Lodge

Lodge. A sojourn nestled in the mountains. A warm embrace invites me inside, enveloping me in a pine-tinged smoke that mingles and melds with the outside chill. The crackle of a fire tucked away in a stone fireplace encourages content, hot-chocolate-aided conversation. Bits and pieces of dialogue float across the hardwood tables and worn leather chairs as I step inside, my legs sore from the infamously awkward ski-boot stride. Every time my mind wanders, I find it returns here, eager to rest in all its pure pleasure.

It seems my time in the mountains is bookended by lodges, but not only those blanketed in white. Each morning at summer camp, we congregate in West Lodge, with its high ceilings and mismatched benches. I perch on my seat, rooted between cabinmates. My head falls backward as I scan the familiar names hanging on the wall — cheerful conversations hum in the background. Each name is a camper, perhaps one who sat on this same bench. Like the generations of girls before me, I cherish the hours spent here. Whether it be to watch the musical, compete in the acclaimed “Song Fest,'' or just rest, I will always appreciate the four walls of the lodge.

These walls surround a simple togetherness - the joining of friends through their efforts on the slopes or the upcoming camp dance. A lodge, although a seasonal luxury, remains a residual comfort year-round. I dream of my returns to the mountains, to the lodge, and its familiarity.