There’s a blinding line lying on the toothy horizon that peers into the room and wakes me up.
I knew the view would be spectacular when I finally made it up here, after skidding around switchback trails on the side of Lucky Peak, with deep guts on one side and steep dropoffs on the other, for the better part of an hour. Going all the way back to the base of the mountain put me smack in the way of a hardy green Toyota, who gamely invited me to follow him, when I told him I was headed to the Rundle place.
“That’s one house past where I’m headed,” he said. His arm swung like a hatchet, stopping level with his dashboard, which left him pointing at a forty-five degree angle. “All the way up.”
I lost him more than once; the General’s tires couldn’t get a purchase on the dusty road. More than once, in these intervals, I wondered if the next few feet would send me into a ditch, where I would be subject to a broken-boned rape, and my remains found only after the snows had melted and the landslides uncovered me.
Instead, the Toyota pointed me down a driveway to a three-story, balconied log palace. Nostalgic affection is the only excuse for calling such a place a “cabin.”
There is a wood-burning stove, a cast-iron soaking tub, and all manner of furniture made of out logs. There is an old piano stocked with equally old books by Bach, Czerny, and Prokofiev. There is a hot tub on the balcony. There is a futon on the balcony, with sun falling across it.There is a window seat, with sun falling across it.
I want to sleep on every available sunlit surface of this palace. I had no idea how starved I was for sunlight, this past month. It’s something, I’m afraid, no amount of local craftsmanship and independent commerce can atone for.
There is a farmers’ market in town, on Saturday.
There is also a pig roast taking place just down the road, on Friday. The Toyota driver invited me to it–they’ll be putting the pig in the ground around 8pm.
“It’s going to be a real big hootenanny”–those were his exact words.
All this, a featherbed and a giant soaking tub, too.
The kind folks who offered their place to me, a friend of their friend, said to stay as long as I needed to. And need is what I feel, as I creep out onto the uppermost deck, inhaling the crisp air filtered through the steam from my teacup, soaking my skin in the pellucid morning light. I’m a professional writer–I could find any number of reasons why I need to stay here a week, two weeks, all month.
Nonetheless, I don’t feel any regret at all for the haste with which I pull my stuff together, throw it back into the General, and make my precarious way out of the log castle’s driveway and back down the mountain to Interstate 84.
From now on, I don’t want to be anywhere that isn’t with the person I’m on my way to be with.