The email sat in my inbox, stark and white against the screen’s dark mode: “Paid Time Off Request: Approved.”
Those two words usually sparked joy in me, but this time, they ignited a familiar internal conflict, a tug-of-war between the scent of sea salt and the sharp, clean air of pine trees.
Leaning back in her chair, closing my eyes. In one fantasy, I was on a wide, sun-drenched beach. The sound of the waves provided a rhythmic, natural white noise machine, perfect for dozing off under an umbrella with a novel. I could already feel the slight burn on my shoulders, the tremendous relief of the ocean water, and the simple joy of finding the perfect unbroken shell. It was pure, unadulterated relaxation, a place where the only decision was which flavor of ice cream to get from the boardwalk vendor.
In the other fantasy, I was bundled in a fleece, hiking a trail that promised a panoramic view. The air would be crisp, invigorating. The silence of the forest, broken only by the crunch of my boots and the call of a distant bird, was a meditation in motion. At the end of the day, there would be a cozy cabin with a fireplace, a mug of hot cocoa, and perhaps a friendly local pub with hearty, warming food. It was active, restorative, and promised a sense of accomplishment that the beach never did.
The great beach-versus-mountains debate was an annual ritual. A friend of mine, Mike, swore by the beach, always sending pictures of his feet in the sand with a drink that had an umbrella in it. Her sister, however, was a mountain enthusiast who claimed the views “put life into perspective.”
I sat and sighed, opening my eyes as I considered the logistics. The beach was an easy drive; I could be there in under three hours.
The mountains required a longer commitment, more planning, and a car I wasn’t sure was up to the winding roads.
Again, I refreshed my email. Another message popped up: “Subject: Weekend Fishing Trip Cancelled.”
That settled it. The free time was now a vast, open expanse of an entire week. A whole week demanded more than just lying still. It needed an adventure.
I opened a new browser tab. The search bar automatically filled in with my frequent query: “cozy mountain cabin rentals near hiking trails.”
A picture of a small A-frame cabin, nestled among towering trees with a curl of smoke coming from the chimney, appeared. It looked perfect. It looked like the kind of place where you could disconnect, breathe deep, and come back feeling brand new.
I grabbed my credit card. The beach would have to wait until the fall, when the crowds thinned and the heat was less oppressive.
This summer, I was heading for higher ground. I filled out the form, clicked “Book Now,” and a wave of peace, far more satisfying than imaginary ocean waves, began to calm me. The choice had been made, and the mountain air was already calling my name.
From-The-Road Adventures 