A Terrific 24-Hour Trip

My husband and I left our suburban Sacramento home on Friday at 3 p.m. Within five minutes, we were in the country, driving southeast on two-lane Highway 16. Surrounded by dry, golden summer grasses, scattered Valley Oaks, black cows, and a few late-season calves, we left city worries behind. We turned off the news and tuned in to soft rock from our era—James Taylor, the Eagles, Jim Croce, Gordon Lightfoot.

We soon passed through Sloughhouse, home to a well-known produce stand famous for its fresh-picked corn. Next came Rancho Murieta, an upscale gated community, where horses grazed in quiet pastures and goats kicked playfully. As we gained elevation, Highway 16 merged with Highway 49, gateway to Gold Country and the site of the 1850s gold rush. Heading south, we passed the hamlets of Drytown and Martell before reaching Jackson around 4 p.m.

Our destination was the National Hotel on historic Main Street. A general store and hotel first opened on the site in 1852. After a fire destroyed the original building—and much of the town—the property was rebuilt in 1862 as the National Hotel. Several guests perished in the blaze, and lore has it that the spirits of twin children still haunt the building.

The hotel has hosted three presidents—Ulysses S. Grant, Theodore Roosevelt, and Richard Nixon—along with Mark Twain and John Wayne. It became known for its Wild West heyday and, well into the 1950s, for gambling and prostitution.

Now boasting 36 rooms, the hotel has been updated with modern amenities while preserving its old-world charm. Our first-floor room was cozy and inviting. (Fortunately, the ghosts reportedly roam only the upper floors.) After settling in, we dined at a local taqueria and then drove to the Kennedy Mine Amphitheater for a comedy under the stars. Guests brought lawn chairs, and a chorus of crickets set the evening’s rhythm.

The next morning, we headed across Highway 49 to Mel and Faye’s Diner, a Jackson institution since 1958. Motorcycles gleamed in the parking lot, a reminder of the diner’s popularity among bikers. Inside, the place buzzed with activity. BG’s Lounge in back offered cocktails and big-screen TVs. With the kitchen open to the dining room, patrons could watch their meals prepared. The food was hearty, tasty, and cheaper than in Sacramento.

Over breakfast, we read the *Ledger Dispatch*, “the official and only adjudicated newspaper serving Amador County in Northern California.” Founded in 1855, the paper’s office and newspaper museum sit just a block from the National Hotel. Its pages featured a photo of Jackson’s “newest neighbor,” a newborn baby, along with an Amador County Call Log item that stood out: at 6:17 p.m., during a homeowners’ association meeting, a board member became irate, yelling, threatening to burn down another member’s home. The log’s conclusion read, “Subject was voted off the board.”

The obituaries were intimate and detailed, often featuring color photos and tributes to residents who had left careers elsewhere to settle in the foothills. A full page was dedicated to letters to the editor—a rarity in the *Sacramento Bee* these days. Another free paper, the *Nataqua News*, reprinted Mark Twain’s account of his visit to Mono Lake, the ancient, alkaline lake known for its unusual tufa towers. Ads in the issue came from small Sierra towns such as Chilcoot, Chester, Crescent Mills, and Greenville.

After breakfast, we drove north and then east on Highway 49 to River Pines, where we visited an old friend. The winding road carried us past one vineyard after another. We skipped the wine tasting but enjoyed the scenery before turning toward home, arriving by 3 p.m.

Though the trip lasted only 24 hours, it felt like a world away.

~ Ruth Rezos