I Brake for Salt Water Taffy: Late Summer on the Oregon Coast

It was barely a few miles after I had hit the Oregon coast that I saw the sign for salt water taffy and had to immediately pull over.

I don’t know about you, but to me salt water taffy is a symbol of summer on the coast. This isn’t something from my childhood—we weren’t allowed that sort of candy when I was a kid. When I moved back to San Francisco as an adult, after nearly ten years away, I started taking weekend adventures up the Sonoma coast. In the small town of Bodega Bay, about an hour north of San Francisco, I discovered a little roadside shop painted in stripes of pink and white like a candy cane. They sold salt water taffy. From that point on, whether I was off camping with friends or on a romantic weekend à deux, I always insisted we stop for saltwater taffy. I’m not so much a creature of habit, but I do like my rituals.

And that is why, when I saw the red and white sign for Read’s Homemade Candies shortly after I hit the coast at Lincoln City—the one advertising saltwater taffy—I had to pull in and investigate. It was late summer on the coast and a few pieces of salt water taffy would make it perfect. The fact that the shop was painted like a candy cane—not so different from my favorite Bodega taffy store—made it even better.



What I found was a little candy magic-land, a shop that might feel like the happiest place on earth if you were a kid. Even though I’m no longer a kid, it felt pretty magical.



Read’s Homemade Candies was established in the early 1950s. It’s a family run business and they make all their taffy themselves, here on the premises. There’s a kitchen area where you can watch through glass as they stretch and wrap the taffy, using this big machine.



And if you peek behind the counter, you’ll see barrels and barrels of candy—enough to fuel the summer beach days of hundreds of kids.



When I asked the kindly woman behind the counter about the shop, she told me the building was one of the oldest in town and had once been a brothel—the rooms upstairs still have numbers on the doors she said.



The taffy itself was soft—perhaps the softest I’ve ever tasted. Is this because I’ve never had saltwater taffy that was this fresh? For the record, my favorites were hot cinnamon, licorice, molasses (surprising but good), chocolate mint, and root beer. When it comes to taffy—here or elsewhere—I think banana is just wrong.



With some sweet treats for the road, all that was left was to enjoy the beauty of the Oregon coast as it unfolded before my eyes.

Wide open beaches with crashing waves.



A small white lighthouse set on a rocky point, with the endless ocean beyond.



There were beaches and coves I wanted to explore (especially this one, with a campground tucked away behind it that I have promised myself I will return to).



And hillsides and cliffs where the trees and foliage had been forcefully trained by the fierce winds off the ocean to lay flat, to exhibit as little resistance to the elements as possible.



It was all gorgeously beautiful, tinged only with the regret that I did not have more time to stop, to immerse myself in this place, these small towns set in such stunning landscape. Since I was already dreading the pileup of emails and tasks waiting for me at the other end of the trip, it was temping to linger, to stay here on the Oregon coast indefinitely—though I’d have to make the trek back to Lincoln City for more taffy, that is for sure.

As day gave way to dusk I did stop, at least for a little while, at a beach so striking that each time I drive this route I am forced to pull over. I simply cannot pass this beach without stopping, to look and wonder, to take photos, to breathe the air off the ocean that smells ancient and new all at the same time.



There were beautiful shells.



And shorebirds in the surf.



And, as I walked towards the water, the wind was so strong it blew a constant stream of loose sand over the dunes that created an eerie looking effect, like fog or mist. Ghostly.



It left carved out sand formations in its wake.



I saw the sunset captured on the shore, reflected back in the moisture left by a wave.



And stuck my feet in the cold Pacific waters—so cold that it was almost painful to let the waves wash over them. All that frolicking in warm Seattle lakes this summer has spoiled me, made me forget about just how cold a real ocean is.



Sandblasted and chilled—but oh so happy—I scurried back to the car, turned on the heat, and put the music on low. And as the sun slipped into the ocean and darkness fell, I passed over the border and back into California. Home again, after six months away.