My father told me to be on the lookout for a "weird left turn" and a blue farmhouse with a metal "N" on the front door. My Grammy advised to turn left at the Methodist church and keep an eye for three cottages grouped together, one older than the rest. If we saw a Baptist church we had gone too far. Without an actual address, the GPS was useless in the search for an address-less cabin these. The first van-day forecast doom. Desperate to hasten our arrival, each setback seemed like the end of the world.
"That looks like a weird left, take that road."
"There's a Baptist church, turn around. We've gone too far."
My driver bore these tribulations with good grace and silence, but as nighttime approach I feared we would never succeed. My companion gently suggested that we use a modern marvel, the telephone. I gave up on the churches and called my area contact. Five minutes later we parked by the head of the cabin trail.
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