We explored the surreal lighting further once we arrived at the cabin we'd reserved for the weekend. Only a short flight of hewn log stairs separated our dock from the lake. The light spilling into the shallow pools trapped in the craters on the rocky shore formed a beautiful and completely indescribable scene. It seemed as though it had been artificially created. I couldn't help feeling as though I was walking on the moon. Andy and I spent some time trying to capture the scene, but the images we composed are only a faint approximation of the lustrous scene.The next morning was very lazy. It was our obligation to check in with Jerry, the person with whom we'd made our reservation over the phone, that finally coaxed us out of the cabin. No-one answered our knock at the main office, but a sign on the door directed us to cabin 9. Jerry motioned us in through the window as he finished up a phone conversation. We choked on the overbearing haze of stale Winston smoke that pervaded the cabin as we entered and waited for him to hang up. When he did, he explained that he'd been chatting to a woman who'd "supposedly" been his friend for years. "But now she thinks I'm an asshole for not keeping in better contact," he growled.
He seemed to set the matter aside quickly enough, and he led us out into the fresh air and back to the main office. He chatted as he attempted to run the credit card reader, telling us that he'd lived in California before coming back to help a friend with the cabins. He'd thought it was temporary. But, as he explained, "I got stuck here." Despite his gruff demeanour, I can't imagine he was actually bothered by the pristine setting. Just before we left, Andy mentioned that we were planning to visit the renowned Betty's Pies for lunch. "Is that a good place to go, do you think?" he asked. "Enh, it's OK," Jerry shrugged. "The place across the street is better, though."
Indeed, the Rustic Inn was all that Jerry had succinctly said it was. I was immediately impressed by the enormous jalapeno that garnished the toothpick spear barely keeping my turkey cranberry sandwich assembled. And the taste lived up to the expectation set by this daring condiment. Andy and I had both decided to take advantage of the lunch special because it included a slice of pie. We pored over the varieties carved into a wooden menu board as we finished our entrees, carefully considering our options. Suddenly we overheard a waitress reciting additional possibilities to a nearby table. Andy was taken with the prospect of cherry peach pie, and he inquired about it when our server returned to take our dessert order.
"Well," she replied thoughtfully, "I know we have cherry and peach, but I don't know if we have cherry peach." I shot Andy a baffled look. Surely cherry and peach was the same thing as cherry peach? Luckily Krystal assured us that they did, in fact, have the latter. It didn't occur to me until embarrassingly later in the day what she'd meant by emphasizing the conjunction. She knew they had cherry pie, and she knew they had peach pie, but she didn't know if they had cherry peach pie. Sadly, figuring this out caused the statement to lose much of the humour I'd found in it.
While we slowly ate these amazingly delicious specimens of pie, it started to rain quite heavily. A brief electrical interruption accompanied the downpour. When the lights blinked off, we immediately grew concerned for the huge quantities of ice cream they must have on hand for a la mode orders. What would happen if it all melted? In addition to the sticky puddles of ice cream coating the floors, there would be a tragic increase in the number of naked pie slices. Fortunately that disastrous outcome didn't occur. The power, including the stereo system, was immediately restored. "Is the Titanic music our cue to leave?" Andy asked. It was.
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