“Welcome, everyone!” I inject my voice with brightness I absolutely do not feel. “I'm Sierra Barrett,preservation specialist, and I'm thrilled to take you on a journey through the incredible history of Morgan Lodge.”
The college girl doesn't look up from her phone.
The press badge woman stifles a yawn.
The sleeping man has already nodded off again.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I launch into my carefully prepared opening—the story of the first Morgan to set foot on this mountain in 1887, the vision he had for a place where families could gather and create memories that would last generations.
It's good material. I know it's good material. I've told this story a hundred times at preservation conferences, and it always lands.
One of the AARP vests raises a hand. “Excuse me, dear. Is there somewhere to sit?”
“We'll have rest stops along the route,” I assure her. “The first one is just a quarter mile up the trail.”
“A quarter mile?” She exchanges a look with her husband. “Harold, did you bring your inhaler?”
Harold pats his vest pockets with increasing alarm.
We haven't even started walking yet.
I press on. I talk about the original foundation stones, still visible beneath the modern additions. I point out the hand-carved details on the porch railings, crafted by the same family of woodworkers who built half the covered bridges in Maine. I explain how the lodge's orientation was specifically designed to capture the morning light in the great room, a technique borrowedfrom?—
“This is so boring,” the college girl mutters to her phone. She's not even trying to be quiet about it. “Grandma, can we go back inside? There's supposed to be hot chocolate.”
“Shh, Emily. The nice lady is talking about... bridges?”
“I don't care about bridges.”
“Nobody cares about bridges,” Emily's grandmother agrees, then catches my eye and has the decency to look embarrassed. “I mean. Lovely bridges. Very... structural.”
I make a firm commitment to refrain from stabbing her with my gel pen. Not because I worry so much about her, but it’s a bomb ass gel pen. It’d be a shame to break it.
Soldiering on.
By the time we reach the first historical marker—a plaque commemorating the spot where the original ski lift was installed in 1952—I've lost the sleeping man entirely. His wife led him back to the lodge, muttering something about altitude and his blood pressure medication.
Five people. I now have five people.
The press badge woman is typing furiously on her phone. At first, I think maybe she's taking notes. Engaged with the content. Finding value in the rich tapestry of local history I'm weaving.
Then I catch a glimpse of her screen.
She's on Twitter. X. Whatever they're calling it now.
And she's posting.
@TravelWithTalia: Live from Morgan Lodge's “Heritage Walk.” Watching paint dry would be more thrilling. #SnowFestFail #SendHelp #WheresTheBar
My stomach drops.
I keep talking—something about the evolution of ski technology, I think, the words coming out on autopilot while my brain spirals into full panic mode.
#SnowFestFail. She hashtagged it. That's going to be searchable. That's going to come up when people look for information about the festival.
That's going to be the first impression potential guests get of everything we're trying to build here.
