It’s a stormy November night. The first real storm of the year with wind and rain and thunder off in the distance. The wipers beating back and forth trying in vain to keep up with the rain pelting the windshield.
The road is dark and winding along the Santiam River. I glance over at you sitting next to me. You look fearful as the car kicks up gravel alongside the road as the car slews into the next curve.
A truck and trailer pass us throwing up sheets of water from the pavement further obscuring the roadway ahead. There is no way of knowing how much farther or how much long it will be before we reach the cabin.
Further on we see lights ahead along side the road. Lights that are unexpected out here. As they draw closer we make out the lighted sign: “Mountain Inn”. “Let’s stop for a while”, you say.
I pull off the road and park in front of the four wooden steps going up to the wide veranda the runs across the front of the Inn. The log cabin façade of the Inn is dripping wet. The rain running from the roof overflowing the gutters allowing the water to create a showery waterfall blocking entrance to the doorway. We get out and run for the steps, but the rain and wind beats at our clothes. The final torrent from the gutters finish the job leaving our heads wet and our clothes soaked.
At the top of the stairs is a momentary respite from the torrent as I work the latch on the two wood, glass paned entry doors. For a moment, they seem stuck, unopenable. Then they burst open into the warm lobby. We go in and walk to the bell desk. No one is here. The two of us stand there for a moment shivering.
There is music coming from the room to the left of us – the restaurant/bar. We follow the music and find a dimly lite room. A long bar along one side is flanked by doors that read “Men” and “Women”. Four tables are scattered in some haphazard fashion around the main floor. Three cheap, black nagahyde booths sit along the wall under the window facing the rod opposite the bar.
There is a small dance floor at the far end with an old Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner. The record playing is All Night Train by the Allman Brothers. You walk towards the bar looking for someone – anyone. I walk to the jukebox and read the type written songs under the glass.
I turn at the sound of a voice. I see a thin older woman coming into the restaurant. At smile on her face she says, “Hi folks. I’m Jenny. This is my place. What the hell are you doing here on a night like this?” We wonder the same thing.
You smile at the greeting and say, “We were on our way over to Stillford and, uh…. Could we get some coffee?” “Best coffee for forty miles around. In fact, the only coffee for forty miles around”, Jenny says with a laugh.
