It was sad seeing the cabins for the last time, like saying goodbye.
Though we had never stayed in the same cabin twice, they
were as much home as the little yellow two-story back in town. The cabins
were all the same on the outside, and nearly so on the inside, raw pine
planks everywhere. Most important was the pungent pine smell
that filled our noses every week we spent there, marking the week-long
visits as special. A load of memories are released with that smell...
We walked further down the road to the bridge. Not a road-bridge,
or even a river-bridge, just a squat cement walking bridge standing
over a shallow, pebbly stream. We climbed down the slope,
knelt by the stream, and collected special pebbles.
It was magical.
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