Lodge Cabin Quotes

After the satyrs filed in to dinner, the Hermes cabin brought up the rear. They were always the biggest cabin. Last summer it had been led by Luke, the guy who fought with Thalia and Annabeth on top of Half-Blood Hill. For a while, before Poseidon had claimed me, I'd lodged in the Hermes cabin. Luke had befriended me...and then he'd tried to kill me.

They were both lean and blond and weather-beaten, and one evening, as they were portaging gear from their respective Zodiacs, Libby unzipped her survival suit and tied the sleeves around her waist so she could move more freely. Nate said, "You look good in that." No one, absolutely no one, looks good in a survival suit (unless a Day-Glo orange marshmallow man is your idea of a hot date), but Libby didn't even make the effort to roll her eyes. "I have vodka and a shower in my cabin," she said. "I have a shower in my cabin, too," Nate said. Libby just shook her head and trudged up the path to the lodge. Over her shoulder she called, "In five minutes, there's going to be a naked woman in my shower. You got one of those?" "Oh," said Nate.

As those people are extreamly apt to get drunk, and, when so, are very quarrelsome and disorderly, we strictly forbad the selling any liquor to them; and when they complain'd of this restriction, we told them that if they would continue sober during the treaty, we would give them plenty of rum when business was over. They promis'd this, and they kept their promise, because they could get no liquor, and the treaty was conducted very orderly, and concluded to mutual satisfaction. They then claim'd and receiv'd the rum; this was in the afternoon; they were near one hundred men, women, and children, and were lodg'd in temporary cabins, built in the form of a square, just without the town. In the evening, hearing a great noise among them, the commissioners walk'd out to see what was the matter. We found they had made a great bonfire in the middle of the square; they were all drunk, men and women, quarreling and fighting. Their dark-colour'd bodies, half naked, seen only by the gloomy light of the bonfire, running after and beating one another with firebrands, accompanied by their horrid yellings, form'd a scene the most resembling our ideas of hell that could well be imagin'd; there was no appeasing the tumult, and we retired to our lodging. At midnight a number of them came thundering at our door, demanding more rum, of which we took no notice. The next day, sensible they had misbehav'd in giving us that disturbance, they sent three of their old counselors to make their apology. The orator acknowledg'd the fault, but laid it upon the rum; and then endeavored to excuse the rum by saying, "The Great Spirit, who made all things, made every thing for some use, and whatever use he design'd any thing for, that use it should always be put to. Now, when he made rum, he said 'Let this be for the Indians to get drunk with,' and it must be so." And, indeed, if it be the design of Providence to extirpate these savages in order to make room for cultivators of the earth, it seems not improbable that rum may be the appointed means. It has already annihilated all the tribes who formerly inhabited the sea-coast.

Antonia Valleau cast the first shovelful of dirt onto her husband’s fur-shrouded body, lying in the grave she’d dug in their garden plot, the only place where the soil wasn’t still rock hard. I won’t be breakin’ down. For the sake of my children, I must be strong. Pain squeezed her chest like a steel trap. She had to force herself to take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of loam and pine. I must be doing this. She drove the shovel into the soil heaped next to the grave, hefted the laden blade, and dumped the earth over Jean-Claude, trying to block out the thumping sound the soil made as it covered him. Even as Antonia scooped and tossed, her muscles aching from the effort, her heart stayed numb, and her mind kept playing out the last sight of her husband. The memory haunting her, she paused to catch her breath and wipe the sweat off her brow, her face hot from exertion in spite of the cool spring air. Antonia touched the tips of her dirty fingers to her lips. She could still feel the pressure of Jean-Claude’s mouth on hers as he’d kissed her before striding out the door for a day of hunting. She’d held up baby Jacques, and Jean-Claude had tapped his son’s nose. Jacques had let out a belly laugh that made his father respond in kind. Her heart had filled with so much love and pride in her family that she’d chuckled, too. Stepping outside, she’d watched Jean-Claude ruffle the dark hair of their six-year-old, Henri. Then he strode off, whistling, with his rifle carried over his shoulder. She’d thought it would be a good day—a normal day. She assumed her husband would return to their mountain home in the afternoon before dusk as he always did, unless he had a longer hunt planned. As Antonia filled the grave, she denied she was burying her husband. Jean-Claude be gone a checkin’ the trap line, she told herself, flipping the dirt onto his shroud. She moved through the nightmare with leaden limbs, a knotted stomach, burning dry eyes, and a throat that felt as though a log had lodged there. While Antonia shoveled, she kept glancing at her little house, where, inside, Henri watched over the sleeping baby. From the garden, she couldn’t see the doorway. She worried about her son—what the glimpse of his father’s bloody body had done to the boy. Mon Dieu, she couldn’t stop to comfort him. Not yet. Henri had promised to stay inside with the baby, but she didn’t know how long she had before Jacques woke up. Once she finished burying Jean-Claude, Antonia would have to put her sons on a mule and trek to where she’d found her husband’s body clutched in the great arms of the dead grizzly. She wasn’t about to let his last kill lie there for the animals and the elements to claim. Her family needed that meat and the fur. She heard a sleepy wail that meant Jacques had awakened. Just a few more shovelfuls. Antonia forced herself to hurry, despite how her arms, shoulders, and back screamed in pain. When she finished the last shovelful of earth, exhausted, Antonia sank to her knees, facing the cabin, her back to the grave, placing herself between her sons and where their father lay. She should go to them, but she was too depleted to move.

her boots and bundled up in her jacket and a cozy scarf. Then she silenced her phone—ringing once again—and left it on the table as she closed the door firmly behind her. Relaxing did not include talking to her brother. Jenna trudged through the snow until she found the trail sign to the left of the lodge. The snow didn’t look too deep. Besides, it would do her good to get some real fresh air and clear her head. And if she happened, as she passed by, to get a good glimpse of the hunky innkeeper chopping wood on the other side of the clearing, so much the better to fuel her holiday fantasies. Isaac stopped chopping for a minute and listened. He thought he’d heard something, but all was quiet now. It had sounded like a scream. He remembered seeing the woman from Cabin #3 set off for a walk, but surely she wasn’t still out there. It had been almost

We went everywhere. I gave him the grand tour, the best the Pacific Northwest has to offer, which is nothing short of spectacular. Everything revolved around wildlife. We hiked the Coast Range out of my parents’ beach cabin to look for black bears, and traveled to eastern Oregon to see white-tailed deer, coyotes, and the eastern Oregon antelope, animals that Steve had never experienced before. He skied Mount Bachelor. I wasn’t much of a skier, so I went off to track down wildlife while he had a great time on the slopes. Meeting him at the lodge afterward, I had to head off a leggy blonde who was intent on teaching Steve how to use an American pay phone. Not the kind of wildlife I was interested in him experiencing.

Clouds hung low and heavy over the valley, their gray-bottomed cotton hiding the peaks of the white-capped Montana Rockies. The Pine Creek Lake werewolves lived high in the Absarokas, south of Livingston, in a smattering of stout log cabins surrounding the main lodge. A couple of adolescents, in wolf form, were dashing about, trying to get the last bit of their energy out before the storm came. Most of the adults were already inside except a few in human form, like Mark, doing the final checks of the area, making sure all of the cabins had adequate firewood and the guiding ropes were strung from door to door in case someone needed to get to a neighboring cabin in whiteout conditions.

THE OLD FAITHFUL area was the largest complex in the park, consisting of hundreds of cabins, the Snow Lodge, retail stores, souvenir shops and snack bars, a rambling Park Service visitor center, and the showpiece structure of the entire park: the hundred-plus-year-old Old Faithful Inn that stood in sharp, gabled, epic relief against the star-washed sky.

Only you would want the tiny-ass cabin instead of the mountain lodge.

The cottage was a hunting lodge--a cabin lacking a single flourish that turned it from a functional building into a vacation residence. It was off-season, but these places often did double-duty as a “getaway from the kids and the missus” refuge for men. I have to admit, I don’t get that. Shouldn’t you be able to take some time to yourself without lying about “going hunting” for the weekend? Maybe my expectations for honesty are too high. I’ve been told that before.

I have a lot of friends who proclaim to love the wilderness and spending time in it,” he says. “But what they consider wild is skiing at a resort all day, then going to the lodge for a vodka and a cheeseburger. Or hunting at a retreat with luxury cabins. There’s absolutely no shame in that. But I think there’s more charm in what we’re doing. And I think the experiences out here affect you much differently and deeply.

Probably not.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s about time for dinner. Do you want to come down and eat in the lodge? We deliver up to the cabins too, but we also do a family-style dinner.” “Um . . .” Did she really want to spend more time with Cole today? Strangely, she found she did. “That sounds great.

In histories and memories of the Old West, the Shawnees often featured as frontier terrorists. They burned cabins, killed and scalped settlers, routed American militia, and like the whites they fought, sometimes committed unspeakable atrocities. They were infamous for capturing Daniel Boone’s daughter, and for capturing Daniel Boone himself on more than one occasion. Long after the fighting was over, pioneer families put children to bed with warnings that if they did not go to sleep the Shawnees would get them.7 In their own minds, of course, Shawnees were freedom fighters, not terrorists. At a time when American patriots were urging colonists to unite against British imperialism, Shawnees urged Indians to unite against American expansion. They fought to keep the heartland of America free from aliens who threatened to steal the land and destroy the world. Thomas Ridout, an Englishman who was taken captive by the Shawnees in 1788, found that when he walked into Shawnee lodges, “The children would scream with terror, and cry out ‘Shemanthe,’ meaning Virginian, or the big knife.”8

The pond—labeled here Idlewood Lake, with more optimism than accuracy—is dead center, with the grand lodge above it and five cabins scattered here and there, each far enough away from the others for privacy. The corner of the map is scorched. I think of what Mrs. Dalton said—about the old lodge being damaged in a fire. Damaged, not destroyed. This isn’t a family that sees something flawed and fixes it up. No. When something breaks, it needs to be gotten rid of, in order for something better to take its place.