As if a breeze could sustain . . . As if a gust were a feast . . . I think of Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind” in the morning as a pang of hunger strikes. Shelley’s West Wind was a driver of ghosts and dead leaves, a mover that brought spring from the decay of fall and dark of winter. It’s simpler for me. The West Winds is a restaurant in Green River, to which I often slip when the cottonwood leaves begin to rustle in the morning. When Adrian was here for a few days, I promised one morning to take her from our campsite to one of the finest breakfasts available. As we parked, Adrian said, “It’s a truck stop.” And so it is.
Afterward, Adrian announced, “It’s my favorite restaurant in the world.”
“Yep,” I answered.
It’s a little dark and cool inside, a respite from the desert outside. There are humor books on the table even if there isn’t always jelly. The always nice, middle-aged waitresses call you ‘sweetheart.’ When your breakfast is ready, the cook flips on a little light above the counter to let the waitress know. When Adrian was here with me and asked for directions to the restroom, I pointed to the neon ‘le toilette’ sign.
This is my last morning of spring fieldwork. I was camped again last night in Gray’s Canyon on the Green River so I drive into town for breakfast. There are truck drivers and a few others at the West Winds Restaurant this morning. The locals are mostly men who sit at the counter and talk about television shows. A television poised over the counter shows Fox News in silence, which is the only way I would want to watch it.
I have eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage, and wheat toast. Sustenance for walking hills and then beginning the long drive northward. But I promise myself to eat only yoghurt for breakfast for the rest of the summer. I think about my plan for the morning—to head east of town on frontage road along the interstate, look for plants on the hills, and then make my way back to the Book Cliffs. There have been many mornings that I’ve sat in this restaurant making plans about places to explore for the day. My booth table offers an expanse to open a map and my mind away from wind and heat and biting insects. I project across the table and my egg-yellowed plate the best adventures and most beautiful places.
Three hefty men sit in a booth across the aisle from me. They finish a lively conversation and decide it is time to go. The last man in the booth says to the waitress, “We’re going to see some sights we’ve never seen before.”
I am struck by the innocence and delight in his words. Is there anything better than to see something you’ve never seen before?
“Where you headed?” the waitress asks him.
He hesitates—he is noticeably discomfited and at a loss for an answer. He holds his head down as he thinks. “Now what’s that park south of here?” he asks her.
“Arches?” the waitress asks.
“Yeah,” the man says. “That’s the place.”
There are so many places to go from the West Winds Restaurant, but all the best journeys start with a full stomach.
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