Editor's Dispatch

When the rest of the Inland Northwest is choked by low ceilings, Lewiston usually leaves the door wide open. Sitting at just 1,442 feet above sea level, it is the lowest point in Idaho. This creates a dry microclimate that keeps the approach clear when neighboring hilltop strips are buried under heavy fog. You have two long expanses of grooved asphalt and a full suite of precision approaches. The control tower keeps the transient traffic organized, though you still need to watch for the no-radio agricultural aircraft working the river valley.

The town occupies the confluence of the Snake and Clearwater rivers, operating as Idaho's only seaport. Barges make the long haul from here all the way to the Pacific Ocean, giving the city a hardworking, industrial edge. It is the geographic gateway to the rugged depths of Hells Canyon. The downtown area carries a historic gravity, built on timber, shipping, and agriculture, without a trace of resort-town pretense.

If you are just turning the plane around, the Shooting Star Cafe inside the terminal will hand you a strong organic coffee and a fresh scone. But you really should borrow a courtesy car from Hillcrest Aircraft to investigate a hyper-regional culinary fixation. Lewiston is utterly obsessed with bite-size steak. This is cubed, heavily marinated beef that is breaded and deep-fried. It sounds like an assault on a good cut of meat until you eat a plate of it and understand exactly why the locals demand it.

The definitive place to order this is BoJack's Broiler Pit, a subterranean downtown institution that has been turning out steak bites since 1951. It is a dimly lit, vintage affair where the food is devoid of pretense and aggressively satisfying. If you prefer to eat above ground with natural light, Mystic Cafe operates out of a historic 1926 coffee roastery a few blocks away. They skip the deep fryer in favor of an upscale, seasonally driven brunch that easily rivals anything you would wait in line for in a major city.

Lewiston is the ultimate Pacific Northwest escape valve. When winter weather systems hammer the high country and trap the rest of the region under freezing fog, dropping into this river valley feels like getting away with something. Take advantage of the sub-six-dollar self-serve fuel at the FBO, grab the keys to the crew car, and go eat a basket of fried steak in a basement. It is the exact kind of honest, high-calorie detour a long cross-country flight requires.