The term lodge had always conjured images of commodious rusticity in my mind. Rough-hewn timbers, crackling fires in stone hearths, maybe some antlers on a wall and a bear rug underfoot.
In West Virginia, it seems, the definition is somewhat looser and can in fact include a hostelry with no structure in sight that could be considered an actual lodge. The owners conferred lodgehood on their establishment simply by naming it the Cheat River Lodge. (For comparison, see "war on drugs," "war on poverty," or "war on terror.") Easy as 'possum pie.
My mental lodge didn't have pink wall-to-wall carpeting or acoustical ceiling tile. It certainly didn't use striped wallpaper and a border to create the illusion of a wainscot. (Even my dentist finally realized that was a decorating no-no; word apparently takes longer to reach the hollers of West Virginny.) The higher paper was a floral print of uncertain subject. When I studied it closely, the blooms looked strangely like artichokes. But I was more troubled by the dehumidifier, air purifier, and two (!) electronic air fresheners. Most worrisome of all was the fact that the "lodge" was built against the base of a massive cliff. I half expected to wake up with a boulder on my face.
The impetus for our vacationette was to gawk at some fall foliage. Like me, the color was well past its prime, but we did manage to find some vivid patches, especially at lower elevations and in sheltered little pockets, of which there are many. Saw a pheasant, a chipmunk, and a few deer too. Oh, and lots of roadkill, of course.The rest of the stereotypes were hit or miss. I saw many men with bushy beards, but nary a soul settin' on a porch strummin' a banjo, to my great disappointment. Plenty of rusting cars (and other objects) in yards, but mostly newer models, including a couple of Land Rovers. And scads of trailers, a disturbing number of which were situated in floodplains, as if taunting fate. But only one outhouse.
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