… soft with an unusual but not unpleasant flavor I wasn’t able to liken to anything I’d ever tasted before. I like raw fish in sushi, but raw oysters are a taste I’d have to acquire with practice. A few days later, Bob came down with a stomach flu; I didn’t. Since we’d eaten basically everything the same except the shooter, I teased him that the oyster probably protected me against whatever made him sick.
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