Page 3 of Beauty and the Beard

The bus rumbles to life and I’m thankful to be the only passenger. I take the first seat in the front, and clutch thecracked green pleather seat edge when the bus lurches out of the parking lot. Pete secured my luggage in a rack on one side of the bus, and when I steal a quick peek around, I notice most of the seats have been removed.

“So, Pete,” I raise my voice over the impossibly loud rumble of the yellow beast. “How come you use a bus for this? Are there usually more guests for you to pick up on each trip?”

“Usually. You’re arriving on a Wednesday. Most people arrive and leave on Fridays and Saturdays.” He shifts down to navigate the bus onto the side road. There’s a community mailbox at the corner with a billboard smothered in flyers. A rural version of the office water cooler.

“And the seats we take out because most people travel here with a lot of gear. Like fishing or hunting equipment. And if they take home animals, they need space.”

“Animals?”

The bus wheels hit a pothole and we shimmy and shake. My fingers dig further into the bus seat. Do these things tip over?

“Yeah, like moose or partridge or fish. Used to be bear, but most of our guests tend to be fishermen these days. Or photographers. Or people like yourself who just want to be with nature for a while.”

Oh god. What have I allowed Heath to get me into?

“Oh.”

Dust swirls into the open windows as we travel up the road. It’s muggy in the bus with no air conditioning and the seats are as hard as a park bench in winter. Anxiety about this being the right step for me seeps in. Maybe I should have booked a beach vacation instead.

A few pickup trucks roar past us, dust plumes in their wake, so it’s not that secluded if people actually live up this road. That’s a small comfort. Even if my mind is still stuck on the possibility of bears.

Finally, the bus pulls into a wide entrance, and a gorgeous lake comes into view. It’s smooth as glass, surrounded by forest as far as I can see. The reflection of the trees gives the water a green shade that reminds me of a synthetic emerald ring my mom used to have. Pete leads the bus in a circle style drive and we come to a halt in front of the main lodge.

Rustic is what us city folk use to refer to decor at thePottery BarnandPier One. Anything with wood tones and fake birch bark. It’s cute.

This is not rustic or what I’d call a ‘wilderness paradise’, according to the pamphlet.

It’s not even a little utopian.

The lodge is an enormous log cabin. Pete opens the bus doors and I step out while he grabs my luggage. The lodge has a porch running along the front with rough timber. Not the lumber you find in the home improvement stores, but lumber that looks… homemade? Cut by hand anyway.

The windows are clean and new-ish, not quite married to the lodge look, but I suppose you need windows to be functional and it was the best fit.

A man wearing a fishing vest and hat with several lures stuck to it exits while I stare. He smiles and nods and, in his garish black rubber boots, he walks to the dock at the lake’s edge. A small boat is tied to the end and I stare, completely fascinated as he starts the motor, pushes off the dock, and putters off. All by himself.

“I’ll carry your bags inside and we’ll find out where Leaf has you booked in.”

Leaf.

“Is Leaf the manager of the place?”

He grunts what I assume is an affirmative and huffs up the stairs with a suitcase. I open the door for him and when I step inside… well, I’m pleasantly surprised.

The lodge isn’t filled with trophies of stuffed animal heads or fish. It does, however, have photos of what I assume are people who came here and were successful, showing off their fish and animals. But it’s light and airy, welcoming and with a strong vibe of found family for whoever happens to stay here. Perhaps it’s the gingham-checked window toppers or the giant ‘Enter as guests but leave as Friends’sign, but whatever it is feels like a huge hug.

It’s also filled with the heavenly aroma of sugar. Maple sugar.

Pete leads me to a little alcove with a sign that says main office. The sign is hand written on a piece of wood and while obviously homemade, it just suits the place.

“Leaf! You in here?”

“Don’t bellow at me, old man. I heard you rattle up, and I was coming.”

The deep, gravelly voice belongs to a giant of a man, not dressed in hunt clothes or anything woodsy really, but a pair of faded blue jeans, a too tight hunter-green Henley and an apron that says,I lick spoons.

His ebony hair is just beginning to show flecks of grey that are more noticeable in his beard. And even though his voice is intimidating, his eyes aren’t. Not for Pete, anyway. They twinkle and smile as he gives Pete a quick hug before turning to give me a once over.

I clutch myKenneth Colemessenger bag closer and lower my eyes. You’d think I’d be used to the stares of hungry men, but no matter who they are, it always makes me uncomfortable. Living your life in the spotlight is fabulous for developing self-esteem issues. And I have plenty.

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