Letter no. lxxxi.The first morel of the year.
Tuesday, half a mile up the river walk, in the moss on a fallen cottonwood. A small one. A good year, when the first comes early.
Fourteen hand-built cabins on a quarter-mile bend of the Bitterroot, ninety minutes from anywhere. Wood stoves, lake-fed taps, a cast-iron breakfast at the main house. Three generations of the same family, since the spring of nineteen twenty-eight.
Pinecrest was built by my grandfather in the spring of nineteen twenty-eight, with a single milled-cedar cabin, a tin-roof kitchen and a hand-pump on the lake side. Ninety-eight years later there are fourteen cabins, the same kitchen, and the same hand-pump - though the pump now mostly serves the dogs.
We have never installed Wi-Fi. We never will. The signal is patchy up the canyon and you will find it patchy here too, which is largely the point. There is a payphone in the boot room. There is a small stack of typewriters in the library, in case the urge takes you.
Plate i. A.H., the porch, May.Each one named for the animal that turned up most often when it was built. Loon and Heron sit lake-side. Fox Den, Marten and Owl climb the ridge. Cedar, Hemlock and Larch are tucked in the old-growth. Trout, Otter, Mink and Beaver thread the river. Bear and Stag sit alone at the eastern boundary. None of them lock from the inside.
Plate ii. Fox Den, dusk.The eastern-most of the three ridge cabins. A long covered porch that has held weddings, wakes, and a hundred quiet breakfasts. The biggest stove on the property; you'll be warm by 09:00 even in February.
The main building has stood since the first summer. A dining hall with a single long table that seats forty. A library of nine hundred books, mostly the wrong kind. A wood-stove living room where guests play cribbage badly. A porch that faces west.
Plate iii. Dining hall, breakfast.A forty-foot table, milled from a single white pine that came down in the storm of '53. Breakfast at 08:00, supper at 19:30, every day. No menu; one good thing, served family-style. Eat with the people who happen to be here.
Plate iv. The library, two armchairs.Nine hundred books, almost none of them practical. Mostly nineteenth-century novels, field guides, river-poetry, and the complete annotated Compleat Angler. Take any one to your cabin; return it before you leave, or don't.
Plate v. The great room, after supper.A soapstone wood stove that has not gone fully out, on record, since November 1971. Six deep leather chairs. A cribbage board with three pegs missing. A piano, in the corner, only mostly in tune.
Plate vi. The west porch, golden hour.Sixty feet of covered porch, fourteen wicker chairs, two large dogs. The west-facing view, between the Bitterroot and the ridge, is the reason most people first come. It is also the reason most people come back.
The property line takes in two-hundred and twenty acres of ponderosa, larch and white pine, a half-mile of river, and the small glacial lake the cabins are named for. There are six marked trails; all begin from the boot room of the main lodge.
Plate vii. The sauna, embers · 21:14.A single wood-fired sauna at the lake's edge, built by our grandfather's nephew in 1962, after a long winter in Finland. It holds six. We light the stove at 18:30 every evening. Walk down after supper, in a robe and slippers, and into the lake after.
Letter no. lxxxiv.We get the question maybe twice a month, almost always in writing, almost always polite. Annika sat down on a Sunday after a long week and wrote out, properly, the eight reasons.
Letter no. lxxxi.Tuesday, half a mile up the river walk, in the moss on a fallen cottonwood. A small one. A good year, when the first comes early.
Letter no. lxxvii.The story of a stove, a snowstorm in November of nineteen seventy-one, and the family rule (mostly a joke, mostly not) that has kept it lit ever since.
Four steps. Two-night minimum, seven in August. Holds are confirmed by hand; you'll get a short note from Annika by morning. Deposit is one night; the rest is settled at check-out.
Ninety minutes south of Missoula. Turn off Highway 93 at the painted barn - easy to miss in the rain - and follow Bitterroot Lane to the cattle guard. The last six miles are gravel; drive slowly, the deer are not in a hurry either. There is no signage at the gate; that is intentional.
Plate viii. Driveway, last bend.A small request: there is no cell signal for the last seven miles, and most carriers have nothing inside the property. Please tell anyone expecting to reach you that they will not, until you ring them from the boot-room payphone. We have found, almost without exception, that this is what they remember about the week.