A roadsign told us we were facing route 1. No traffic-light helped us, so we just dashed across, dodging cars and light delivery trucks whose bored or irritated drivers refused to slow down, our packs slapping against our backs like enthusiastic teammates. The buildings we had seen waited for us another few feet down the road. A weedy gravel parking lot stretched in front of two shabby structures. One building resembled a small ranch house, with its front rooms fixed up to be an office. I knew this because there was a darkened neon office sign in one window. The other sign above this door said deer park motor lodge. The second building struck me as more important just then. It was a long, low-slung boxy diner that billed itself as deer park kitchen. A third building, set off to one side, had its own paved frontage. It was a gas station with just one pump and one bay, deer park filling station and repairs. Behind the office building, about six small crummy-looking cabins sat on a grassy area that called out for a good mowing.
