Forever on Our Mind: Treasure Hunting in Lincoln City
I went searching for glass floats in Lincoln City—and found something better
99-101. Treasure Hunting in Lincoln City
May 2025:
Growing up, my family spent most of our spring breaks in Lincoln City on the Oregon Coast. Most of what we did was for my sister and I—slurping bowls of chowder at Mo’s, watching Keiko swim around his tank in the Oregon Coast Aquarium, and doing cannonballs in the hotel pool.
My parents didn’t ask for much, mostly for us to stop asking to buy every T-shirt and piece of taffy we came across, but they almost always insisted we visit the Alder House glass-blowing studio just south of Lincoln City. That was for them.
It was usually as quiet as my sister and I got on those trips. Beads of sweat trickled down our foreheads while we sat in a converted church pew just a few feet from the furnace, whose fiery interior topped 1000ºF. There, we’d watch craftsmen shape molten glass into floats, pendants, vases, and bowls—usually in soft hues of pink, purple, blue, and green. I don’t recall us ever being able to afford one of the studio’s more ornate pieces, but my parents always made sure we came home with an inches-long, raindrop-shaped piece that we’d proudly hang on our bedroom walls until the following spring.
I didn’t learn until adulthood that glass art has been a part of the community’s DNA for decades. A sampling of Japanese fishing floats, many of which washed ashore nearby, is on exhibit at the North Lincoln County Historical Museum—and visitors can blow their own pieces at the Lincoln City Glass Center.
What brings me to Lincoln City on this Monday morning is the Finders Keepers program, where secretive “float fairies” randomly hide more than 3,000 locally blown glass floats along Lincoln City’s seven miles of coastline throughout the year.
The float fairies may hide dozens in a given day, or they may hide none; they may place floats at daybreak, after lunch, shortly before sunset, or not at all. They may drop the orbs miles apart. There’s no way of telling, and that’s the fun. My buddy Casey—whose family found their own float a few years back—recently likened it to an Easter egg hunt without knowing if any eggs have been hidden.
With his words bouncing around my brain, I head to the southernmost beach in Lincoln City to begin my hunt.
Stop #1: Siletz Bay
My Finders Keepers quest begins with a pre-breakfast walk at Siletz Bay, where the Siletz River drains into the Pacific Ocean.
Hundreds of gnarled, waterlogged snags line the river shore and coastline here, giving float fairies countless hiding spots to choose from. This might be one of my shortest love letters yet.
Just a few steps from the parking lot, a bearded gentleman bids me good morning while dozens of harbor seals grunt and groan across the river. The man and his wife moved to Lincoln City after vacationing here several years ago and today walk the beaches as often as possible. “Every time you come down, no matter the weather, it’s free entertainment,” he tells me.
We part ways after a few minutes, and I resume the search—casually poking my head into piles here and there while taking time to admire the twists, turns, and gnarls in each piece of driftwood. The tangles tell a story.
Every single tree reached the end of its life and fell into the ocean—the uproarious, wild, turgid, frothing, stormy ocean. And yet: Here they are. Where did these trees come from? How did they fall? Did I ever walk through the forests where these trees once stood? What kind of trees were they? How did they wind up here? How have they not broken down?
I can almost hear my stomach rumbling over the waves, which I take as a sign to grab breakfast. I walk back to my car and head to the Otis Cafe for a plate of the diner’s famous, cheese-covered hash browns. This will not be my shortest essay, after all.
Stop #2: D River State Recreation Site
My hotel is across the street from the D River State Recreation Site, where the park's namesake waterway flows into the Pacific Ocean, so I spend my lunch break patrolling its sunny sands in the heart of town.
Then again, calling the D River a "waterway" is a bit of a stretch. The channel departs from nearby Devils Lake with all the enthusiasm of an office drone getting out of bed on Monday morning before apologetically leaking into the Pacific Ocean just 440 feet later.
It was once dubbed the world’s shortest river by Guinness World Records—a boast that drew the ire of some Boy Scouts in Great Falls, Montana, who in 1989 claimed that the community’s Roe River was actually the shortest in the world.
The battle turned surprisingly contentious: The Lincoln City Chamber of Commerce called the Roe River "a drainage ditch surveyed for a school project", while Montana supporters called the D River little more than "ocean water backup." (Note to self: Never piss off the Lincoln City Chamber of Commerce or a group of Boy Scouts.) To no one’s surprise, the fine people at Guinness threw up their hands and stopped tracking the claim altogether.
Almost as soon as I cross the street and descend toward the shore, I know I’m going to strike out here.
Even though it’s a Monday in May, there are simply too many people for a float to truly be hidden here. A group of four sits in a row of camp chairs at the edge of the wet sand, just beyond the furthest reaches of the trickling waves. A 20-something couple tosses a tennis ball for what appears to be the world’s happiest dog. A Latino man kicks, knees, and head butts a soccer ball on the dry sand. A retiree only occasionally pays attention to the pair of kites tied to the back of his beach chair. A few toddlers, none older than three or four, squeak and squeal while splashing about in the inches-deep D River.
After a half-mile of walking, I take a seat on a stray log. The sun’s warmth finds the back of my neck, and a light breeze carries the last of my worries down the coastline. So few are the clouds, I almost have to squint while surveying the scene around me. It’s a good problem to have.
Alas, my lunch break is over. I return to my hotel empty-handed.
Stop #3: Roads End State Recreation Site
After dinner but shortly before sunset, I head to Roads End State Recreation Site at the northern edge of Lincoln City for my third and final attempt to find an orb today.
I walk north, only occasionally looking for a float amid the fist-sized stones that cover the beach here. Lulled into a sense of peace by the crashing waves, my mind drifts to the stories that unfold here every day.
Four logs sit arranged in a square, each long enough for exactly one butt and all surrounding what was once a beach bonfire. Did a family roast s’mores here for Mother’s Day? Did a few cousins walk down from one of the nearby vacation homes to get away from their parents?
Further north, some of the few logs on this stretch of beach have been shaped into an upside-down “V” that’s no higher than my waist—the final remnants of a onetime driftwood fort. Did a young couple build that on a first date? Was it parents with their young children? How much refuge did the fort offer, and what kind of storms has it seen?
Nearby, a few logs butt up against the beachgrass at the edge of the coast, where countless visitors have no doubt enjoyed a front-row seat to storms rolling in off the ocean, sunsets leaving behind firework bursts of orange and purple, and fellow beachgoers flying kites overhead.
When the sun finally dips behind the clouds, my time is just about up. I will go home without a float.
On my way back to the car, I think about what this day has given me. I marveled at harbor seals with a total stranger, watched whole swaths of humanity take full advantage of today’s sunshine in a million meaningful ways, and pondered the stories that the Oregon Coast tells so well.
It’s the first time in years that I’ve just … walked on the beach. Most of the time, I’m hiking in the forests high above the shoreline or looking down at the surf from the base of a lighthouse.
But the Finders Keepers program changed all that. It forced me to feel the sand between my toes, the breeze at my back, the sun on my shoulder. I traded the grandeur of those high-up viewpoints for something more visceral. More immediate. More tangible.
I liked it here.
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