Hour two, I stopped flinching and started drinking.
Hour three, I watched a woman propose to a boulder and thought,Yeah, that tracks.
Hour four?
Hour four, I realized I'd gone numb. The jokes didn't land anymore. The absurdity had flattened into white noise. Someone called me “Mountain Daddy” to my face and I just... nodded. Like that was my name now. Like Everett Morgan, fifth generation lodge owner, had been absorbed into a hashtag and there was nothing left to fight for.
That was the real tipping point. Not the chaos—the surrender.
Word didn’t just spread. It exploded—because there’s nothing people love more than a mess that isn’t theirs.
“BREAKING: Hot mountain men giving tours in various states of undress. GPS coordinates attached.”
The parking lot fills. Then overfills. People park on the access road. Someone abandoned a Prius in a snowbank.
“Interactive demonstrations” of “traditional mountain skills” have been added, which somehow all involve flexing:
The wood-chopping station. (Shirtless.)
The “proper climbing form” wall. (Shirtless, with gratuitous stretching.)
The “how settlers stayed warm” demonstration that's basically a cuddle puddle with consent forms.
Someone hung a banner over the gift shop that reads: “THE PENETRATION STATION.”
I don't know what's being penetrated and I’m afraid to ask.
As if none of this was bad enough, right when I find a guy doing pushups during the chapel history segment my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I’d give my left nut to not have to look, but I’m the owner so I do.
My mother.
Deep breath one.
Deep breath two.
And go.
“Hey mom.”
“Everett James Morgan, why are my church friends sending me videos of some shirtless man in suspenders explaining the 'fertility ritual stone'?”
“Mom, I can explain?—”
“There is no fertility ritual stone, Everett. I would know. I've lived on this mountain for thirty-five years.”
“It's for marketing?—”
“Helen Purnell called me. She asked if she could book the stone for her granddaughter's wedding.”
“Mom—”
“She wants to 'harness the energy.' I had to tell her there is no energy, Everett. There's just a rock your father peed on in 1987.”
With that parting shot, the line goes dead.
I hang up and stand there, phone in hand, staring at nothing.
